Contents

CoverASelectionofRecentTitlesbyBarbaraHamblyfromSevernHouseTitlePageCopyrightDedication

ChapterOneChapterTwoChapterThreeChapterFourChapterFiveChapterSixChapterSevenChapterEightChapterNineChapterTenChapterElevenChapterTwelveChapterThirteenChapterFourteenChapterFifteenChapterSixteenChapterSeventeenChapterEighteenChapterNineteenChapterTwentyChapterTwenty-OneChapterTwenty-TwoChapterTwenty-ThreeChapterTwenty-FourChapterTwenty-Five

ChapterTwenty-SixChapterTwenty-SevenChapterTwenty-EightChapterTwenty-NineChapterThirty

Footnotes

ASelectionofRecentTitlesbyBarbaraHamblyfromSevernHouse

TheJamesAsherVampireNovels

BLOODMAIDENSTHEMAGISTRATESOFHELLTHEKINDREDOFDARKNESSDARKNESSONHISBONES

PALEGUARDIANPRISONEROFMIDNIGHT

TheBenjaminJanuarySeries

DEADANDBURIEDTHESHIRTONHISBACK

RANAWAYGOODMANFRIDAYCRIMSONANGELDRINKINGGOURDMURDERINJULYCOLDBAYOU

PRISONEROFMIDNIGHT

BarbaraHambly

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ForLaurel

ONE

‘A letter forM’sieu.’ The elderly clerk at the front desk of the Hotel St-Seurin lookedup fromJamesAsher’s signature in the register;Asher felt asinkinginhisheart.Hadhebeenamaninclinedtopanic,hewouldhavedoneso.Butheonly

thought,Something’shappened.Damnit.

March12,1917MountjoyHouseGrosvenorStreetLondon

Jamie,Forgiveme.Idonotknowwhatisbesttodo.IfthecourseIhavetaken–choosingnotto

meetyouinParisWednesday–meansthatourpartingayearagowastobeourlastmeeting,ourlastparting…Itrulydonotknowwhattodo.Orwhatyouwouldhavemedo.Icannotturnawayfromthis.NotbecauseoftheWar,butbecauseofthegreatershadowof

theUndead,anunspeakableshadowthatcouldcovertheearth.Whenweparted fromDonSimonYsidronearly twoyearsago, I toldhimnever tocome

nearmeagain,arequestwhichIbelievehehashonorablyrespected.WhenIhavedreamedofhim since then – as you know I have – it has always felt NORMAL: the way I dreamsometimesaboutMother,oraboutAuntFaith’shorridcats,oraboutyou.Justadreamaboutapersonwhois(orwas)apartofmylife.Onthethreeoccasions,priortomypartingfromhim,onwhichDonSimonhasentered–or

manipulated – my dreams, I’ve been clearly aware of the difference. I think you oncementioned that you also knowwhen your dreams are being tamperedwith by the Undead.Sunday’sdreamwaslikeneitherofthose.Don Simon is a prisoner, somewhere. The dreams that I have had were unclear –

uncharacteristicallyunclear–butIsense,IKNOW,thatheisbeingheldcaptive,interribleandcontinuouspain.Ifhewerenot,hewouldnothaveaskedformyhelp–ashedid,asheis.Hisvoice,cryingoutofdarkness,wasbrokenup, like fragmentsofa tornmanuscript.Theonlywordsthatwereclearwere,‘CityofGold’.TheAmericanlinerSSCityofGoldleavesSouthamptononWednesday,forNewYork.Jamie,Idon’tknowwhat’sgoingon.Butattheshippingofficetoday(youcanseethatI’m

atAuntLouise’s townhouse) I encounteredCaptain JohnPalfrey,whom (if you remember)DonSimonmanipulatedintobeinghisdogsbodyattheFrontinthefirstyearoftheWar(andapparentlyeversince).CaptainPalfrey–stillunshakablyconvincedthatDonSimonisatop-secretBritishagentratherthanavampire–saysthathehadthesame‘psychical’(ashetermsthem)dreamslastnight:dreamsofcaptivity,ofdesperation,ofunbearablepain…andofthename City of Gold. He believes that ‘Colonel Simon’ has been taken prisoner by GermanagentsandisforsomereasonbeingtransportedtotheUnitedStates.

You know more about German agents than I do, but it sounded like a very inefficientproceduretome.YetIrememberhowrepresentativesoftheBritishgovernmenthavetriedtogetholdofavampiretousefortheirownpurposesofwarfare.NowthatpeoplearesayingthatAmericaisgoingtoentertheWar,Iwouldn’tputitpasttheAmericanstoattemptthesamesortofthing,iftheycouldbutfindsomemeansofforceorcoercion.MaybeIwouldhavehesitated,orthoughtaboutitlonger,hadnotmyAuntLouisebeenalso

preparing to sail on theCity of Gold. She contends that German submarines would neverDAREattackanAmericanship

‘Oh, wouldn’t they just?’ Asher muttered through his teeth, and wonderedwhatnewspapersAuntLouisehadorhadn’tbeenreadinglately.

andhasrepeatedlyaskedmetojoinher.ConditionshereinBritainareverybad,asI’msureyouknow,shockingpricesandqueuesgoingdownthestreetandaroundthecorner,andfoodcropsbeinggrowninallthepublicparksandallotments.AuntLouisesaysthatthegovernmentwillsoonberationingfood

Asher reflected that if Aunt Louise thought pleas to voluntarily cut downconsumption of meat and sugar were bad in Britain, she should visitGermany,where breadwas beingmadeup from sawdust and sausagemeatfromratcarcassesandworse.InthecoldpineforestsofEastPrussia,wherefor nearly a year he had been impersonating a German officer named vonRabewasser,hehadseenmencookandeattheleatheroftheirboots…andthebodiesofthedead.

andthatthisisnoplaceforacivilizedpersontolive,andcertainlynoplacetocondemnasmallchildtogrowup.Sheisurgingme(‘commanding’isprobablyabetterword)thatIsailwithherandbringMiranda, ‘Togetheroutof thisdreadfulWar.’Shehas,asyoudoubtlessrecall,alwaysbeenagainstmygoingofftotheFrontorinfactbecomingamedicaldoctoratall.(Shestillblamesyouforthat.)

DreadsmoteAsherlikeanarrowbeneaththebreastboneatthat,andhishandshookashe turned thepaperover.Hewaswell aware thatU-boat captainswererewardedaccordingtothetonnageofAlliedshippingdestroyed,notbywhatdirection those shipswereheaded in.EveryGermanAsherhad talkedto,fromprivatesoldiers toGeneralvonFalkenhaynhimself,spokeas if theUS were already officially one of the Allies. This wasn’t surprising, sinceover thecourseof thewar theUnitedStateshadloanedBritain(andFranceand Belgium) billions of dollars and was selling far more foodstuffs andweapons to Britain than it was toGermany. If she convinces Lydia to takeMirandawiththem…Hiseyefleeteddownhiswife’sspideryscrawl…

Shemayinfactberight–onedoesn’tknowwhat’sgoingtohappenhere–andIhavenoideawhattodoforthebest.ItookthetraindownfromOxfordthismorningandleftMirandaatPeasehallManorwithAuntLavinnia(forwhichAuntLouisehasbeenberatingmeasa‘badmother’eversince Iarrivedatherdoor–not that shehaseverbeenamotherherself).Poor

Mirandawillmissme terribly, but IWILLNOT put her in even the smallest possibility ofdangerfromsubmarines,evenimaginaryones,asAuntLouiseinsiststhattheyare.

Ashergrittedhisteethagain,consciousofastrongdesiretoslapLydia’saunt.

I confess this is one reason I’m going down to Southampton tomorrow – to escape herconstantharpingonthesubjectofLavinnia’sunfitnesstolookafterachild.I’malsogoingtoseeifIcangetalookatthebaggagebeforeit’sloaded,thoughIdon’tholdmuchhopethatthekidnapperswouldbethatcarelesswiththeirprisoner.CaptainPalfreygoeswithme.Ihavelenthim themoney to purchase aFirstClass berth (hewasgoing to travelSecond, all he couldafford).ImayneedtocallonhishelpandIdon’tthinkSecondClasspassengersarepermittedintheFirstClassareasoftheship.(TheCityofGoldishorrifyinglyluxuriousinanAmericanfashion,allfrosted-glassandblacklacquer.)It isagreatcomfort tometoknowthatI’mnotentirelywithouthelpinthisawfulmatter.Idon’tknowwhatelse tosay.WesailonWednesdayat two.Jamie, Iamsorry–Iamso

verysorry.IcaredforDonSimon.IamashamedtosaythatIcareforhimstill,thoughIknowwhatheis.Althoughhecannothelpwhatheis,Ipityhim(affrontedashewouldbetohearmesayso!).ButIsweartoyou,tokeephimfrombecomingaslaveoratoolofwhoeveritiswhohas taken him prisoner –whoever it is who has found away of coercing the obedience ofvampires – I will kill him. As I know you would – as I know I must. I have packed theappropriate impedimenta: garlic blossoms, aconite, silver bullets, a hawthorn stake, andsurgicalknives.(Ireadupinyournotes,astowhatIshouldneed.)Iamstilltryingtodeviseaconvincingexplanation to theship’sauthorities (and toAuntLouise)should itbediscoveredthatIhavemurderedafellowpassenger.(IfheisaprisonerIamnotsurethathewouldqualifyasastowaway.)Iwantedsomuchtoseeyou–toseeformyselfthatyouarewell.AfterayearoflettersI

wouldgiveanythingtobeabletotalktoyou,evenforfiveminutes,evenaboutnothing,abouttheweatherorthefoodhere…Anything,justtohearyourvoice.You’llbebackintheWarbeforeIreturnfromAmerica.IfeelasifI’mcuttingmyselfadriftfromallthatIknowandcarefor,walkingaloneintothedark.Idon’tevenknowwhereI’llbeabletowritetoyounow.Ifyoucan,wiremeatGeneralDeliveryinNewYorkCity,toatleasttellmethatyougotthis.Toatleasttellmethatyouforgiveme.Pleaseforgiveme.Iloveyoutotheendofmydays.L

Hefeltcold to theheart,as ifheweresickening for fever,ashe folded thepaper.Today.Hiseyeswenttotheclockabovethedesk.Anhourfromnow,shewouldbegone.Maybeforever.Hebecame aware of the clerk regardinghimworriedly.Asher hadheard

himselfdescribedbyAmericansaspossessinga‘pokerface’,butguessedthatin the past three years, that white-haired oldman on the other side of thecounterhadseenthousandsofmenreadletters,theirexpressionsunchangingastheirworldscollapsedintoirretrievableruinaroundtheirears.Godknew,he’dseenitenoughtimeshimself.Hetookadeepbreathandtuckedtheletterintothepocketofhisuniform

greatcoat.‘Thankyou,M’sieu.’

Theoldmanhandedhimhiskey.‘IsthereanythingIcandoforM’sieu?’Arequisitequeryaboutextratowelsandhotwater,alwayssupposingthehotel’scoalrationwerenotalreadyspent.ButtheclerkspokesoquietlyAsherknewthatwasn’twhathewasasking.‘Thankyou,no,M’sieu.’Asheclimbedthestairs–theSt-Seurinhadaliftofsorts,butitwasshut

up and Asher guessed its operator was either at the Front or long dead inFlandersmud–Asherwasawareoftheman’spityingglanceuponhisback.Partofhimwascursingbyeverygodoftheancientunderworld,shouting

impotentlythatafterayearofbone-breakingcoldandabyssalloneliness–ofwatchingmenheknewdie (hehad longsinceceased to thinkof the troopsamongwhomheoperatedas‘theenemy’,thoughheknewthey’dkillhimiftheylearnedwhohereallywas)insomeofthemostsenselessmilitaryactionshehad ever heardof – hewouldn’t seeLydia after all.Wouldn’t touchherhand,hearhervoice,lieinherarmsforthesixnightspermittedhimbeforehehadtoreturntoHell.Part of him stood aghast at the thought of what she was walking into

(DamnyoutoHell,DonSimon!DamnyoutoHell,AuntLouise…).Adrift,asshesaid,fromeverythingsheknewandcaredfor;settingforthtokillamanwhomAsherknewquitewellthatsheloved.Partofhimknewshewasprobablyright.And if any person had come up with a way of enslaving and reliably

controllingavampire,thatpersoncouldpeddlethemethod–andthelucklessvampirehimself–forwhateverfigurehecaredtoname.Anygovernmentintheworld–nottospeakofahundredprivatebuyers,theownersofminesandfactories eager tomurder strikers and socialistswith impunity –would fallover itself to acquire an unseen assassin, who could tamper with theperceptions of victims or witnesses, then vanish in a mist of illusion. Hethought ofAmerican businessmen he’dmet.Most of themmadeAttila theHunlooklikeaMethodistmissionary.The result, to thepeopleof theworld, to everyoneof theirdescendants,

wouldbe,asLydiahadsaid,unspeakable.Heunlocked thedoorofhis allotted room, stepped in swiftly and shut it

behindhim.Withpistolinhand(nosensetakingchances…)hemadeaquickinspectionofthetinychamber,thearmoire,andunderthebed.Forseventeenyears – he had been recruitedwhile still up atOxford – he had served theQueenintheendlessshadowwarofpokingintosecrets,lininguplocalchiefsand villages in support of Britain’s goals, making maps, readingcorrespondencethattheAbwehrandtheAustrianEvidenzbureauwouldreallyratherhedidn’t…

Andforanotherten,hehadworkedwith,against,andamongthevampires,inshadowsdeeperstill.Histhroatandforearmsweretrackedwithbite-scars,and even among the cold pine forests of the Eastern Front he wore silverchainswrappedaroundhisneckandwrists.Heneverenteredaroomwithoutascertaining who else, if anyone, was in it, and identifying immediately atleasttwowaysout.Heturnedthekey,putthethreadbareragofthebedsiderugontheendof

thebed–theroomwasfreezingcoldandhehadnointentionoftakingoffhisboots–andlaydown,stillwrappedinhisgreatcoat,toconsidertheceilinginthegraychilloftheafternoonlight.ShouldIfeelhorrifiedthatit’strue,orrelievedthatI’mnotgoingmad?ForhehadnotbeenintheleastsurprisedbyLydia’sletter.Thedreamhadbeenthreenightsago.Thatlastnightthathe’dspentinthe

frozen darkness of those endless forests, before setting forth, ostensibly forBerlin, but actually for the point at which he would slip across the lines.Dreams of suffocation and pain. Of agony as if the skin were being eatenfromhislivingbones.Dreamsofhavingbeenburiedalive,withthegnawingghostsofeverypersonwhoselifehehadtakensealedwithhiminthetomb.Exhaustionthatbrokethemindalmosttothepointofmadness,coupledwithutter,nakedterror.Theknowledgethatwhateverwascoming,itwasgoingtobeworsethanthispresenthell.A part of him knew the dream concernedDon SimonYsidro. The pale-

hairedSpanishvampirewhohadsavedhislife–whohadsavedLydia’slife,andMiranda’s.Thevampirehehadsworntokill.(Ofcourseyouhave,Ysidrohad replied calmly to Asher’s declaration of this intention. And I willendeavornottocrossyourpath…)It was Ysidro’s whispery voice – shattered with screaming – that he’d

heardsaythewords,‘CityofGold’.He’dwaked to bone-breaking cold, for the snow still lay over thePripet

Marshlands,andthestinkoflatrinesandcorpses.TotheshufflingofDissel–hisorderly–carryingwoodtothelittletinstoveinhishut.He’dtoldhimself,Only a dream. A dream born of living eye-deep in this place that wasdevouringhim.AdreamofHell,well-deservedbyamanwhosemachinationswouldverylikelycondemntohideousdeaththemenhe’dbeenlivingnearformonths, bravemen fighting in a pointless, senselesswar.Menwho trustedhim…Oncebefore,he’dquit theForeignOffice,sickenedbythemanhehadto

beinordertoserveQueenandCountry.Inthehourofhiscountry’sneedhe’dcommittedhimselftosuchserviceagain,andhadfoundthetasknotonewhitlessdirty,ruthless,andcoldthanithadbeenbackin1901.Hisparsonfather

wouldhaveassuredhimthathewasdoingtheLord’sworkattheFront,butenough remainedof his rectoryupbringing tomakehimaskhimself if thatdream– thatabyssofpainandhopelessness, that senseofbeingshutawayutterly from even the off-chance that God would hear his screams – washimselfcryingout.Goodtoknowthatitwasn’t.Thethoughtbroughtnocomfort.Helistened

to the grumble of military transports in the Rue St. Martin, far below hiswindows,andthecurioussilenceofthisgraywartimeParis.Hiseyestracedthecracksintheplasterceiling,asifplanningaroutealongthem.Aroutethatheknewhe’dhavetofollow,oncefulldarknessfell.Though

noGerman bombs had dropped for a year and a half and blackoutwas nolonger in force, electricity was in such short supply that the whole district(includingthehotel)wouldbeblackaspitch.Atleastnobody’sgoingtostopmeforwalkingaroundwithalantern…Hestoppedthatthought,chilled.Knowingwherehismindwasgoing.Hisownfearsurprisedhim,afterwhathe’dbeen through in thepast two

years.TheCityofGoldsailedattwo.ByLydia’sdescriptionitwasgrandenough

topossessafairlypowerfulwireless–strongenoughtoreceivesignalsfromamilitarybase like theoneatBrest,evenwhenhundredsofmilesout tosea.HewonderedifthemilitarycredentialswithwhichtheForeignOfficehadsoobligingly suppliedhimwould serve togethimononeof theovercrowdedmilitarytrains.Toholdavampireprisoneronshipboardmeansacoffinlinedwithenough

silvertokeephimpowerless.Thatmeansseriousamountsofmoney.Eitheragovernment,orsomeextremelywealthyman.Ineithercase,they’llhavehiredhelp.Ineithercase, they’dhavetheresourcestooutflankandoverpowerLydia

the moment they became aware that she was asking questions. CaptainPalfrey,whomAsherhadmetattheFronttwoyearspreviously,wasawell-meaninghead-breakerwhowouldbeluckyifhelastedtwenty-fourhours.Heronlydefensewillbe tonotaskquestions.Thespyhehadbeenknew

this instinctively.She cannot afford to be perceived as a threat. She has toknowbeforehandwheretolook,andwhotowatchoutforwhileshedoesit.Damnit.Asherfeltalmostphysicallysickwithwearinessatwhatheknew

hehadtodothatnight.ItwouldbealongwaytoRuedePassyinthebittercoldoftheunlitstreets,fortheMetrohadlongagoceasedtorun.Tosaynothingofthosehewouldbeseeking.TheUndead.Thosewhohuntedthenight.Damnit,damnit,damnit.

TWO

Iwillneverforgivemyself.DrLydiaAshercranedherheadoverthegenerallevelofthecrowdinthe

ticketingsalon,toviewthegangplank,andthetoweringblackwallofsteel,inthechillygrayofthespringafternoon.Shewouldn’tletherselffinishthethought,butonlywhisperedinherheart,

‘Oh,Jamie…’HowcouldIdothistohim?HowcouldIdothistopoorMiranda?And she told herself – in the voice of the long-departedNannawhohad

ruledthenurseryatWilloughbyClosewitharodoficeandsteel–Don’tcry.Cryingwouldn’tdoanygoodanyway.Jamiein theharshlightsandfreezingcoldof theGarede l’Est, justafter

Christmasof1915.Wrappedinhismilitarygreatcoatandacoupleofscarves,shiveringinspiteofit.AfterninemonthsofListeningPostwork–sittinginaGermanuniformintheholdingareaswithprisonersofwar,piecingtogetherinformation about the High Command’s plans and conditions in Germanyitself–hewasgoingbehindenemy lineson theEasternFront.They’dhadthreedaystogetherinParis.He’dsaid,Therewon’tbeadaythatyouwon’tbeinmythoughts.Miranda on the front steps of PeasehallManor the day before yesterday,

withAunt Lavinnia’s ancient chauffeur waiting in the car to take Lydia tocatchthetrainforLondon.Athin,little,red-haired,marsh-fairy,wholookedasifthefirstwindwouldcarryheraway,hergolden-haireddollinherarms.WillyoubefightingtheGermansagain?she’dasked.Notblood-thirstinessinhereye,butcraving foradventureanddaringdeeds.AndLydia, aware thatknowledgeofhermother’sheroismwaswhatmadethesepartingsbearabletothelittlegirl,hadreplied,Iwill…ToAuntLavinnia’saffrontedshock.Ican’tletDonSimonbeenslaved.Whoeverhastakenhimmustbestopped.Thecorollarytothat–andSimonmustbekilled–wasalmostmore than

shecouldbear.

She looked around her at the well-dressed, well-mannered, yammeringcrowd.Some of her fellow passengers she’d observed at three o’clock that

morning–notofcoursetherespectableones–whensheandCaptainPalfreyhadsneakedtothepiertowatchtheloadingoftheheavyluggage.Shehadn’thadmuchhopethatshe’dglimpseatrunkbeingcarriedaboardthatwaslargeenoughtocontainthebodyofasmall,slenderman.(Linedwithsilvermesh?she’d thought.Toweakenhimandkeephimhelpless?)Butshecouldn’tnotlook.They’dstationedthemselvesbetweentwowarehouses,acrossthepierfrom

whatwaspolitelyreferredtoastheThirdClassterminal–alongshedwheretheemigrantswaitedallnighttogoaboard.She’dhadnoluckwithsuspiciousluggage,thoughthere’dbeensomehefty

impedimenta on the little electric trolleys which had passed them. ThosewealthyenoughtobetravelingFirstClassontheCityofGoldsawnoreasonnot to take along different frocks for each dinner in the First Class diningsalon, for each evening of dancing in the First Class lounge, and a widevarietyofwalkingsuitsforleisurelystrollsalongtheFirstClassPromenade.Nottomentionshoestomatch,andhats,andcoatsoffurorcamelhair;theirownpillows (though the literatureprovidedby theAmericanShippingLineassureditspassengersthateverythingwasnew,immaculate,andofthefinestmaterials– ‘Ofcourse that’swhat they’d tellus,’hadsniffedAuntLouise);their own tea- and coffee-sets for entertaining in their cabins; their ownbooks,game-counters,musicalinstruments,ornaments.AuntLouisecertainlyhad–and,Lydiahadtoadmitshame-facedly,sheherselfwasguiltyaswell.(Notstationery,ofcourse.‘What’sthepointoftravelingonafirst-classliner,’saidAuntLouise,‘ifonecan’tsendoutnotesonitsletterhead?’)ThroughthewindowsoftheThirdClassterminalshehadseenthembythe

harshglare of bare electric bulbs: thosewhohad crossedhalf ofEurope toachieve passage on an American ship, bound for America.When the dooropenedtoadmitmoretravelers(or,despitethecoldofthenight,freshair)shehadheardtheirvoices:ItalianandBelgianFrench,RussianandYiddishandseveral of those incomprehensible Middle European languages that wereJamie’sspecialty,CzechorPolishorSlovene.German,too–familiesinflightfromareaswhere thebordersof theAustrianEmpire,Romania, andRussiaran together in a linguistic hodge-podge now soaked in blood. Families inflightfromthedevastationoftheWar.Theirthin,frightenedfaces,theirshabbyoddsandendsofluggage,wereas

different as possible from those around her now. Even without her glasses(‘Take those things off at once!’ had commandedAunt Louise. ‘You know

betterthanthat!’),Lydia,fromlongpracticeandaLondon‘season’whenshehadcome‘out’,couldpricetheirclothingatthreeorfourtimesthecostofthefarms out of which those poor people had been shelled by the advancingarmies.ThesumpaidforthehatwornbythewomaninfrontofAuntLouise–anastonishingconfectionofdark-greenvelvet,hugeblacksilkroses,andastiffenedblacksilkboweasilythesizeofaChristmasturkey–hadprobablybeen more than any of the Third Class women had ever seen. Almostcertainly,thewoman’stwolittleblackFrenchbulldogs,heldonleashesbyauniformedmaid, had eaten better than anyThirdClass passenger for everymeal of their pampered lives (and would continue to do so on theCity ofGold).Lydianowwinced inwardly, recollectinghow,every time thedoorof the

ThirdClasswaiting shedhadopened, shehadheard thecryingof children.Hunger,she’dthought.Thirst,exhaustion,andcold.The memory took her farther back. Miranda on the steps of Peasehall

Manor(‘MrsMarigoldcriessometimes,’hadsaidMiranda,ofherdoll,‘butIdon’t’). Aunt Louise had raked her over the coals yesterday morning atbreakfast,whenshe’dinformedherthatshewasn’tbringingherdaughtertoAmericawithher.‘Really,Lydia,youtalkallthetimeofhowmuchyoucareforthechildbutIdonotconsideryouractionsthoseofaresponsiblemother!LeavingherwithLavinnia,ofallpeople,whohasn’tthestrengthofcharacterherself to keep her nursery staff up to their work! You’ve seen how thosedaughtersofhersturnedout,slouchinglikeacoupleofunstrungbean-plants.I swear they don’t even wear corsets!’ She’d shaken her head, a tall,commanding woman whose dark-red hair had just begun to fade at thetemples. ‘InAmerica, the child can be given a decent upbringing, until it’stimeforhertobesentawaytoschool…’To Lydia’smention of the danger from submarines, Louise had retorted,

‘There is no such danger. None at all. It’s all been invented by thenewspapers.IdaresayyourpoorlittlegirlstandsinmoredangeratLavinnia’s–Godknowswhatfarmersareputtingintheirmilkthesedays!I’msorrytosay that England is not the place I would wish to see any child grow upnowadays. Irish Republic indeed! Nothing short of treason. Why, I hearthey’reevendiscussinguniversalsuffrage!Slack!Undisciplined!’Themiddlesister ofLydia’s tribe of aunts, and thewidowof a diplomat,Louise,LadyMountjoyhadmadeherhomeinParisupuntil thestartof theWarandhadfirmopinionsconcerninghowchildrenshouldberaised,despite(orbecauseof,Lydiareflected)havingnoneherself.FindingEngland, too,unsatisfactoryunderwartimeconditions (‘TheWar

overhangseverythingso!NothingelseistalkedofandIforoneamquitesick

ofhearingaboutit…’)shehadtakenoneofthefourPromenadeSuitesontheCity of Gold: Ultra-First Class, Lydia mentally termed them. Each suiteconsistedof twobedrooms,aparlor,adressing-room,aprivatebathroom,atiny kitchen, and twowindowless, closet-like inner cells for servants: one’sotherservantshadaccommodationsuitablefor theirstatusdownonCDeckimmediately below. (This, Lydia gathered, in addition to a personal cabinstewardatone’sbeckandcall.)PerusaloftheAmericanShippingLine’sillustratedliteratureonthesubject

ofthesePromenadeSuiteshadconvincedLydiathatwhoeverhadkidnappedDon SimonYsidro – if her dreams, andCaptain Palfrey’s dreams, had notbeenentirelyhallucinatory–theyweremostlikelytobetravelinginanotheroftheseextremelyexpensivePromenadeSuites.The reflection comforted her, as it reduced the scope of her search to

manageableproportions.It would simply be that much more difficult to conceal the coffin – or

trunk,probably–ofan imprisonedvampire,even inoneof the lesser, two-roomFirstClasssuites.For that reason she had tasked Captain Palfrey – who had military

credentials–withgettingheralistoftheotherPromenadeSuitepassengers,andhehadcomethroughhandsomely.Surreptitiouslyconsultingthepaperhehad slipped her last night outside the ThirdClass terminal, she could now,standing meekly among Aunt Louise’s immediate entourage, make aneducatedguessastowhohadtheotherthreePromenadeSuites.Thediminutivewoman in thegreenvelvethatwith thehugeblackroses,

almostcertainly.LydiaheardherspeakinFrenchtothewomanwhoheldtheleashesofthelittlebulldogs,andguessedthat thiswastheRussianPrincessGromyko. (Aglanceat thewomenfolkattached to theother twoUltra-FirstClass groups convinced Lydia, even without her glasses, that these wereAmericans.)Thatbeing the case, thewomanholding thedogsmust, by theprobable cost of her frock (dark-blue wool challis modestly accented withmachine-madelace–twopoundssixatmost…)behersecretary-companionMademoiselle Ossolinska, and the white-bearded, cadaverous gentlemanhovering beside her would be her personal physician, Dr Boris Yakunin.Othermembers of theGromyko entourage not present included twomaids,twofootmen,aPersianbutler,andachef.Thosewould–likeAuntLouise’sbutlerandmaid,andLydia’sownmaid

Ellen – already be aboard, laying out hairbrushes, nightgowns, negligees,personal tea-urns, dresses and shoes for dinner tonight, plus books andmagazinesandsheetmusic,andarrangingpersonalknick-knacksonthesleekblacktables.

The two American parties in the other Promenade Suites, according toPalfrey’s list,werebothmillionaires. (Ateighthundredand fiftypounds forthecrossing, theywouldhave tobe!)SpenserCochran,Lydiaguessed,wasthetrim,elderlygentlemanlookingonwithcolddisinterestasasleek-hairedyoung secretary (his nephew, said the list) dealt with the red-blazeredrepresentative of the American Shipping Line in charge of paperwork. Anangular woman in an expensive (but obviously not Parisian) silk gown ofrather too emphatic a shade of petunia stood beside him, complaining in agrating drawl about the delay. Her audience was not Cochran, but ahandsome,dark-hairedman in themodestgarbofaprofessional, streaksofsilverathistemplesandamedicalbaginhand.Thatwouldbe(anotherquickglanceatPalfrey’snotes)DrLouisBarvell,alsoa‘personalphysician’.Theywere hemmed about by a cluster of the men whom the list described as‘private detectives’, large individuals in rough tweeds and bowler hats,smokingcigars.Andwelltheyshouldstandguard,reflectedLydia,consideringthenumber

of diamonds Mrs Cochran was wearing on her hat, brooch, ears, fingers,wrists,andshoebuckles.TheotherAmericanpartynearbyalsoincludedamalesecretaryandwhat

looked like a female ‘companion’, which would make the tall, stout,extremelywell-tailoredgentlemanMrBradwellTilcott,ofPhiladelphia,andthe stately gray-haired grande dame in eggplant faille (Worth, Lydiaestimated)hismother.Maids,afootman,achefandavalet(namesappended)hadundoubtedlyalreadygoneaboard.TheticketagentmadehiswayrespectfullytowardAuntLouise,andAunt

Louise’s secretary-cum-companion – a sweet-faced, gray-haired andmurderouslyefficientwidownamedMrsHonoriaFlasket– interceptedhimwith their travelpapers.Onecouldeasily,Lydiaguessedas theymovedofftoward the First Class gangway, transport an unconscious and encoffinedvampire aboard unnoticed. All the stewards seemed to be concerned aboutwaswhether thepaperswere inorder.Nobody searchedor evenglanced attheirtrunks.With her aunt’s attention diverted she sneaked her glasses on again, and

scanned the ‘cabin luggage’ as it crossed the gangway lower down. Onanothergangway,sherecognizedfacesshe’dglimpsedlastnightoutsidetheThirdClassterminal.Agolden-hairedgirloffifteentakingcompetentchargenotonlyofthreeyoungersiblingsbutoftheirheavy-muscled,ox-likemotheraswell.Atalloldhook-nosedJew,exactlylikeShylockinabadproductionofMerchantofVeniceinhisrustyblackcoatandpince-nez,clutchingaheavysatcheltohisbreastwithbothlongarms(mustcontainhismoney)whiletwo

little children clung to his coat-tails. A blonde man whose face bore whatwereclearlyshrapnel-scars,helpinganelderlyItalianwomanandhergaggleofblack-clotheddaughters.Abrown-facedwoman shepherding sixor eightchildrenofvariousages.(‘Honestly,’sniffedAuntLouisebehindher,‘Idon’tseehowawomancankeeptrackofthatmanychildren!I’llwagershecan’trememberalltheirnames.’)PilgrimssettingforthonthelastlegoftheirjourneytothePromisedLand.Infrontofthem,Lydiaheardthegray-haireddowagerbraytoherson,‘Ido

trustAlvinawillhavemybathreadywhenwegettothesuite.’Jamiewouldhaveidentifiedtheoriginofhertwangyinflectioninmoments.‘Heavenonlyknowswho they’ll haveput at theCaptain’s tablewithus, orwhat kindofwinestheyhaveonboard…’And at the Front, Lydia found herself remembering, the surgeons she’d

workedwith for two and a half yearswould bemaking tea for themselveswithboiling-hotwatertappedfromthecoolingcoilsofthemachine-guns,iftheyweren’t elbow-deep in dyingmen because therewas an enemy ‘push’goingon.That’swhereIshouldbe.Guiltclosedstranglingaroundherthroat.DoingwhatIcan…Then she stopped, halfwayup thegangway, at the sight of a hugebox–

nearlyeightfeetinlengthandclosetoayardwide–beingmaneuveredwithcareandprofanityuptheluggagebridgebyfourstrugglingporters.Shewastoofartoseedetails,exceptforitssize,andgropedquicklyforherglasses.IfIcan’tslipawayfromAuntLouiseandfollowittoitsdestinationsurely

thewholecabinstaffwillknowwhereitwent.Therecan’tbeanotherlikeit…I’llhavetoaskEllen.Servantsalwaysknoweverything.‘Come along, Lydia,’ said her aunt briskly. Lydia hastily removed her

glasses.‘RichardandIsobel–’Shenamedherbrotherandhiswife,LordandLadyHalfdene– ‘areprobablyalready in the suite, to seeusoff… if theyhaven’t perished with boredom, waiting for those tedious ticket officers tofinishtheirpaperworkwithusouthere!Isawthemontheboat-traincomingdownthismorning…’Lydiacastalastglanceattheenormouschestasshewasescorted,firmly,

offthegangplankandontotheFirstClassPromenade.ThePromenadeSuiteshad,ofcourse,theirownprivatepromenade,facing

outoverthedeckwellintowhichtheluggage‘NotForUseOnVoyage’hadbeen craned last night. As her aunt led her up the stairs to this exclusiveprecinct,Lydiacouldlookdownandseethestevedoresstillmovingthelastof it throughtheopendoorsand into theFirstClassbaggagehold.Toofewstevedores for the task, she reflected. She could see where some of themmoved clumsily, working around maimed or missing hands, crippled or

artificial legs. A year ago, or two, in the hammering, rat-ridden, maggot-whisperinghellofsomeclearingstationontheFront,shemighteasilyhavebeen theonewho’dheld the ether-coneover that barrel-chestedman’s facewhileoneof the surgeons tookhis legoff.Maybe she’dvisited that skinnydarkman’sbedsidewhenhewokeupblindononesidewherehiseye(andasubstantialsectionofhischeek)usedtobe.EnteringtheparlorofAuntLouise’ssuiteitfelt likeithadbeensomeone

elsewhohadbeen there,whohaddone those things.Gauzecurtainsveiledthe portholes, and the electrical fixtureswerewrought like lilies of frostedglass.Isthisthesameworld?Thesameeraintime?AmIthesameperson?Theparloroftheirsuitewascrowdedalready.UncleRichardhadbrought

his daughter Emily, in stylish blackmourning (Poiret…) for her husband,dead in the trenchesat theSomme. ‘Ihave toldher,’observedAunt Isobel,‘thatoneisn’tsupposedtowearmourninganymore,andIcanquiteseewhy.It’ssuchaterriblereminder—’‘Nottospeakofbeingsodepressing.’AuntLouisescrutinizedhersister-in-

law through her lorgnette, though whether her expression of disapprovalconcernedtheexiguoustracesofblackatcollarandcuffs–alltherecognitionIsobel accorded not only her son-in-law’s bloody death but that of her sonCharlie as well – or simply her accustomed scorn for Isobel’s plebeian(thoughextremelywealthy)ancestry,Lydiacouldnothavesaid.But justasMortling–AuntLouise’sbutler,called fromretirementat the

ageofseventy-sevenwhenhissuccessortotheposthadjoinedtheLeicesterInfantry–totteredunsteadilyinwiththetea-tray,twomoreofAuntLouise’ssisters,AuntsFaithandHarriet,knockedatthedoor,withHarriet’sbarristerhusbandandtwodaughtersintow,andtheentirepartyhadtomovedowntotheship’sFirstClasscafé.Astheyemergedontotheprivatepromenadetheirwaywasblockedby the four sweatingporters and that enormous chest – acabinet,Lydianowsaw,ofheavilycarvedblackwood,withlocksofsilver–whichwasbeingmaneuveredintothesuitenextdoortoAuntLouise’s.Oh,you’rejoking.Theyallbackeduptothewalltolettheenormousthing

pass.Don’ttellmeit’sgoingtobethiseasy…‘I do hope Lavinnia plans to bring Maria to town for the season,’

commented Aunt Isobel, as they descended the steps to the regular – asopposedtotheprivate–FirstClassPromenadeonCDeck.‘YouwerejustupatPeasehall,Lydiadear,didshehappentomentionit?’Lydia forced her attention away from the Princess Gromyko’s party,

enteringtheWillowGroveCafé(asitwascalled)immediatelybeforethem,andblinkedatheraunt.

‘I certainly hope she plans to,’ put in Aunt Louise. ‘It’s the girl’s thirdseasonandshe’stwenty.Lavinniawillnevergetheroffherhandsatthisrate.’Shedidn’tevenbothertosounddistressedaboutthis.DemonstratingherselfsuperiortoheroldersisterhadbeenLouise’sraisond’êtresincetheirmutualnurserydays.Ablackheadwaiter in awhite linen coat shinywith starch led them to a

tableamong thepottedpalm trees. (Therewasn’tawillow insight.)As theotherpartywereseatedjustbehindthem,separatedonlybythegreenfronds,LydiaclearlyheardthePrincessGromykowhispertoherbeardedphysicianinFrench:‘Istheroomsecured,DrYakunin?’Honestly,eveninnovelsit’snotthiseasy…Heheldupakey.‘Nonecanenter,Madame,’hewhispered.‘Andnot the

smallestshredoflightcanpenetrate.’

THREE

‘And in any case,’ trumpeted Aunt Louise, completely drowning out theprincess’s next quietwords, ‘I should say it’sMaria’s upbringing–ornon-upbringing–thathasmoretodowithitthantheWar.’IfIjumpupandputmyhandoverhermouthitwillonlycallattentionto

myself…‘And,IamheartilytiredofeveryconversationturningontheWar,evenon

this ship. The girl should have been disciplined from the first and kept toproperbehavior,insteadofbeinglefttohercrochetsandfusses.Dresseslikeflour-sacks–orlikepajamas!Cutallthewayuptothecalf,withheranklesflashingaboutforalltheworldtosee,notthatMaria’sanklesareanythingtolookat…’DrYakuninmurmured–Lydiacouldonlyjustmakeoutthewords–‘The

authorities seemed to find yourdouceur… acceptable.Not a questionwasasked.’‘… andPeasehall can’t beworthmore than seven thousand a year these

days…’‘Well, he could sell off theGainsboroughs. I’m toldAmericanswill pay

practicallyanythingforportraits…’A chime sounded, and a steward’s voice called politely, ‘This is the last

call,ladiesandgentlemen.Allashorethataregoingashore,’firstinEnglish,andthen inFrench.Lydiasuspected thatafewyearsago theannouncementwouldhavebeenmadeinGermanaswell.She and Aunt Louise walked their well-wishers to the head of the First

Classgangway.ThecrowdofFirstClasspassengerssurgedaroundthem,andlinedtherailforfinalgoodbyes;Lydiacaughtaglimpse,throughthepress,ofCaptainPalfrey,likeSirGalahadinmufti,staringdownintothewavingmassofcoloronthepier.ShewonderedforamomentifhisbelovedMissAemiliaGillingham was down there somewhere, seeing him off. Or did he lookbeyond the crowd, to the lines of horses being loaded in the transport forFrance? Or to themen being taken off the hospital ship in the next berth,carriedquietlyacrosstotheambulance-vans,tobetakentothenearbyNetleyHospital.

MaybehewasjustgazingatEngland,greenbeyondthegraybuildingsofSouthampton,underasilverafternoonsky.Thegreen finality of theSouthamptonWaterwidenedbetween themand

thedock.Between them–Palfrey, thePrincessGromyko, the commandingMrsTilcottandthatgolden-hairedyounggirlinThirdClasswithhersiblingsand theirmother – andwhatever lives they’d had before theWar.Betweenthem and whatever they’d hoped for, or planned for, or thought they’d bedoing,priortothesummerof1914.Betweenthemandapastthatwasgone.Aworldthatwouldneverbethe

sameagain.Andnoguaranteewhatsoever,thoughtLydia,herheartthumpinghard,that

we’reevengoingtomakeittoAmerica.Thenightwithoutsleep,thejourneyyesterdayafternoondownfromLondon,weightedherbones like the leadenapronshe’d insistedonwearingat thecasualtyclearingstation,whenshe’doperated the fluoroscopemachine. She felt light-headed, and separate fromherself.Jamie,I’msorry.Miranda,I’msosorry.Salt wind flicked her face. Gulls cried somewhere above the piers. The

cheering on the docks faded as the great vessel slid into themain channel.Tugboatswhistled,andanansweringblastcamefromtheovercrowdedferry-boat,crossingtheWaterfarbelowwhereLydiastood.Shethoughtaboutthehawthornstakes,thegarlicandwolfbane,thesilver-

bladedsurgicalknivesinherlockedsatchelbackinherstateroom.Simon,I’msorry.IfIcryAuntLouisewillaskmewhy,andtellmenottobesilly…Theoverpoweringscentoffrangipaniretreated,andsheheardAuntLouise

calloutimperiouslytothedecksteward.NowifonlyAuntLouise–andEllen–willletmealonethiseveningsothat

Icanseewhat thiscabinet is, that thePrincessGromykohashidden inhersuite…Shepushedgriefaside,focusedhermindontheproblemathandasifshe

wereinadissectingroom.IwonderiftheprincessknewPrinceRazumovskyinStPetersburg?Inspite

of herself, Lydia smiled at the recollection of the big nobleman – one ofJamie’smysterious‘friends’–whohadbefriendedherintheRussiancapitalsomeyearsago.SurelyIcanscrapeacquaintancesomehow.AlltheRussiannoblesareeachother’scousins…Shedrewadeepbreath,asifsteadyingherselftowalkacrossanarrowand

raillessbridge.Youcandothis…

But fora long timesheonly remainedwhereshewas,watchingEnglandslideaway.Tugsandpilotssteeredtroop-transportsawayfromtheotherpiers,guidedcolliersandsmallfreightersin.Fishing-smacksandcoast-wisesloopsdottedthewater, fry toosmall to interestsubmarines in theChannel. IsleofWightferriespausedtoletthempass,andthesmallfreightersthathadbravedthedangeroftorpedoes,withtheirbrightflags,DanishandSwedishandtheAmericanstarsandstripes.Stillthosegentlegreenhillswerevisiblebeyond,thintrailsofsmokefromvillasandfarmsteads.Memoriesnearlyunbearable.Jamie…Flat American accents approached and faded behind her, as the emerald

slopesandchalkcliffsoftheIsleofWightapproachedandfaded:‘Nonsense!Jazzisnomoremusicthanit’smusicwhenStellabangsonthekitchenpans…’‘DidyouseeTheRink? I thought I’dmakemyself sick, laughing…’‘IlikeArbucklebetter…’‘Heabsolutelytookonelookatheronthewedding-night and ran out of the room – and went back to his mother’s…’ Jamiewouldtakesuchdelightinthoseaccents.‘Pure-bredPersian,darling,withthecutestlittleface…’NotawordabouttheWar.Palfrey had told her last night (thismorning…) that theGermans had a

newtypeofsubmarine.Long-rangesubsthatcouldoperatemid-ocean…DespiteAuntLouise’sblithe reassurances, she’dbeen looking forward to

gettingfarenoughfromEngland’sshorestobeoutofrangeofGermansubs.Andnowtherewasno‘outofrange’.She shivered, thanking aGod she didn’t quite believe in that she’d been

adamant about leaving Miranda at Aunt Lavinnia’s. The little girl’s stoicsadnessatbiddinghermothergoodbyeonceagainhadtornatherheart.ButatleastIwon’thavetolieawakenightsinterroratthethoughtofseeingthatfreezingdarkwatercloseoverherhead…Yarmouth. A huddle of roofs, a smudge of distant smoke. Then, a little

while later, the bizarrewhite shapes of theNeedles, and the south coast ofEngland retreating into shimmery haze to the north. The crowd wasdispersing.CaptainPalfrey strode toher side,handextended, ceruleaneyesanxious. ‘Did you see anything?’ His voice crackled with suppressedexcitement.‘Someonebroughtinanenormousbox…’‘I saw.’ Lydia took his arm.Maybe I’ll be able to get a nice cup of tea

before I have to don my secret disguise as Mrs James Asher, RespectableLadyandVampireHunter.‘ItsownerhasthesuitenexttoAuntLouise.’‘Surely,’arguedPalfrey,‘theyneedn’tbeso…sodraconianaboutallthis.

MightnottheGermanshavesimplydruggedColonelSimonandbroughthim

aboard … I don’t know, disguised? In a bath-chair and wrapped up inblankets?’‘I doubt they’d have been able to get him past the health inspector.’

(Particularly not if he happened to burst into flameswith the first touchofsunlight.)Resolutely,ashelinkedhisarmthroughhers,sheputtheghostsofJamieandMirandaaside,andcoaxed intohervoice the liltofahumor shedidn’tfeel.Shewonderedwhatthisstaunchyoungherowasgoingtodowhenhelearnedthatheraimwasnottorescue‘ColonelSimon’,butkillhim.‘Icanalmostcertainlygetupaconversationwith thisPrincessGromyko

byadmiringherdogs,’shewenton,whentheysatovercoffeeandbiscuitsattheWillowGrove.‘WeprobablyhavemutualacquaintancesinPetersburg–Petrograd,’shecorrectedherself,thenameoftheRussiancapitalhavingbeenchangedatthestartofthewarbecause‘StPetersburg’sounded‘tooGerman’.‘Andwiththeriotinggoingonthere,wecertainlywon’trunoutofthingstotalkabout.IfworstcomestoworstIcancorrupthermaid.Wehavesixdays,’shepointedout,andcastaquickglancethroughthefernstothetablewheretheprincessandhersomber-eyedphysicianhadearliersat.‘Forsixdays,weknowapproximatelywhereDonSimon–ColonelSimon

–is.’Hervoicegrewquiet.‘Inthosesixdayswehavetofindhim.OncewereachNewYork,theycouldtakehim…anywhere.’Anddoanything.The caféwas quiet. Itmust,Lydia guessed, be past five o’clock.Behind

her, she heard a little girl declare scornfully to herweeping brother, ‘Onlybabiesarescaredofsubmarines.’Inspiteofthecoffeeherheadached,andsherubbedathereyes.Meeting

Palfrey’s troubled expression, she managed a smile. ‘Are you prepared toromancetheprincess’smaidifnecessary?’Whentheyemergedfromthecafé,shesawthattheChannelhadwidened

around them. Some miles off she descried a destroyer, patrolling forsubmarinesintherelativelyconfinedwaters.Somethingthatcouldhavebeenthe troop transport, and the horse-boat, made dark specks in the silverydistance.SomethingthatmighthavebeenGuernseyfloatedstillfartherawayinthegreen-blacksea.ButEnglandwasgone.I’mgoingtoAmerica,she thought,asshepartedfromPalfreyandturned

herstepsbacktowardthestairthatleduptothePromenadeSuites.IfIgettherealive…Herthoughtsduckedquicklyawayfromthatfear.Liketheartilleryshells

thathadburstoverthelittlehospitalattheFront,therewasnothingshecoulddoaboutthesituation.

I wonder if Ellen is done with unpacking? I can tell Aunt Louise I’mseasick,andneedtoliedown…Thoughheraunt’sresponsetothatwouldprobablybe,‘Don’tbesilly,girl.

It’sallinyourmind.’‘Lydia,dearest!’Sheturnedasherauntcamestridingalongthedeck.‘I’vebeenlookingall

over the ship for you! Imust say –’ the olderwoman’s pouchy face fairlybeamed–‘thatthisiseverythingthattheadvertisementpromised.Ihavehadthemost interesting conversationwithMrsCochran – such vulgar jewelry!Andthatfrightfulaccent!AndMrsTilcottisveryknowledgeableaboutNewYork,thoughsheclaimsthatthesocietyinPhiladelphiahasmuchbetterton.I’m almost sorry now that I signed a lease on that apartment, thoughMrsTilcottassuresmethatit’sinoneofthebest–ah!’Shestopped,fairlyglowingwithsmugpride.Lydiafollowedhergazedownthepromenade.Andherbreathseemedtocongealinherlungs.Twofigurescomingtowardthem.Oneofthemunmistakable.No…Itcouldn’tbe.No…She wanted to put her glasses on to be sure but she knew it was true.

Instead she turned, trembling, blazing, upon her aunt andwhispered, ‘Howdareyou?Howdareyou—’‘Now,dearest,’admonishedAuntLouiseserenely,‘youcan’ttellmeitisn’t

forthebest.’‘Mummy!’criedMiranda,andbreaking freeof the repressivenannywho

followedher,randownthedecktothrowherselfintoLydia’sarms.

FOUR

JamesAsherhadfirstcometothehouseontheRuedePassyintheautumnof1907.Hestillborethescarsofit,onhisthroatandwrists,butatleasthe’dgottoknowbysightmostofthevampiresoftheParisnest.They’dbeattheFrontnow,heguessed,alongwithnearlyeveryothervampireinEurope.Fortwoandahalfyears,allthevampiresinEuropehadbeeninFlanders.

Feedingtotheirhearts’content,threeandfourandfivekillsanight.Noonehadnoticed.Vampires lived,notmerelyonblood,buton theenergies releasedby the

soul at death. Only thus could they maintain their power to deceive, theirfearful gift of illusion, their ability to tamper with human thought andperception. That, asmuch as their terrible strength and preternatural speed,madethemdeadly.They walked among the trenches in the darkness. Clustered around the

casualty clearing stations just behind the front lines, thick asmoths aroundlamp-chimneys. Flitted in and out of themoribundwards in dead of night,whenever the exhausted orderlies turned their backs. They drifted ahead oftheambulance-wagonsintoNoMan’sLandwhentheartilleryfellsilentandthemachine-gunnersdroppedasleepontheirweapons.Totheolderones,thestrongerones,thepsychicchargeofhumandeathgavetheabilitytowalkinhumandreams, tomakepeople think they’dhadconversations they’dneverhad,seenthingsthey’dneverseen.Ordismissthingstheyhadseenas,Imusthavebeendreaming…Allthesethingsincreasedwithfeeding.Itwasadrunkard’sdreamoftheBigRockCandyMountain,hethought.Of

wandering through lakes of gin and rivers of booze: all the blood, all thedeaths,allthestolenlivesandstolenstrengththeycoulddevour.Andnoonewasevenawareofthem.Whatwereafewdropsofblood–or

apint,oragallon–inanocean?Lookingupat thebeautifulseventeenth-centuryfaçadebeforehim,Asher

didn’tknowwhetherElyséedeMontadourwouldbe inParisnow.Someofthe masters of some of Europe’s nests – London’s, he knew, and almostcertainly others – stayed closer to home, sensing the danger of being away

fromtheirownterritorytoolong.Thosethat’remasters’llfindtheirerror,theMasterofLondonhadsaidtohimonce,whentheycomebackandfindsomeupstart’s moved in an’ set up housekeepin’. Though Elysée had neverimpressed Asher as being particularly intelligent, she might well havedevelopedaconcernaboutbeingsupplanted,asthewarprogressed.Onethinghehadlearnedofvampiresoverthepasttenyearswasthatmost

ofthemweresavagelyterritorial.ThehandsomemaisonparticulièreontheRuedePassyhadn’tchanged.In

fact its long windows looked cleaner, and the whole building better-maintained, than the dwellings nearby, which for the most part had thedecrepit appearanceof structureswhich thesedays lacked the staff to scrubfactory-soot from their doorsteps or mud from their walls. No lights werevisibleinthewindows,butonlythoseonthegroundfloorwereshuttered.TheUndead–Asherknew– thoughtheyoftenpreferred the illumination they’dknowninlife,wereindifferenttototaldarkness.SenseskeyedtothepitchthatharkedbacktohisyearsofspyinginRussia,

in Austria, in Berlin, he crossed in front of the house. Then, after a fewmoments,crossedback.Elysée,at least,wouldknowhis footsteps.Would recognize thesoundof

hisheart.Someofher fledglingswouldaswell.The thought frightenedhimbadly.

Oneormoreofthemmightbeinresidence,andthebeautifulMasterofParismightbeaway. In thatcasehewasadeadman.Fledglingvampires,on thewhole,mistrusteditwhentheirmastersformedbondswiththeliving.Still,therewasnootherwaytolearnwhatheneededtoknowintimetoget

theinformationtoLydia.Sohewalkedbackandforthbeforethehousetwicemore,keepinghisdistancefromanythingthatlookedlikecoverforanattack.Buthewasscaldinglyawarethatavampire–andparticularlyonewho’dbeengorgingonfourorfivekillsanightfortwoandahalfyears–couldbeontopofhimbeforehesomuchasheardthewhisperofitspassage.Thenheclimbedthetwoshallowsteps,andknockedatthedoor.Sheopeneditatonce.She’dbeenwaitingforhim.‘La!’Sheflunguponehandinatheatricalgesture.Theotherheldaloftan

immenselyelaboratebranchofcandles.Theirlightflashedinhergreeneyeslikemirrors.‘Monsieur leProfesseur!IhadthoughtyouweregoneawaytotheEast–perhapskilled.Pleasedocomein.’Atleast,hereflectedasshesteppedbackfromthedoor,shecan’tpossibly

behungry.Notthatsatiationhadeverkeptanyvampirefromapromisingkill,but Elysée deMontadour was too nosy to do awaywith a good source ofgossip.Theluminousglanceflickedoverhisface,takinginwhathe’dseenon

those fewoccasions thathe’dhadaccess to amirror larger than thebrokenfragment he shaved in. Since the start of the War he’d lost forty pounds,weight his six-foot frame could ill afford. The silver that had threaded hisbrownhairandmustachein1914hadwidenedtohand-breadthstreaks.She herself still looked exactly like the twenty-year-old courtesan that

FrançoisdeMontadour,thenMasterofParis,hadkilledin1799.Killed,andabsorbedhersoul,re-releasingherconsciousnessbackintothebodythathe’dinfectedwithvampireblood.‘Madame.’Hebentoverherhand.Itwaswarm.She’dbeenoutalreadyin

theearly-falling springnight, andhadkilled.Withpainton them,her inch-longclawscouldpasseasilyformerefingernails.‘Isthisaconvenienttimetotalk? I would have sent a note,’ he added, ‘but I reached Paris only thisafternoon,andthenewsawaitingmeherewassuchthatIcouldnotwait.’‘AboutDonSimon?’Amockingsmileliltedhervoice,andsheslippedhis

greatcoat fromhis shoulders, her fingernails brushing the nape of his neck.Upstairs, the drawing room, with its gilt-trimmed wall-panels of straw-coloredsilk,waswarmfromalarge(andinthesedays,extremelyexpensive)fireinthemarblegrate,andfromclustersofcandlesinwallsconces.Onthefarwall an oil portrait of her – aCorot,Asher thought – smiled the secretsmilethatflickeredevennowonthelipsofthewomanbesidehim.Shewaswatchinghimfrombeneaththoseimpossiblylonglashes.Waiting

forhimtoreacttoherwords.‘Tellme.’Shepoutedas ifona stage.Unlikemostvampires,ElyséedeMontadour

wasalwaysinmotion,alwaysmakinglittlemouesandsmilesand theatricalgestures.Asherwonderedifshewasthatwaywhenshehunted.Probably.Sexualityhungaboutherlikepatchouliandalmostcertainly,he

reflected,madeconcealmentunnecessary.ThemostdevotedhusbandinPariswouldfollowherdownadarkalleywithoutasecondthought.Itwas,asDonSimonYsidrohadtoldhimonce,howvampireshunted:throughtheillusionofdesire.That, too,wassomething that strengthenedwith thepower theyabsorbed

fromtheirkills.‘Thathe’sbeenhangingabouttheclearingstationswhereyourprettywife

works,likealovesickschoolboy?Oh,withoutawordofthanks,sofarasonecantell.Whichmakesitallthemorehilarious.Hewritespoemsabouther,Idaresay.Youdidn’tknow?’Hereyebrowsquirkedandshelaughedasshetweakedhismustache.‘Oh,

mydearProfessor!Don’ttellmeyoudidn’tknow!’Heshookhishead.‘Itdoesn’tsurpriseme,though.’

‘AndhereIthoughtyouwerebehindit!’‘Behindwhat?’She’d settled herself on a loveseat to one side of the fire, and invitingly

pattedthecushionnexttoher.Hetookthechairacrossthehearth.Shemadealittlefaceathim–onestepshortofblowinghimaflirtatiouskiss.‘Tattlingtohisbank,’shepurred.‘Serveshimright,abominablearisto.Hehasabouttenof them – different banks, I mean. And Heaven only knows how manyapartmentsandhidey-holeshereinParis,andpropertiesthatherentsunderadozen different names. I saw him only Saturday, striding alongRueNotre-Dame des Victoires like an icebox ghost. He said one of his lawyers hadwiredhimthattherewassomesortoftroubleatBarclay’s,refusingtotransferfunds to the Banque d’Algerie through which he holds his Paris house.Anotherman–anyotherman–wouldhavebeenhoppingupanddownandspitting,hewassoangry…’Her eyes twinkled maliciously and her French, in general almost

completelymodern,slippedforatimebackintotheslightlytrilledr’softhatlanguage’seighteenth-centurypronunciation. ‘“Givenmyunderstanding thatAmericaisnoteveninvolvedintheWar”,’shemocked,withagoodimitationnotonlyofYsidro’swhisperingvoiceandantiqueSpanishinflection,butofhishaughtystanceandhiswayoflookingdownhisnoseaswell,‘“I fail tosee why this stock-holder’s conviction that anyone doing business as acorporationmustbeaGermanspywarrantsinvestigation”…Youknowhisway!Likeaschoolmasterwithafrozenpokeruphisbackside.’She laughed again and leaned back, voluptuous even in the unshaped

garments thatwomen considered (for reasonswhich utterly escapedAsher)theheightoffashionthesedays.‘Andwasheabletostraightenoutthiscontretemps?’‘La,who knows?’ She shrugged, regarding himwith lazy interest. ‘Who

cares?Ihavenotseenhimsincethatnight,youknow.’‘Hasanyone?’ThedreamsofagonyhadbeenSundaynight.‘You know the Spaniard.’ Shewaved her hand. ‘If youwere to offer to

bringhimtenvirginmaidsintheirnightgownstokill,hewouldn’tgiveyouhisaddress.’‘Isthatwhatyoudo?’Asherkeptonlyalevelcuriosityinhisvoice.‘Bring

eachotherkills?’Hersmilewidened.Longlashesveiledthecopperhell-mirrorofhereyes.

‘Wouldyouliketostayandsee?’Hethoughtofthedarkmansionabovehim.Oftheblacklabyrinthsofthe

old gypsum-mines that stretched formiles below Paris. Of the games he’d

seenthevampiresplaywhentheychased–leisurelyasdriftingghosts–someweepingandterrifiedprey.Therecollectionturnedhimsick.‘It isnot thatIdon’t trustyou,Madame,’hesaid,risingandagain taking

herhand. ‘Ido so, absolutely.’Hemade the lieobvious inhisvoice, like akindofsecretjest,andshegleamedadarkamusementbackathim.‘ButIseethatyou’reexpectingcompany—’Thereweretwocardtablessetupinthelongroom,andheknewthatafter

they hunted, vampires sought one another’s company.Music, gaming, andgossipcontinuedtodraw,evidently,beyondthefrontieroflife,andasYsidrohadsaidtohimonce,nightwasnoshorterfortheUndeadthanitwasfortheLiving.‘Oh, la, a few friendsmerely!XavieroofVenice, and a couple of theSt

Petersburgboys.AndofcoursemyowndearpreciousSerge…’‘—and I fear that in the excitement of the chase one or another of your

fledglings might get carried away. But if I might beg of you a favor,’ headded,notlikingthewayshekeptholdofhisfingers,northewayshestudiedhim, now that her curiosity about his return to Paris had been satisfied.Vampires,heknewwell,likedtotoywiththeirprey:conversewiththem,flirtwith them, go to the opera with them or on moonlight drives in the park.Sometimes they would court a chosen victim for months, satisfying theirphysicalhungerwiththebloodofthepoorwhiletheyripenedthepiquancyoftheeventual‘harvest’,astheysometimescalledit,withthespiceofcat-and-mousehorrorandbetrayal.Like Scheherazade, he had learned the value of keeping the game going

untilhecouldgetoutthedoor.‘And what is that?’ Interest brightened her eyes – interest in something

otherthankillinghimforthesportofit.‘Couldyou–oryourbeauxgarcons–’heknewtheMasterofParischose

herfledglingsfortheirlooks–‘makefurtherinquiriesaboutthis?Aboutwhothis American is, and how he managed to light on Don Simon’s bankingarrangements? There’s something very odd going on here,’ he went on,holding Elysée’s gaze and looking grave. ‘And this isn’t the first time thatI’veheardthisrumoraboutGermanagentsroutingfundsthroughParisbanks–Godknowsthey’vegotmoremoneyinthemthantheGermanonesdorightnow. Itwaswhy I returned toParis,’ he continued, extemporizing freely. ‘IhadhopedtolocateDonSimonhere–asMadameAsherreturnedtoEnglandnearly twoweeks ago – since I knew heworkedwith a number of privatebanks.Ishouldfeelbetter,’headded,‘ifIknewthathewasallright.’IfIknewthatsomeonewasn’tholdinghimcaptiveintorment–something

noonewoulddo,whosegoalwasnot touse thevampire’spower for some

schemeoftheirown.Barclay’sBank.Banqued’Algerie.American stock-holder.Saturdaynight

sometime…Mostvampires,heknew,couldbeluredbytwothings:blood,ormoney.A

threattothefundsthatguardedthemwouldactasinfalliblebait.Brittenattheembassywouldknow.Heworkswiththebanks.Asher kept his eyes on hers and didn’t dare glance at the clock, but he

guessed itwasnowclose to tenatnight. In fact,whenhedid reach the icypavementoftheRuedePassyagainafewminuteslaterheconfirmedit.Eleven hours until the embassy opened its doors. TheCity of Gold had

sailedat two–probably later,giventhepossibilitiesofcoalingproblems.ItwouldtakehimroughlyfourhourstogetfromParistoBrest.AndwhoknewhowlongitwouldtakehimtoactuallylocateCyrilBrittentomorrowmorningandhowlongitwouldtakeBrittentodigouttheinformationaboutwhohadsetwhatsoundedlikeaveryneattrapforDonSimonYsidro.‘Ishallask.’Elyséelookedpleasedattheprospectofapuzzle.‘Ofcourse,

Sergewillmakeamessofit.Hecanstopyourbreathwithhissmile,butmyGod,Ihaveboughtclamsinthemarketwithmorebrainthanhehas!Louis-Claud…’Adreamy expression came over her face at the name of anotherfledgling.‘Well,hehadatleastthewitsnottogethimselfdrafted,forallhewashealthyandyoung…Augustinisclever.Alazybeast,andtricky…He’sstillattheFront,though.’Her green eyes narrowed, as if therewere something about her fledgling

Augustin thatdispleasedher.Asherknewthatat thebestof times, theParisnestwasanundisciplinedsnakepit, filledwithfactionandintrigue. ‘Wheredoyoustay,mysweetProfessor?’‘Hotel St-Seurin, in theRueSt-Martin.’He knew she’d followhim if he

refusedtotellheranything.‘Brr!Whataghastlypartoftown!Comehere.’Withabruptebullience,she

releasedAsher’shand,caughthisfacebetweenherpalms,andkissedhim–hard – on themouth. He felt a rush of desire for her, themad impulse toreturnthekiss,tobearherdownontheTurkishrugbeforethefire.Foroverayearhehadneitherseennor touchedawomanand theneed, foradizzyingmoment,wasunbearable.ButcompletelyasidefromhisloveforLydia–andhisknowledgethatthis

woman’sfleshwasonlywarmbecauseshehadkilledearlierintheevening–heknewwherethatwouldend.Sohedrewback,shiveringalittle–awarethatshecouldhearthepounding

of his heart, and was amused by it – and said, somewhat unsteadily,‘Tomorrownight,then.’

Hestarted toaskher,Andwill thisbeautifulSerge, thishandsomeLouis-Claud,behereaswell?Butwithasensationlikewakingup,hesawthatshewasgone.Helethimselfout.

FIVE

InherbedontheCityofGoldWednesdaynight,Lydiagotnosleep.IfDonSimoncriedout inhisprison indreamsof agony, she layawake,

obliviousand impervious, shakingas ifwith feverwhenever sheclosedhereyes.In hermind she saw the red head on the pillow of that pretty two-room

suite that Aunt Louise had taken – in secret, gleeful at scoring over AuntLavinnia–asanursery,wherecold-faced,efficientMrsFrushsatwaitingforLydiatodepart(‘’Tispasttimeforachildtobeabed,M’am…’).Onherfingersshefeltagainthewarmclaspofherdaughter’ssmallhand,

andsaw the joyous sparkle inMiranda’seyes. ‘I’mgladAuntLouisecameandgotme,Mummy.I’mgladshetoldmeIcouldcomewithyouafterall.’ShehuggedMrsMarigoldtothestifffoldsofherbrand-newnightgown.ByMiranda’s account, Aunt Louise had ‘taken her for awalk’ from PeasehallManorTuesday evening, leaving a letter forLavinnia –who had been at aSoldiers’Aid Society until late – explaining that Lydia had sanctioned thislast-minutechangeofplan.(AndI’lllayanyoddsshelookedupthetimesoftheAidSocietymeetinginadvance.)On the way back to London, Aunt Louise had purchased everything the

little girl had needed for her ‘adventure’ (including, apparently,Mrs Frush,whomMiranda had never met before in her life, and a downtrodden littlenurserymaidnamedPrebble).MrsMarigoldwastheonlythingMirandahadhadwithher,whenthey’dleftthemanorfortheir‘walk’.AuntLavinniawouldbespittingblood.Lydiawaswellawarethatthishad

been the true object of Aunt Louise’s virtual kidnapping of their mutualgrand-niece.Toprovethatshe,notLavinnia,wasthebettermother,orwouldhavebeen,hadLouise’smarriagetoLordMountjoynotbeenchildless.(Forwhichthesoulsofherunbornchildren,Jamiehadoncesaid,offerupthankseveryday.)Diningatthecaptain’stable,Lydiahadbarelybeenabletotouchhersôle

Colbert and suprêmedevolaille, or speak toher table-mates, aware thoughshewasthatsheshouldhavebeenmakinginroadsoffriendshiptothesinisterPrincess Gromyko. All she had been able to think about had been the

newspaperphotographsshehadseenofthebodiesofthechildrenrecoveredfromthewateraftertheGermanshadsunkthepassengerlinerLusitania; thelistsofnamesofthedeadfromthetorpedoedSussex;thecasualtiesfromtheCaliforniaandtheBritannic.Shehadlearnedasagirl–andasayoungladyin her London ‘season’ – how to keep her countenance and appear to belistening,nomatterwhatshefeltinside.Butangerhadturnedhernearlysick.AuntLouise,ofcourse,hadn’tevennoticed.‘It’sanabsolutedisgrace!’she

hadproclaimedtothetableat large.‘Youwouldn’tseetheBritishArmygoover to the sideof the rioters–not that therehaseverbeenamajor riot inLondon.Andasforthistalkaboutcallsforabdication—!’‘Only what you could expect from Russkies,’ had responded Spenser

Cochran,hisdarkeyessharpinaseamed,wolfishface.Aslim-built,medium-sizedman,hehadavoicelikechainsbeingdraggedoverbrokenflintandasfarasLydiawasabletotell,ethicstomatch.Hehaddemandedmorespeedfromtheship(‘WithwhatI’mpayingIdeservetogettomybusinessinNewYorkon time!’) despitewarnings of submarines (‘All cowardly nonsense!’)and warned Captain Winstanley about anarchists, strikers, and socialistssneakingaboardtheshipandcorruptingthecrew.(‘Hipray–that’smylawyer–willbegladtocheckthecredentialsofyourstewardsandengineers,andifthere’sany troublemyboyscangiveahand roundingup the ringers.We’llturn ’em over to the authorities theminute we reach the States…No, notrouble,gladtodoit…’)Nowhestarted,asif(Lydiasuspected)hisdiamond-embellishedwifehad

perhaps kicked him under the table, and hemade a jerky little bow in thedirectionofthePrincessGromyko.‘Presentcompanyexcepted,M’am.’‘Ihaveheardtell,’putinMrsCochran,inthetreacledrawloftheAmerican

South,‘thatthepeasantsinyourcountry,Princess,areasbadastheniggersinmine.Though–’ sheuttered a tinkling laugh– ‘it’s actuallyhard topictureanybodythatstupid…’Oneoftheblackwaitersremovedhersoup-plateimpassivelyandsetinits

placeadishofoysters.Seeingtheglancethemantradedwithanotherwaiter– also ofAfrican descent –Lydia recalled things she had learned from themenshe’dcaredforattheFront,andearnestlyhopedthatfortheremainderofthevoyagethestaffwouldbecarefultospitonlyintheappropriateperson’sfood.‘I can only assume,’ returned the princess in her sweet contralto, ‘that

Madame has not travelled in rural Russia.’ Her English bore a trace of aFrench accent – in Russia, the upper classes used Russian only to addressservants.

‘OrinruralYorkshire,forthatmatter.’AuntLouisepolishedoffhersalmonmousselineintwobites.‘I’veencounteredtenantsonmylatehusband’slandswhowillwalk half amile through the fields rather than pass a raven on astump.You’dthinksuchthingswouldbecorrectedinschools!Whatwepayrates for I don’t know – and half of them don’t attend even if there areschools!’‘Exactly,M’am!’Cochranjabbedhisasparagusforkinherdirection–he,

like his physician Dr Barvell on the opposite side of the table, was avegetarian.Thenhehastilycorrectedthegesture,asiftablemannerswereabranchoflearningonlylatelymastered.‘And what the – what the dickens do miners and mill-girls need book-

learningforanyway?Orfarmerseither?Onlystirs’emup.Everystrikeatmymills,everywalk-outorlock-outatanyofmyrefineries,youtraceitbackandyou find some know-it-all ditch-digger that somebody taught to read, justenoughtomakehimthinkhe’sgotalltheanswers—’The regalMrsTilcott hadwaded into the conversation at that pointwith

corroborative tales from her late husband’s experience with his mills,railroads,minesandrefineries,whileherson– large,meek,andexquisitelydressedatherside–downedadozenoystersandaskedthewaiterstobringhim another serving of sole. He also made several somewhat fulsomeattemptstoengageLydia’sattention,untiltheprincess,withasapientglanceat Lydia’s pallor and distraction, had stepped inwith tactful answers to hischat.Lydia was grateful. On closer view, (though hazy with myopia), Her

IllustriousHighness didnot appear in the least sinister, being a tiny, daintywoman inhermid-fortieswearingalmost asmanydiamonds (though in farbettertaste)asMrsCochran.TheonlyconversationthatmighthaveinterestedLydiaatallhadbeenthe

snatches that had drifted across thewhite-and-crystal fairyland of the tablefromthetwomedicalmen.‘Butcanonetransformthepersonalitywithsuchinjections?’and,‘Nevertheless,sixmonthsofarestcure–withoutaccesstothe written word, to writing implements, to any form of over-stimulatingconversation–willtransformeventhemoststubborncasesoffemalehysteria…’Andatherelbow,MrsCochranhadregaledtheprincesswithtalesofhow

‘freedomhasabsolutelyruinedthedarkies!’Mr Tilcott had pressed Lydia to accompany him to dancing in the First

Classloungeafterdinner–theCityofGoldhaditsownorchestra–butshehadexcusedherself.Ithadbeenalongday.

I’ll do better tomorrow evening. Lydia turned over in her bed for thehundredthtime.Thecabinwasstuffy,andseemedoddlysilentafterthenoisesoftheclearingstationandtheconstantthunderoftheguns.Nevertheless,shefoundthemovementoftheshipsoothingratherthanotherwise.Theprincess’ssuiteisjustnextdoor…Whatelsecouldbeinaboxthatlarge?Istheroomsecured?thePrincesshadasked.Notthesmallestshredoflight

canpenetrate…Presumably, the box was stored in one of the ‘servant’s rooms’ on the

insideof thePromenadeSuite, the equivalent of thosewhichhousedEllen,Louise’smaidMalkin,andthefaithfulbutlerMortling.Didthatmeanthattheprincess’smaids – Palfrey’s list had noted two of them, in addition to hersecretaryMademoiselleOssolinska–hadquartersdownonCDecklikeAuntLouise’s companionMrs Flasket?And howwas she to get around the twofootmen?Shepushedasideanassortmentofbooksandmagazines to rearrangeher

pillows.WhatifI’mwrong?WhatifDonSimonisn’tontheshipafterall?HaveI–

hasAuntLouise!–putMirandaindangerforanillusion?No,shethought,withaqueer,uttercertainty.He’shere.Iknowhe’shere.Vampiresweresupposedtolosealltheirpowersonrunningwater–hadn’t

Dracula had to ship himself like a box of potatoes to England in that sillybook?ButDonSimon,whooughttoknow,hadconfirmedthistoher,thoughthe business about having to sleep in one’s native earth, he had said, wasnonsense.Inhistravelshe’dalwaysrequiredalivinghelper.Couldheevencontactme–touchmydreams–onceaboard?ThenhermindslippedbacktoangeratAuntLouise–whomsheknewshe

couldn’t quarrel with, not if she was to continue sharing a suite with theformidabledowager–andthenewspaperpicturesfromtheLusitaniavictims.AllthewayuphereonBDeck,shehadlittlesenseofthesea,saveagentlerocking (apparently enough to incapacitate the Princess Gromyko’s maidEvgenia,tojudgebytheconversationatdinner).But she was aware of the Atlantic, scrimmed with spindrift and bone-

breakinglycold,eightyfeetbelowher.Waiting.

Shedidn’tknowifshesleptornot.Heronethought,whenthefirstthinlinesofgray threadedtheedgesof thecurtainoverherroom’sporthole,was thatthe thing she didn’t want that morning was to encounter Aunt Louise atbreakfast.Risingsilently,sheslippedintothedressingroom,gatheredclothes

by the soft glowof thenight-light, andmoved silently into thebathroom–Aunt Louise had sharp hearing, even sound asleep. Despite her aunt’shorrified insistence that no lady – even one taking x-ray photographs andassisting surgeons in the midst of German shelling on the Front – wasproperlydressedwithoutacorset,Lydiahadsneakedanumberofbrassieresintoher luggage.Thusshewasable todressherselfspeedilyanddiscreetly,andtomakeherwayalongthepromenadeinthegraycoldofmorning,saltspraystinginghercheeks.TheFirstClassdiningroomwasopen,but, to judgeby theempty tables,

the gleaming ranks of silver warming-trays and chafing-dishes on thesideboards,onlyjust.Oneofthefewotherpassengersintheroomwas,alittletoLydia’ssurprise,thePrincessGromyko,clothedinanelegantwalkingsuitof claret-colored velvet (beautifully corseted beneath the exquisite lines ofthat Paquin jacket – no brassiere nonsense forher!) and another extremelyParisian hat. The two French bulldogs lay politely at her feet, diamondsglittering on their collars in the bright electric radiance of the dining-roomlamps.Quicklypocketingherglasses,Lydiamadeherwayamongthetables.Afterall,it’stheCaptain’sTableandIamentitledtositthere…Neverthelesssheasked, inher fluentFrench, ‘Doyoumind if I joinyou,

yourIllustriousHighness?ImeanttotellyoulastnighthowmuchIloveyourdogs,butI’mafraidIwasalittleindisposedandnotatmybest.’‘Darling!’Theprincessbeameduponherwarmly,andsignedforoneofthe

stewards–alreadyonhiswayfromthebuffet–topourLydiacoffeefromtheCrownDerby pot already upon the table. ‘Please forgiveme for theway IbrokeintoMrTilcott’sremarkstoyou,butyoulookedsowretchedmyheartpositivelybled for you.And then everyonewas going on andon about thepoor,anditwouldlooksobadifonedrownedone’stablecompanionsinthesoup, n’est-ce pas? Much as one might wish to do so. I trust you arerecovered?’‘Iam,thankyou.Sosilly.’Lydiamanagedatrustingsmile.Shejudgedthe

diminutiveprincesstobejusttherightagetocastasaprotectiveoldersistertoherownconfidingyouth.‘I’vecrossedtheChannelhalfadozentimesandsailed all the way to China five years ago, and I’ve never been seasickbefore.’‘Alors.’ The princess made an airy gesture. ‘It is as I suspected: the

company,andnotmaldemer.TheghastlyLadyMountjoy is, I believe thecaptainsaid,youraunt?AndyouareMadameAsher?’‘Iam,’saidLydia.‘ButIwishyouwouldcallmeLydia.’‘AndyoumustcallmeNataliaNikolaievna.AndthisisMonsieurleDuc,

andMadame laDuchesse – verymuch set up in their own conceit, as you

see.’Sheslippedthelittledogsfragmentsofbutteredtoast.‘AndthebeautifullittlefairyIsawyouwithonthedeckyesterdayevening–yourdaughter,yes?In my country red hair is not fashionable – those peasants your auntdiscourseduponatsuchtiresomelengthevensaythattobebornwithredhairisasuresignthatoneisdestinedtobecomevurdalak…vampire.Myself,Ifindredhairenchanting.’Lydiamadeherselflookdisconcerted.‘Whatashockingsuperstition!’she

exclaimed, and self-consciously touched the thick knot of cinnabar braid atthenapeofherneck.‘Whatwon’tpeoplebelieve?Allthatsilliness—’Theprincessraisedhermanicuredbrows,andLydiahalted,asifuncertain.‘It is silliness, isn’t it?’ she faltered. ‘Imean, likeAunt Louise’s tenant-

farmersandtheirstoriesaboutravensandmagpies…?’‘Ravens andmagpies…’The princess shook her head. ‘Even of them, I

have heard tales that maybe cannot be dismissed. But the vampir – thevurdalak –’ her lovely brows plunged into a frown – ‘I do not mean yourbeautiful daughter, please donot think I subscribe to that peasant stupidity.But as your Shakespeare says, There aremore things inHeaven andEarththanaredreamtofinyourphilosophy,anditisbesttobecautious.’‘Cautious?’Lydiamadeherselflookpuzzled–asindeedshewas.Woulda

Germanspywithavampire imprisoned ina secret cabinet, inacompletelyblacked-outcabin,goaroundbringingupthesubject?‘They scoff at it.’ The princess leaned closer to Lydia, her expression

deadlyearnest.Afrost-rimeoftinydiamondsglitteredontheveilofherhat.‘Thecaptain,andthatimbecileship’sdoctor,andtheofficers…YetIbelievewhatmymaidTaniatoldmethismorningtobetrue.Thereisavampireonboardthisship.’Lydia was so completely nonplussed that her face must have been

expressionless.Sheonly staredat thewomanbeforeher, andas if she tookLydia’ssilencefordisbelief,theprincesswenton,‘Itistrue,Lydiamyfriend.Believeit.Theytrytohushitup–youwillhearnothingofit,uphereamongthegratin.’ShelaidherexquisitehandsoverLydia’s,andsankhervoicetoawhisper.‘ItkilledayounggirlinThirdClasslastnight.’

SIX

Tooshockedtodissemble,Lydiawhispered,‘Howdoyouknow?’‘I know because it is true.’ The princess seemed not at all discomposed.

‘Tania,mymaid–theonewhoisnotseasick–hearditthismorning,fromthewomen in ThirdClass. She took the children candies, you understand, andbits of treatswhich sheput intoherpockets from thedinner they serve themaidsandvalets.’SheslippedanotherfragmentoftoasttoMonsieurleDuc.‘She is absolutely silly on the subject of children, Tania. There was

diphtheriainhervillage,youunderstand,andherchildrendied,threeofthem:Vanya,Tasha, andMarya.Every child, she says, could be one of them, re-born in its next life. Shewent down there thismorning and everyonewasspeakingofit,ofthevampir,andthegirlwhowaskilled.’Lydiashookherhead,groping to fit this information into thedreamsshe

hadhad,andtheconversationshehadoverheard.‘It’s…impossible…’CanDonSimonhaveescapedthem?Simonwouldn’t do something so stupid as to kill in a closed areawhere

everypersoniscounted…Her hands trembled as she set down her coffee cup. The princess was

regardingher,graveconvictioninthoseluminousdarkeyes.‘Truly,’shesaid.‘Truly,Lydia–truly,itisnot.’Thiswomancan’tpossiblybetheonewhokidnappedhim.ThenwhatinHeaven’snamehasshegotinthatgiantbox?WhenLydiadidn’treply–shestillfeltasifsheweretryingtosortahand

of cardswith hypothermia of the extremities and recent head-trauma – theprincess went on softly, ‘They exist.’ Her grip tightened on Lydia’s hands.‘Thevampir.Thevurdalak.Theupyr.’She paused, glancing at thewaiterwho refreshed their cups, then shot a

quicklookaroundthematthenear-emptysalon.‘Thedeadthatdonotliestillintheirgraves.Walkingcorpsesthatprolong

theirownexistencewith thebloodof the living.Theship’s firstofficer, thestewards, they asked a few questions, they took the girl’s lover and lockedhim up in the brig. The ship’s surgeon signed the papers saying the girl’s

throatwascut,but itwasn’t.Itwaspierced.Twopunctures,abovethegreatvein.Nobloodwasfoundatthescene,noranywhereelse.’She leaned closer. ‘You say, impossible, dearest Lydia. But your heart

believes.Yourheartknows.Iseeitinyoureyes.’Myheartknowsthatavampirewhohasbeeninjured–surelyonewhohas

beenintormentforfourdays,asSimonhasbeen!–canhealhimselfwithakill.Eventhethoughtofitturnedhersick.Andthepainwhoseechoshehadfeltinherdreamsmayhavedrivenhim

madenoughtodoit.Shedrewashakybreath.‘Mightone…Doyouthinkitwouldbepossible

…to…toseeher?Thisgirl?’The noblewoman’s eyes seemed to darken as her brows knit, and Lydia

wenton,‘I…I’maphysician,youknow.AndIask…’Whatsortofreasonisshelikelytobelieve?Lydiafeltawaveofvexation

thatshehadn’treadmorenovels.WouldsherecognizebitsofDracula?‘Thethingis,yearsago,when…whenIwasstillatschoolinSwitzerland,

my friend – a very dear friend – was … found dead, in just suchcircumstances.’Shecan’tpossiblycheckastory like thatandshe’scertainlynotgoing to tellme I’mmaking thingsup. ‘Ofcoursewegirlsweren’t toldanything,butI…Isneakedintotheroomwhereherbodylay.AndIsaw…’She flinched in a fashionwhich shehopedwas realistic, andpressedher

handforamomenttohermouth.‘Ididn’tknowwhattothink…’Shethrewanuncertainstammerintoher

voice.‘Later,whentheschooldoctorandtheheadmistressesandeverybodykeptsayingMolliehadfallenandhitherheadandwasn’titaterribleshame,Ialmostconvincedmyself that theywereright.ThatI’donlydreamedwhatIsaw.’Sympathyandvindicationblazedinhercompanion’seyes.Lydiathought,

Andifyoubelievethat, Ibet thatcabinetofyourshassomethingtodowithholdingséances.Eitherthat,orit’sfulloftheRussiancrownjewels.Sheloweredhervoiceliketheheroineofapennydreadful.‘ButIknowit

wasn’t.’ (AndIhave to remember thatmydeceased schoolmate’snamewasMolliethenexttimeItellthisstory.)‘No.’ The princess’s hand crushed tightly on Lydia’s fingers. ‘No. They

triedtotellmethesamething–myparents,andthepriestonourestate.Andlater,all themistressesatmyschool.Theworldofshadowsisnotinvisible,dearestLydia.Itistheeyesofitsdeniersthataresealedshut.’‘As I said, I’m a physician,’ Lydia continued. ‘Do you think that would

suffice,formetogetalookatthispoorgirl’sbody?Idon’tsupposethey’dlet

mespeaktothisyoungman–what’shisname?’‘Valentyn.ValentynMarek.’‘Didthegirlhaveparentsonboard?’‘We’ll askTania.’Theprincess stoodupbriskly. ‘Shecangodown there

withus,toThirdClass.ShecannotfixhairlikemydearEvgeniacan,butatleastsheisn’tlaidupwithmaldemer!AndthefriendsshehasmadeinThirdClasswillshowus,also,wherethebodywasfound.Monsieur,Madame…’Shesnappedherfingersimperativelyforthedogs.‘Allonz-y!’

NataliaNikolaievnaGromykosawno reasonwhysheshouldchangeoutofher exquisite walking suit and velvet chapeau to visit Third Class, butconcededtoLydia’sargument–ifyoulooktoofinethey’llshuttheirmouthsandnotsayathing–whenshewasbackedupbyboththemaidservantTaniaand the stout blonde secretary, Mademoiselle Ossolinska. During theprotractedchangingprocess inHer IllustriousHighness’s suite (againLydiathanked her earlier trip to Russia for the knowledge that a garden-varietyRussian princess likeMadameGromykowas Your Illustrious Highness, asopposedtoanImperial-bloodlineprincess,whowouldhavebeenYourSereneHighness), Lydia gathered that the princess’s entourage included a spiritualadvisoraswell,housedseparately in theportionofDeckCreservedfor thelowertierofFirstClass.Thecabinet,ittranspired,washers.‘MadameIzoraismarvelous,’theprincessassuredLydia,asTaniabuttoned

her into one of Marie Ossolinska’s frocks and deftly pinned back theconsiderableslackoutofsight.‘Literallyso,amarvelupontheearth!Oneoftheancientsouls.IinsistedsheaccompanymetoParislastyear,whenthingsbecamesoimpossibleinPetrograd.Tonightweshallsurelyformacircle,andperhapsoneofthosewhodwellBeyondcantellusofthisthing,thisevilthatstalkstheship…’‘Itwasgenerousofyoutobringher,’saidLydia,andHerHighnesslooked

startledthatthematterneededcomment.‘Butofcourse!Hownot?EvenParishasbecomegrayandgrim,sincethe

start of the fighting. How can one attune oneself with the ineffable, in anatmosphereofpryingandpoliticsandshockingprices?NowthatthesedrearyrepublicansaredestroyingthelastofwhatwasspiritualandgoodinRussia,Idaresay many of us – the Obolenskys, the Dologorukys, the Golitsyns,everyoneofdecentbirth–willbegoingtoSwitzerlandorEnglandortotheUnitedStates.Or toPariswhen things lookbetter and it is possible to buydecent wine there again. None of those stupid democrats in Moscow canpossiblyunderstandorbelievethespiritsthatcometoIzorawhenshesitsinherspiritcabinet—’

Iknewit!‘—andhearsthevoicesfromBeyond.Iwouldaskhertocomewithusnow

—’Lydiahastilysummonedeveryargumentshecould thinkof todiscourage

thisadditiontotheinvestigation…‘—onlyshewillbesleepingatthishour.’Oh,good…Lydia’s own garb of shirtwaist and skirt, thick nondescript coat and

shapeless hat that she’d worn the night before last (was it only the nightbeforelast?)towatchtheluggagebeingloaded,wassufficientlyanonymoussoasnot to intimidate (or arouse resentment in) anyonebelow-decks.Thuswhen the four women – Princess Natalia, Lydia, Tania, andMademoiselleOssolinska,who tightenedhermouth at thementionof vampiresbut spokefluent Slovene – descended the steps to the ‘well’ of the ship, they werereceived without hesitation by the troubled and angry crowd in the ThirdClassdiningsalon.Thisbig,stuffy,low-ceilingedhallwassituatedonFdeck,closeenoughto

theenginestobeshakenwiththeirconstantthrumming,andtosmellofcoalsmoke and oil. It seemed, aswell, to double as a ‘day room’ for theThirdClass passengers outside of dinner hours: newspapers in various CentralEuropeanlanguageslitteredthetablesnearestthedoor,clearlybroughtbythepassengers.Urnsstoodonabuffet,butthecoffeeandhotwaterprovidedbytheAmericanLinetoitslow-payingclientshadlongagorunoutandnobodyhad collected the soiled cups. In the open spaces among the tables thepassengerswereclumpedinsixorsevengroupsaccording–asfarasLydiacouldtell–tonationalities,butpeopleshoutedtranslationsfromonegrouptoanother, German and Slovene seeming to predominate (if that is Slovenethey’respeaking…).When theyentered the roomTania lookedover theheadsof thecrowd–

themaidwastallerthanmanyofthemen–andthrustherwayswiftlythroughto a thin, sunburnedwoman in thewornwhite linen that seemed almost auniformamongtheCentralEuropeanfarmers,callingout,‘PaniMarek!’Thewomancriedout,andclaspedtheRussianmaidinanembrace,pouringoutafloodofwords thatLydiadidn’tunderstandandquitepossiblyTaniadidn’t,either.A heavy-shouldered old man with a white mustache the size of a small

sheep came up beside them, put his hand on ‘PaniMarek’s’ shoulder andspokeangrily,firsttoTaniaandthentoOssolinska,whotranslated.‘M’sieuMareksaysthattheyhaveputthefiancéeofhisgrandsonintoone

oftheship’srefrigerators,asifshewerebutapieceofmeat,andwillpermit

noonetoviewher.Pavlinawashername,Madame,PavlinaJancu—’‘They are Poles,’ explained Tania to Lydia, in halting French. ‘East of

Bohemia. Village torn to pieces by fighting, and all lands around. Pavlinafromnextvillage,betrothed—’Shepaused,asPaniMarekpouredforthasobbingtorrentofexpostulation.Ossolinskasaid,‘MadameMareksaysofcourseValentynwasjealous,for

what realman is not?Andof coursePavlina attracted the attentionofmenhereontheship,forshewasbeautiful,andwhatbeautifulgirldoesnotliketoflirta little?Andeveryonelovedher.ButValentynwouldneverhaveraisedhishandagainsther.’She paused again, to listen, and the golden-haired girl whom Lydia

recognizedfromtheThirdClassgangwaybrokefromthewomanwithher–raw-boned and powerful as a farm-horse with a face like stone – andsquirmedherwaytoOssolinska.InGermanthegirlsaid,‘Itistrue,Madame.Valentynisroughinhiswaysbuthelovedherdearly.Whentheybroughtherbodyinhewept,asIhaveneverseenamanweep…’‘Ariane!’ snapped thehard-facedwoman,andpushed through tograb the

girl’sarm.‘Getawayfromthem!Slavs!Heretics!’PanMarekflushed–evidentlyherecognizedatleastthewordsfor‘Slav’

and ‘heretic’ – and shouted, gesturing toward another group: ‘Oni saheretykami…’A gray-haired woman in another group thrust forward and yelled, ‘Who

youcallheretic,Nemecky?’‘WhatelsedoyoucallthosewhoinsulttheMotherofGod?Whosepriests

arewhoremasters—’‘Please!’Anoldmanwhose longwhitebeardnearlyhid theGreekcross

aroundhisneck limped fromamong theRussiansasmorepeople started toshout.‘Thisisnotthetime…’‘Indeedisnot!’Aheavy-shouldered,dark-facedmanpushedupbesidehim.

Hewasmissinganeyeandseveral fingersofhis righthand: indeed,of thedozenmeninthediningsalon,fewwereofmilitaryage.Ofthosefew,onlyahandfulwerewithoutrecentinjuries.InroughGerman,theone-eyedmanwenton,‘Weknowwhatkillthisgirl.

Weallknow.’Helookedaroundhimfiercely,metoldPanMarek’seye,thenOssolinska’s,thenswepthisgazetoallthecrowdaround.‘Itisvampire.Thereisvampire,hidingsomewhereonthisship.’‘GospodinVodusek,’pleadedthepriest.‘We all know signs, Father Kirn,’ said theman Vodusek. ‘We all know,

couldbenothingelse.Drinkerofinnocentblood!Murdererofchildren!Mustbefound!Mustbedestroyed.’

Themencrowdedcloser.Lydiaheardthewordpassedbackamongthem:Upír.Volkodlak…Andamong the littlecrowdofBosnianMuslims,Ghawl…‘That’scock,’snappedthescar-facedblondmanLydiahadglimpsedinthe

glareof thewaiting-room lights thenightbefore last.Hearinghimspeak tohisfriendsoutsidethewaitingshedinGerman,she’dthoughtthathemustbeoneoftheSudetendeutschefromWesternBohemia.‘Andyou’reanimbecile,Vodusek, if you believe it! It is superstition that the bosses have used forcenturies,togetustositdownandshutupandletthemdoourthinkingforus.’Vodusek shoutedNemecky – German – and something else which Lydia

guessed wasn’t complimentary. The German swung around on him andshouted back – in Slovene – then turned again to the gathering, mutteringcrowd.‘Areyouallchildren?’hedemanded.‘Amandoesn’tneedtodrinkblood

andsleepinacoffintodoevil—’Someonehad translated this tooldPanMarek,who seized theGerman’s

shoulder and spunhimaround;only the scar-facedman’s lightning reflexesblockedapunchthatwouldhavestunnedahorse.Lydiabackedhastilyoutoftheway of the escalating fight, but theGerman didn’t return the blow.Hesteppedback,paleeyesblazingasheglaredfromthefuriousgrandfather tothegloweringvampirehuntertotheconfused,frightened,angryfacesofthepeople now pressing close around them. He looked as if he might shoutsomethingelseatthem,thenshookhisheadlikeadogtryingtoclearnettlesfromitsears,andpushedawaythroughthemandoutofthediningroom.Pan Marek growled something, and his daughter-in-law explained –

throughOssolinska–toTania,‘ThemanisaCommunist,anatheist.Noonewhohad seen poorPavlina’s body could believe that itwas anything but avampirewhodidthisterriblething!’‘Butwemustnotgosayingitisoneofus.’TheoldpriestaddressedLydia

andtheprincessinhaltingGerman.‘Thatwayleadsintoshadowindeed.’‘But how are we to explain it to an American?’ pleaded Pani Marek,

throughtheimpassiveOssolinska.‘Americanshavenobelief!NoGod!Theydonotseewhatwesee,whatweknow!’‘Please understand,’ went on the priest, drawing closer to Lydia and the

princessas the roomdissolved into shoutingandgesticulationagainaroundthem.‘Thesepeopleareall frightened, terriblyfrightened.Theyflee tonewlandofwhich theyknownothing.All have come throughnightmare.Nonewhohavenotbeentherecanknow.’

Heturnedtothehaggard-facedPaniMarekandaddressedher,haltingly,inRussian.Shenodded,andwhenhergruffoldfathersnappedathim–Lydiacaught thewordsChrystus andheretykami – heretic – and guessed the oldenmitybetweenCatholicandOrthodoxwas involved–sheshookherhead,pleading.Whenthepriestmadethesignofblessing–usingthreefingers intheOrthodoxfashion–theoldPolemadeaninsultingflickofhishandwithtwofingers,fortheCatholiccustom,andwalkedaway.Theoldpriest turnedback toLydiaand theprincess. ‘Youarehere from

FirstClass,maybe?FriendsofourgoodTania—’hesmiledat theservant–‘whohasbroughtsuchhappinesstoourpoorlittleoneshere?Ifyoucan–ifthereisanywaysuchcanbedone–Ibegofyou,speaktosomeoneofship’scompany.ConvincethempoorValentynwouldnothaveharmthisgirl.Ithinktheyseekabovealltostoppanic:theyarrestsomeone,anyone,andsay,“So!Problemissolved.”Butthisisunjust.Andproblemisnotsolved.’Hesankhisvoice–mellow,beautiful,anddeepdespitehisyearsandhis

emaciatedappearance. ‘It isvolkodlak thathasdone this terrible thing. It issomewhereonthisship.Anditwillstrikeagain.’

SEVEN

OldFatherKirnandPaniMarekshowedLydiaandPrincessNataliawherePavlinaJancu’sbodyhadbeenfound,atthebottomofastaircasethatledupto theSecondClass accommodationsonDdeck.A couple of stewardshadfound it, thewoman told them, around three in themorning. ‘Shewas stillwarm,’shewhispered,wordswhichOssolinskatranslatedsoftly,visiblyupsetnowasshehadnotbeeninthediningsaloonwhenthewholematterhadbeenoneofwordsonly.Lydia opened her mouth to remark that bodies frequently retained

perceptibleheatforthreeorfourhoursafterdeath–moreperceptible,indeed,tomenwhosehandswerecoldfromthechillofthecorridors–butcloseditagain.Itwasnotsomethingthiswomanneededtohear.Insteadshelookedupanddownthecorridor–evidentlythemaincommunicationspassageforcrewandservicestaffbetweenbowandstern–andcloselyscrutinized themetalsteps,particularlywheretheymetthewall.LikeeverythingelseontheCityofGold, they’dbeenthoroughlyswabbeddownearlierthatmorning(includingthecrannybesidethewall,drattheirscrupulouscare!).Shesteppedasideasthreemencamedownfromabove.Oneof themtouchedhishat to the littlegroup,asked,‘CanIhelpyou?’inflatAmericanEnglishandthetoneofonewhoreallymeans,Getalong,now,nothingtoseehere…Lydia propped her glassesmore firmly on her nose and replied, ‘Maybe.

Thisisthespotwherethatpoorgirlwasfound,wasn’tit?’The crewman – a cabin steward, by the look of his uniform – looked

nonplussed,anda little impatient (damnsensation-seekingwomen). ‘I don’tknowmuchabout—’hebegan,butoneofthemenwithhim,withrathermorebraid on his uniform sleeves, stepped politely forward and bowed to theprincess,thentoLydia.‘Itis,M’am,yes,’hesaidtoHerHighness.‘Butthemanwhodidit’sbeen

arrested,andisunderrestraint.Acrimeofpassion,weunderstand.’Natalia opened her mouth to object, and Lydia touched her sleeve

warningly. ‘Do you happen to know if there was any blood found at thescene?We’vehadalittlediscussionamongthepassengers,’sheadded,withadeprecatingsmile,‘abouthowitcouldhavebeendone.Imean,thisisarather

publicplace, isn’t it?Evenat three in themorning?Mightn’tshehavebeenkilledsomewhereelse,andbroughthere?’Theyoungofficerlookedvexedattheideathatthecrimewasasubjectfor

‘discussionamongthepassengers’,andhiseyesflickeredtothetwoobviousThirdClasspeasantsincludedinthegroup.Butheansweredpolitely,‘No,sofarasIknow,therewasnobloodanywhere,thoughofcoursethewholeareawasswabbeddownimmediately,M’am.Asforbeingkilledsomeplaceelse–’hefrownedslightly,lookingmorehuman–‘itwouldn’tbethathardtobringherhere.Thiswholecorridor’sprettyquietatthathour,inthemiddleofthegraveyardshift.Butwhywouldanybodydothat?Ifsomebodywants togetridofsomebodyonboardaship,you’ddumpthebodyoverside,ifyouweregonnagocarryingitaround.AndtheThirdClassgangplankdoorisjustdownthehallthere.It’snotthathardtoopen.’‘You’re right.’ Lydiawidened her eyes as if enlightened by thesewords.

‘You’requiteright.Thankyou,sir.’‘Mypleasure,M’am.Princess,’headded,touchinghiscapwithslightbows

to both her andNatalia. The crewmenwalked away, andPani Marek, andFatherKirn,lookedatLydiawithuncomprehendinginquiryintheirfaces.‘YoudidnotspeaktothismanofValentyn?’askedthepriesthesitantly.Lydiashookherhead.‘They’regoingtobelikethatawfulGerman—’‘Heller,’ confirmed Father Kirn, his lined face grim and sad. ‘A

Communist, here on the shipwith false papers.A thug,wanted in his owncountryformurderingaman.’‘And a man who believes himself to be right,’ said Lydia. ‘Just as the

captain, and the ship’s officers, and everyonewill believe themselves to beright,ifwestartpesteringaboutavampire,withoutproofinhand.Ithinkweshallbeabletogetproof–togetevidence–muchmoreeasily,ifthey’renotlookingatusandthinking,“Hmph.Sillysuperstitiouswomen”.’AgainstOssolinska’ssoft-voicedtranslationforthebenefitof thewoman,

thepriestnoddedandsaid,‘Youarewise,Gnä’Frau.’‘Well,Itrytobe.’Lydiaremovedherglassesandtuckedthemoutofsight.

‘Onlysometimesit’snoteasy,toknowwhat’sbesttodo.’AndifSimondidthis,shethought,shiveringalittleassheandtheprincess

ascendedthesteps towards themorerarefiedregionsabove,doesthatmeanhe’smanagedtoescapefromhisprison,whereveritis?Thathe’swanderingatlargearoundtheship?And,whydidn’thedumpthatpoorgirl’sbodyovertheside,iftheThirdClassgangplankdoorisjustdownthecorridor?Atthreeinthemorningitwouldhavebeeneasy.Sheglancedbackatthefootofthestair,evennowbydaylightaugmented

withtheoverheadelectricalglare.

Hashegonemad? She shivered, not onlywith fear, butwith pity.Frompain, from overexposure to silver – I reallymustmake more of a study ofvampire physiology, though if Simon has gone mad how would I get myinformation?–orfromsomecauseIdon’tknow?The princess was saying something to her but Lydia barely heard,

struggling with the appalling prospect of hunting for a deranged vampirethrough the dark bowels of engine-room, bilges, storage-holds where lightnevercame.Ordidhiskidnapperbringhimthegirlandthen…What?Dumpherwhere

she’dbeeasily found,advertising toeverybodyonboard–oreverybody inThirdClassanyway–thatthere’savampireontheship?Thatmadenosense,either.

Itmade less sensewhenLydia, escaping fromHer IllustriousHighness andthe disapproving Mademoiselle Ossolinska – who seemed to share theGermanthugHeller’sopinionaboutbeliefinvampiresbuthadthegoodsensenot toair thisopinion toheremployer–obtainedpermission toseePavlinaJancu’sbody.Theship’ssurgeon,DrLiggatt,accompaniedher,having(Lydiawassurprisedandgratifiedtolearn)readtwoofherarticlesonpituitaryglandfunction,writteninthosehalcyondaysbeforetheWar.Hedidn’tseemtofinditoddthatshewouldwanttoseethevictimofanunexplaineddeath.‘ForI’mataloss,M’am,’hesaid,inhissoftVirginiadrawl,‘toaccountfor

thispoorgirl’smurder–andmurderitwas.Notaslash,buttwoshortcutsinthecarotidarterybelowtheleftear,andherbodyneardrainedofblood.’Thiswastrue.Thecutsweredeepandmangled-looking,asifthefleshhad

been pinched or squeezed, and her mouth was open a little: she had diedgasping for breath.Her eyeswere shut, her hair, darkmaize-gold,was stillbraidedbeneathaheadscarfof redandwhite.Hernails,whenLydia turnedherhandsover,wereunbroken.Nostruggle.‘Wheredid thebloodgo?’Lydiapulledhercoatmore tightlyaroundher.

As Pan Marek had said, they had placed Pavlina’s body in one of therefrigerated meat lockers on D deck, deep in the complex of kitchens,pantries, vegetable rooms and sculleries that served both First and SecondClass.Thesidesofbeef,guttedcarcassesoflambsandpigs,rowafterrowofsuspended chickens, ducks, pheasants, had all been doubled up into someotherofthemeatrooms.Theemptyhooksandvacantslabsgavetheplacethelookofatorturechamber.Lydiacouldn’tkeepherselffromwondering–thoughsheknewnottoask–

whether theAmericanShippingLinewouldreplacethestoneslabonwhich

the girl’s body lay, before the next voyage. She herself had never beensqueamish, and two and a half years at the Front had cured her of anyrevulsion at things like pickingmaggots out of her food, but she suspectedthat travelers like Mrs Tilcott would object if they knew that the slab onwhichtheroastlambservedupintheFirstClassdiningroomhadbeenusedasamorguetable.‘Now that’s what I can’t understand,M’am.’ Liggatt scratched his head.

‘I’ve asked just about everymember of this crew, and therewasn’t a dropfoundatthescene,barthelittlebityouseethere,onthecollarofherdress.Noranywhereelseontheship,farasI’veheard.Forcertainshewasn’tkilledwhere shewas found.There’s crewquartersup anddown that corridor andshe’sgottohavecriedout.’Notifavampirekilledher.Lydiarecalledthewarm,softcrushofahunting

vampire’s powerover themindof thevictim: a delicious sleepiness that, ifnotfoughtconsciouslyanddesperately,yieldedeverything.Butsheonlysaid,‘Itcertainlyisodd.’Theelectricalrefrigerationchilledhertothebone,eventhroughherstout

(anddecidedlySecondClass)coat.Emergingfromthelocker,sherubbedherhandsassheclimbedto thepromenadedeck.Itwasgoodtobe in thefreshair, bitter though it was under a threatening sky. The sight of her fellowpassengers,stylish inwalkingsuitsandfirmlypinned-downhats, taking theairorsittingintheirdeckchairs(nowwheredidAuntLouisesayourswere?)madeherrealizethatitwaslongpastlunchtime.Mirandawouldbeaskingforher.She was halfway to her cabin when a steward, hurrying along the

promenade, stopped and said, ‘Mrs Asher! I was just coming from yourstateroom.Thiscameforyoujustnow.’From his pocket he drew a small beige envelope, stamped with a little

pictureoftheCityofGold.‘And I must say, I’m a bit surprised we were still in wireless range of

Brest.’Lydiatippedtheman,hadtheenvelopeopenbeforesheevenreachedher

stateroom.(AndthankGodhedidn’tleaveitinthestateroomforAuntLouisetoopen.)ItwasfromJamie.

BestBelovednothingtoforgiveyouarealwaysthetreasureofmyheartstoptheauthor’snameisAloysiusBibgnumstoploveyoualwaysJames

Itwasthecodetheyusedforshortwordsandnames,andshecarriedtherulesinherhead.

Thefirstnamewasalwayswindow-dressing,anditneededonlymomentstodecipherthesecond.Cochran.

Nowwhat?JamesAsher leaned back on the hard bench ofwhat had been a second-

classcaroftheChemindeFerdel’Ouest,andwatchedthesnaggleofsidings,sheds, allotments and stacks of disused railway ties peter out as the trainsteamed out of Rennes. On either side of him, jammed elbow-to-elbow,CameronHighlanders smokedWoodbinesuntil theairwasblue,and tradedhungover grumbles as they headed back to the Front. Noon sun glintedthrough naked trees, clumps of mistletoe caught in their branches likeimmensebirds’nests.Twowomeninblackwalkedalongtheroadbelowtheembankmentofthe

tracks.There were a lot of women in black in France these days. In England,

Asherhadheard,asinGermany,womenwerediscouragedfrommourningtheloss of husbands, brothers, sweethearts and sons, ‘lest civilian morale beeroded’ by the sheer and mounting numbers of women wearing black.Meaning,heguessed,‘lestpeoplestartquestioningthewar’.Ifthetrainwasn’tside-trackedinfavorofmoreurgentlyrequiredsupplies,

theyshouldbeinParisbydark.Spenser Cochran. Asher thumbed mentally through that morning’s

conversation – it already felt like days ago – with Cyril Britten at theembassy.He’dknownthedeceptivelyfrail-lookingoldmanbackwhenfirsthe’dworkedfor theDepartment,andknewhewouldhaveeverythingathisfingertips:whichAmericansownedsufficientstockinBarclay’sBankandtheBanque d’Algerie – and the half-dozen other financial institutions amongwhich Don Simon Ysidro held funds under his various names – to makethingsdifficultforthevampire.‘Well,wekeepaneyeonCochran,ofcourse,’ theelderlyclerkhadsaid,

sipping the tea (orwhatwassupposed tobe tea) thataquiet-footedwomanhad brought up to his fusty attic cubicle. ‘Like all these richAmericans heownsfactories inGermanyandRussia,sowedolike tobesurewhosesidehe’sreallyon.’‘And whose side is he really on?’ Asher had inquired, and Britten had

emitted a creaky chuckle.Below them, the elegant eighteenth-centuryhôtelhad been just stirring to life, colder than ever with the shortages of fuel.Comingup thefourthflightofstairs to theseupperoffices,Asherhadbeenstruckbythesilence.Nearlyalltheyoungerclerksweregone.

‘Mostlyhisown.’Brittenfrownedintomiddledistance,andpushedaplateof stale biscuits in Asher’s direction. A large gray cat with white mittensemergedbrieflyfromaroundastackoffileboxes,hissedgentlyatAsher,andwithdrew.Despitethecold,thewholeatticsmelledofcats.‘Hisfathermadeafortunesellingboots to theFederalsduringtheirCivil

War–cardboard,ofcourse,andfellapartthefirsttimetheygotwet–andranthings likegunpowderandmedicines,ofquality similar to theboots, to theConfederates.He invested the proceeds in railroads andmines, soCochranJuniorcameintoafairpacketwhentheoldboydiedandwenttoHell.Juniorre-investedinsomanythings–meat-packing,oilwells,banks–thattherearefew wealthier men in America now, and according to all I’ve heard, fewstingier.HemakesEbenezerScroogelooklikeDiamondJimBrady:savesthebuttons off his discarded shirts and charges his house guests for using thetelephone.That’s tosaynothingofdemandingkickbacks fromhissuppliersandmakingdealswithlandcompaniesintheMidwesttoraiseshippingpriceson smaller farmsandpush themoutofbusiness…afterwhichhebuysuptheirland,ofcourse.’Theoldman’smouthsetbrieflywithdisapproval,butfiftyyearsofsecret

servicetoQueenandCountryhadinuredhimtothevagariesofthepowerful.HehadbeenthechiefclerkoftheParissectionwhenAsherhadfirstenteredtheserviceintheeighties,andhadretired,Asherrecalled,in1905,attheageofseventy,andretreatedtotheDorsetcoasttoraisestrawberries.Likemanymen,Asherincluded,hehadbeenrecalledtothecolorswiththeoutbreakofwar.‘Even among American industrialists, his reputation is smelly,’ Britten

wenton.‘Hewasinvestigatedin1904overthedeathsoffivestrikersatoneofhisfactories,andagaintwoyearslater,butnothingwaseverproved.The“privatedetectives”whosupposedlydid theactualkilling– threemenwerebeaten to death and two others simply disappeared – were released on thegroundsofself-defense.Cochranstilltravelswithasmallguardofdetectives,Iunderstand.’Hehad frowned again, and sippedhis tea.His sleeves,Asher hadnoted,

werepowderedwithcatfur;atleastfourpairsofreflectiveeyesgleamedintheshadowsofthestackedboxesoffileswithwhichthecubiclewaschoked.‘After that, becauseof thenewspaper stories, he appointedhis nephew–

whomhe’dsent toYaleLawSchool– toactaspresssecretary.AtNephewOliver’s advice he has begun making substantial – and very public –contributions to various charities, and has hired an English “consultant” –formerly the Duke of Avon’s butler, I understand – to instruct him in the

socialgraces.OliverCochranhasalsoworkedwiththepresstosuppressnewsofsomeofhisuncle’sodderhabits—’‘Like superstitiousness?’ Asher had inquired, and Britten’s sparse brows

hadlifted.‘GoodLord,yes.Like a savage in the jungle.Youwouldn’t thinkaman

that crafty in business could be that credulous, butCochran has personallykept two New York mediums in business for years, as well as a shady“researcher” inPariswho’s supposedlyable toextract information from thebrainsofthedead,andenablepeopletoliveforever,amongotherthings.Hiswife’sjustasbad,andagooddealmoregullible.’‘WhatwashedoinginParis?’‘Supposedly,windingup the affairsofoneTitusArmistead, an industrial

rivalofhiswhodiedinrathersuspiciouscircumstancesin—’‘Yes,’saidAshersoftly.‘Yes,IknowwhoTitusArmisteadwas.’And he wondered whether it was from Armistead that Cochran had

conceived this scheme of trapping and using a vampire in the interests of‘privateindustry’,orvice-versa?TheplanhadcostArmisteadhislife–and,ifonebelievedtheChurch,andtheoldtales,andtheBookoftheKindredofDarkness,hissoul–andhadultimatelyfailed.ProbablyArmistead’sdaughterhadbeensellingupherfather’santiquebooksonthesubjectoftheUndead.InterestingthatCochranwouldhavecrossedtheAtlanticinthefaceofU-

boatthreats,toacquirethem–ifacquirethemhehad.Whatelsehadhesoughttoacquire?Whoever it is, Lydia had written,who has found a way of coercing the

obedienceofvampires…Iwillkillhim,shehadpromised.Ihavepackedalltheappropriateimpedimenta…Hesmiledalittlenow,asthebrownfieldsoftheFrenchcountrysidefleeted

by,dustedwiththepalestghostofspring’snewgrassinthelongslantoftheeveningsun.Buthissmilewasgrieved,forheknewhowmuchthatbeautiful,cool-hearted,scholarlygirllovedthevampire.Shewoulddoit,hethought.Butitwouldforeverdarkenherheart…and

hisown.Cochran.Heclosedhiseyes.TherehadbeennotrainfromParistoBrest

until late afternoon, but hismilitary credentials had gotten him a car and adriverwithinanhourofhisconversationwithBritten.Hehadspentfivehard,jolting hours on the roads of Brittany, passing lorries, convoys, and brownlinesofexhaustedmen.Thefirst thinghe’dascertainedonhisarrivalat theBritish military headquarters had been, Was any liner sunk in the NorthAtlanticthismorning?

Nonesofar.Hestilldidn’tknowwhetherthewirelessmessagehe’dflungoutintothe

etherhadreachedtheCityofGoldornot.If it had, this man Cochran – this man whose reputation for ruthless

violence was ‘smelly’ even by the standards of such men as John D.RockefellerandHenryFrick–wouldatleastnotknowthatLadyMountjoy’syoung relativewas asking questions about him.WhatBritten had told himabouttheman’smethodsandemployeesmadeAshershiver,evenifhehadn’talreadysucceededinbreakingDonSimon’swilltohiscommands.Andifhecould command Don Simon Ysidro’s obedience, would that leverage –whateveritwas–besufficienttoturnthevampireagainstLydia?‘Shoveup, y’fookinbampot,’ snarled avoice across fromhim, and there

wasageneralpushingontheoppositebench,likesteersinabyre.Asmellofwetwoolandstaletobacco.‘Bloodynumpty…’‘Awa’an’boilyerheid,yestupidrocket…’They settleddown.The train jostled around a long curve.Flashedpast a

village,womenworking in a field, harrowing the earthwith rakes.All thehorseshadgonetotheFront.Todiebesidethemen.Ineedtoknowmore.Likethemenboundforthewaroncemore,Ashercringedinside,knowing

therewasonlyoneplacetogettheinformationheneeded.

EIGHT

IfSimonhasmanagedtoescape,he’llbehiding.Back in her stateroom,Lydia studied the deckplans of theCity ofGold.

TheAmericanLinehadthoughtfullyprovidedthese–printedonhigh-qualitystock with lavish photogravures of the First Class amenities – for its FirstClass passengers. The engine rooms on G Deck, she reflected, thoughpermanently sheltered from sunlight, would be subject to the constantcomings and goings of the crew. The baggage and cargo holds, also on GDeck or down on the Orlop Deck (why Orlop? she wondered) would belargelyunvisitedthroughthesixdaysofthevoyage:luggage‘NotWantedonVoyage’. Safer even, she thought, than the coal bunkers, which wouldpresumably be tapped for fuel at somepoint – is there away to get at theschedulefortheiruse?Inanycase,notanyplaceavampirewouldwishtofallasleep,tosaynothingofthefactthatshecouldn’timaginethefastidiousDonSimon,saneorotherwise,sleepingincoaldust.She lookedatherwatch (threehoursuntil Ihave todress fordinner…)

and transferred the picklocks she usually carried from the pouch buttonedontotheloweredgeofhercorset,intoherskirtpocket.Howlongwouldittakeforpainlikethattoturnhismind?Vampires toughened as they aged, and Simon was one of the oldest in

Europe.Still…Howmanykillswouldhemakebeforeheeitherhealedenoughtocometo

hissenses,oriscaught?She opened the slick, black-enameled doors of the built-inwardrobe and

brought forth her portmanteau. As she did so, Captain Palfrey’s list ofpassengerscaughthereyeandshewondered,whatifSimonhasn’tescaped?Isthis–whateverthisholdisthatMrCochranhasonhim–isitsufficienttolethimout,thenbringhimbackagain,likeadogonaleash?Thelined,foxyfaceoftheAmericanmillionairereturnedtoher, thedark

sharp eyes that were intelligent, but fanatical and cold.Whatever else wasgoing on, she couldn’t imagine him being foolish enough to permit hisprisoner to kill in a group of people whose comings and goings were allaccountedfor.

And yet, she thought, what if Simon is so badly torn apart by thecircumstancesofhisimprisonment–bybeinglockedinacoffin,presumablylinedwithenoughsilver tokeephimhelpless– thathemusthaveakill, ordie?Insuchacasethey’dcertainlypickonaThirdClasspassengertobringtohimforavictim.At variouspoints duringdinner last night, she’dheardbothCochran and

TilcottrefertothepopulationofEDeckandbelowas‘animals’,incapableofreasoned thought – or of any thought at all – and as ‘popish imbeciles’.Clearly, contempt for believers in faiths other than one’s ownwere not theexclusiveprovinceofSlavicOrthodoxorPolishCatholics.Herhandsshookalittleassheunwrappedthethingsshe’dbrought–three

stakeswhittledof hawthorn, packets of driedgarlic blossomandChristmasrose,asetofsurgicalknivesandabullseyeparaffinlantern(matches!Don’tforgetmatches…Oh,andahammer…).But if Cochran sent his detectives to abduct some poor girl from Third

ClassforDonSimontokill,whydumpherbodywhereitwouldbefound?IftheyhadtocarryherdownfromBDeckinthedeadofnightanyway,whynotdropheroverboard,asDrLiggattsaid?Itdoesn’tmakesense.Shetuckedherimplementsintoasatchel–thehammermadeitdreadfully

heavy – and added a small box containing a hypodermic syringe and fourampoules of silver nitrate. Though the blood in a vampire’s veins did notcirculate, Lydia knew that an injection of pure silver nitrate would spreadrapidlythroughvampiretissue,fromcelltocellofthefleshwhichhadbeenaltered, cell by cell, by the ‘corruption’ (possibly a virus?) that was thephysicalcomponentofthevampirecondition.Oh,Simon,I’msorry.As she fastened extra chains of silver around her throat and wrists, she

wonderedifhe’dbegladtofinallydie.Half-past four. She’d promised Miranda a walk along the First Class

Promenade before dinner, which would be served at eight (Mrs Frush hadfrownedatthisdeparturefromherschedule).Iftheshipismovingwest,whattimewilldarknessactuallyfall?IfDonSimonhadescaped,andwaslyingconcealedinsomecornerofthe

cargohold–andifhehadgonemad–shewouldmuchratherencounterhimwhilehewasstillunwakeablyasleep.Atleast,shereflected,PrincessNataliawastoobusyarrangingaséancefor

thateveningtoinsistuponaccompanyingheronavampirehunt.‘GoingtobringinthatMadameIzoraofhers,’mutteredEllen,whenLydia

emergedfromherroom.Themaidhadkeptwatchagainstanincursionfrom

AuntLouise(‘She’sbeenlookingforyouallday,Miss–M’am…’),andhadspentanhourearlier,readingtoMirandainthesuitebookedasthelittlegirl’snursery. ‘Getting in touchwith the spirits, that heathen girl of hers calls it.Whatkindofspiritswouldbeallthewayouthereinthemiddleoftheocean,Iaskyou,Miss?Naughtbutalotofdrownedsailors,andwho’dwanttotalktothem?That’sifthisMadameIzoraisn’tacompletefake,whichI’llgobailshe is.’Sheprecededhermistress across theparlor to thedoor that openedontothesuite’sprivatepromenade,openeditandlookedout.ButtheprivatepromenadeonthissideoftheshipservedSuitesAandC,

andataguess,AuntLouisewasontheothersideofthevessel,‘kissingup’(as Lydia’s erstwhilemedical colleagues at the clearing stationwould havesaid), toeitherMrsCochranorMrsTilcott (whoheldoneanother inactivecontempt). A tall, strongly-built woman, still pretty in her late forties withmassesofspringyblackcurlspinnedtightunderherstarchedcap,Ellenhadbeen a nursery-maid at Willoughby Close when Lydia was a child, andguardedherunquestioningly.‘Thathairofhersisfake,anyway,’themaidwenton.‘Thehalfofitbought

inWaterloo Road and the other half dyed like a Leicester Square hussy. Idaresaythat’sHerHighness’notetoyouthereonthedesk,askingyoutobepartofit.Lookslikeit’sallclear,Miss.Beforeyougo,whatshouldIlayoutforyoufordinner?’‘I think theplumDoucetSoeurs.’For allherwillingness toworkelbow-

deep in trenchmud or traipse through coal bunkers in search of vampires,Lydiahadmadesureshe’dbroughtanadequatewardrobeaboard.‘Themint-greenshoesandheadband–willyoumuchmindswitchingouttheaigretteontheheadband?Andtheamethysts.You’readarling…’‘Youwatchoutnow,Miss.’She’dsaidthat,Lydiarecalled,smiling,whenLydiahadgonedownstairsto

get into the carriage for herCourt presentation– and in precisely the sametoneofvoice.Youwatchoutnow,Miss…DecksE andFwere amazeof crewquarters andThirdClass ‘cabins’ –

actuallydormitoriesofsixtotenbunks–smellingofoil,cigarettesmoke,andclothing tooseldomwashed.Discreet ‘lockers’were tuckedunderstairwaysandincorners,forcleaningsuppliesandtools.FloorandwallsvibratedwiththebeatoftheCityofGold’sengines,mingledwiththeconstantlowechoesoftalk,hardtolocalizeinthatanonymouslabyrinthofsteel:menarguinginfive different languages, the shriller tones of women. Sometimes someoneshouting,orchildrenshriekingwithlaughterinplay.DarkGreeks pushed past her, and fair Slovenes.A sandy-hairedBelgian

mother pulled her children away from ‘dirtyMahometan’ Bosnians. In her

shabbycoat, nondescript skirt, and spectacles, nobodygaveLydia aglance.Crewmembers jostledherwithoutanapology,except foranodsometimes,her surest gauge that she was, in fact, being mistaken for somebody whobelonged down there. (And if anybody catches me with picklocks in mypocketsI’llalmostcertainlyendupinthebrigwithpoorValentynMarek.)The door into First Class Baggage was just down the corridor from the

ship’spostoffice.Lydiahad towait for amomentwhennoonewas in thecorridorbeforetryingit.Itwaslocked(aChubbpin-tumbler)butofthesort(thankgoodness!)whoselatchcouldsimplybeforcedwithaslipofthin,stiffmetal–amuchquickermethodwhichmeant,Lydiaknew,thatthelockwouldcatchagainifthedoorwereclosed.Withanotherquickglanceupanddownthe corridor, Lydia slipped through into the hold, checked briefly that theinsidehandlewouldopenthedoorwithoutthenecessityofpickingthelock,thenshutherselfin.Andjustasshewastellingherself,youidiot,youshouldhavegottenyour

lanternoutofthesatchelbeforeyoushutthedoor…shethoughtshesawtheflickeroflight,somewheredeepintheholdbeforeher.Withthevibrationoftheengines,shewouldn’thaveheardthesoftscrape

ofalantern-slideclosing.Butshesmelled–orthoughtshesmelled–thefaintwhiffofhotmetalandparaffin.Someoneelseishere.Cochran.Herbreathcaughtinherthroat.Orsomeofhismen.LookingforSimon?Shestoodwithoutmakingasound.Recalledthecasualwayhe’dspokenat

dinnerof‘gettingridof’themenwho’dtriedtoorganizethemineworkerstostrike for higher wages or safety equipment in the mines. ‘They’re likecockroaches,’ he’d fumed. ‘For every one of ‘em you squash, there’s fiftyhiding…’AndwhenDrYakunin had responded that inmany cases itwas poverty

whichhadmadesuchmenastheyare,Cochranhadlashedback,‘Nonsense!Yourhonestpoordon’tgoaroundtellingamanhowtospendhisownmoney!NotinAmerica,theydon’t!’The hatred in his voice was up to anything she’d heard at the Front in

referencetotheGermans.Ifanything,itwasmorepersonal,morevenomous.‘Who do they think they are?A realAmerican – not one of theseBohunkdagos – if he don’t like working in a mine, let him go elsewhere – ifanybody’ll have him.’ In his loudly professed view, Eyeties, Krauts, andKikesdeservedwhattheygot.Andpresumably– thoughtLydia, standing in thedarknessconvinced the

unseen enemy could hear the pounding of her heart – a snooping woman

might‘deserveit’aswell.She opened the door, stepped very briefly into the aperture so that her

shadowwould block the dim light of the corridor, then ducked back insideandclosedthedooragain.Afteralongmomentofsilence,asinglelightappearedagain,deepwithin

thehold.And if Simon hasn’t escaped, are those ‘detectives’ – ‘thugs’would be a

betterword–outhuntingsomeotherdispensableprey tokeephim ingoodhealth? Does Cochran really think nobody’s going to notice? Or does hesimplythinknoonewillcare?Grateful that the engine noise covered any chance sound shemight have

made,Lydiabegan tomove–with infinitecaution– in thedirectionof thelight. The hold was filled with what felt like grilled racks or cages to thetouchofherslow-gropinghand.Numbered,undoubtedly,sothatanypieceofany First Class passenger’s luggage could be located instantly, once theyreachedNewYork.Onedidn’tpayeighthundredpoundstowaitinashedforone’spossessions.Thoughtheairwasstillandstuffy,shehadasensearoundherofenormous

space.Accordingtothedeckplans,herewasanotherholdbelowthisone,formail sacks, Second Class baggage (the lowly Third Class passengerspresumablydidn’thaveanythingbesidescarpetbagsandsatchels),andlargecargo.AndI’llfeelaterribleidiotifallIuncoverissomepoorburglartryingto

pickthelocksonMrTilcott’ssteamertrunk…The light in front of her was clearer now. Moving among the racks of

baggage,heldclosetothefloor.Steppingslowly,Lydialostsightofit,gropedherwayaroundanotherrack,sawitagain,clearandquiteneartoher.Amanbendingoverit,studyingthefloor…movingon…Lookingforwhat?Heswiveledonhisheels,snatchedthelamp-slideoffandswungthebeam

onher.Shesawhimmoveforoneinstantasifhe’dhavedartedintothemazeofracks,thenstoppedashegotabetterlookather.Asheidentifiedher,shecouldseehimthinking,Notacrewmember.Nota

threat.‘FrauDoktor.’Hestood.But stillhewasbraced tododge,presumably in

casesheturnedouttobearmedafterall.Itwasthescar-facedGermanHeller.The‘Communistthug’.‘Whatareyoudoingdownhere?’sheasked.Heremovedhisknittedcap,andbowedironically.‘Thesameasyourself,I

expect,Madame.’He slippedhisGermanArmy revolver into thepocket of

hisdecrepitjacket.Anold-styleFrenchinfantryman’sjacket,Lydiaidentifiedit,withtheinsigniatornoff.‘IthinkthatyoubelieveasIdo,thatthistalkofvampireswasallmyhat,meanttofrightenfarmersandminerswhoknownobetter.Iheardyouaskedtoseethatpoorgirl’sbody.’‘Idid.’‘Wassheindeeddrainedofblood,astheysaid?’Lydianodded.‘Completely?’‘Almost,yes.TherewasnolivormortisthatIcouldsee.’‘Wasthereanybloodinherhair?’Hepulledhiscapbackon.‘Orbehind

herears–’hetouchedtheplaceonhimself–‘aswouldbethecasewereherthroatcutandshewashunglikeananimal,todrainout?’Lydia thought about it. ‘Not behind her ears, no. Iwas looking for livor

mortis;that’soneoftheplaceswhereitsometimesshowsup.’Shefrowned.‘Sheworeaheadscarf–oneofthoseenormouswhiteembroideredonesthatsomeoftheSlovenianladieswear.Herhairwasbraidedunderit,Ididn’ttakeitoffofher.’AndIshouldhave,shethought.‘Therewassomebloodonthecollarofherdress.Herthroathadtwosmallincisions,fourorfivecentimetersbelowtheear-lobe,inthecarotidartery.’Thekindavampirewouldmakewithhis claws,beforedrinking from the

wound…‘Anddidtheylookratherlikepunctures?’‘Yes. Particularly, I suppose, to someone who isn’t used to coming

suddenlyonadeadbody.’Sheturnedthedetailsoverinhermindagain.‘AttheFrontwewerealwaysdealingwithpuncturewoundsfromshrapnel,youknow,orfromsplinters ifasectionofshoringwasblownout.Amancouldbleedtodeathinminutesfromevenasmalltearinthethroatlikethat.’‘Yes,’saidtheGermanquietly.‘Yes,Iknow.Sowheredidthebloodgo?’Lydiacouldonlyshakeherhead.‘DrLiggattaskedthat,too.’‘Ittakesonlyalittlemoretimethanthat,’hewenton,‘forabodytobleed

outcompletely,ifitishungupbyitsfeet,forinstance.Thishastohavebeendone…somewhere.’Hegestured:bighands,likeamechanic’soraminer’s,callused like pickled leather in the kind of fingerless knit gloves that she’dseenmenwearforwarmthattheFront.Thescarsonhisfaceweremostlythekind that a man would get from shrapnel or flying debris, but one on histemple, older than the others, looked like a knife scar. ‘And drained intowhat?Abucket?One of thewash tubs from the kitchen?’He spoke to herwithouteuphemism,asifhedidnotexpecthertobeshocked.Verymuch,infact,asJamiehadalwaysspokentoher,evenwhenshewas

agirloffourteen.ShetriedtoimagineMrsCochran’sreactiontosuchmatter-

of-factdiscussion,ortheresponseoftheyoungladiesshe’dcome‘out’withduringherSeason.‘Haveyouevertriedtocarryagallonormoreofliquidinabucketwithout

splashingsomuchasadrop?That’swhatyou’relookingforhere,isn’tit?’Lydia hesitated, then nodded. Let’s not get into the issue of why I’m

carryinghawthornstakesandsilvernitrateinmysatchel.‘Youcould take itandempty it intooneof thecleaningdrains,’shesaid.

‘They’reoneverydeck.You’dstillhavetobinduphernecktocarryhertowhereshewasleft.Andleavehersomeplacewhileyouwentanddisposedoftheblood.Evenadrainedbodywillleaveatrailofdrips.’His mouth – thin-lipped and curiously sensitive – quirked in wry

amusementatthismatter-of-factviewofthelogisticsoftheexercise,andhesaid,‘SoIhave–I’msorry tosay–seen.’Andtherewas,foramoment,aworldofblood-soakedmuddywastelandinhisblueeyes.And for thatmoment silence laybetween them.Anunderstanding. I say,

didn’tImeetyouinHelllastyear…?Lydiatookadeepbreath.‘Butwhy?’sheasked,andproppedherspectacles

more firmly onto her nose. ‘That’s what I don’t understand about all this.Whywouldanyonedoathinglikethat?Imean,yes,obviously,theywanttofrightenpeople…Someoneclearlywantspeopletobelievethere’savampireaboardtheship…’Anything, she thought, rather thangodown thepathof truth,orpossible

truth:thatthereisavampireaboardtheCityofGold.Why not just tell them what you know? Let Simon be dragged from his

hidingplaceandkilled?The thought turnedher stomach.Despiteherself, a childish illogic inher

criedoutagainstthethoughtofDonSimon,whohadsavedherlife,whohadsavedJamie’slife,andMiranda’s,beingbutcheredbystrangers.Youwouldratherkillhimyourself?Shedidn’tknowhowtoanswerthat.‘It’swhy Iwant to findoutwhere itwasdone,’ saidHeller. ‘How itwas

done.Itwilltellussomething–ifonlythatweareupagainstsomeonewhoissmarter thanweare.’Herubbedthesideofhisbrokennosewithacallusedforefinger.‘I’vetalkedtotheyoungman’smotherandgrandfatherandthoughthey swearhewouldneverhaveharmedahair ofhis fiancée’shead,manypeoplesawherflirtingwithsomeBohemianfellow–Horacekishisname–andsawMarek’srageather.SoMarekcouldhavesetupthis‘vampire’storytokeeppeoplefrompointingathim.Idon’tknowtheman,soIdon’tknowifit’sthesortofthinghewoulddo.Butsomehow,Idon’tthinkthat’sthecase.’‘It’scertainlyoneofthestupideralibisI’veeverheard.’

Heller smiled again, grimly. ‘Exactly.Again our thoughts are alike, FrauDoktor.Sowhatisgoingon?’Lydiashivered.Whatindeed?ButhavingHeller’sassistancemadeasearchoftheholdmuchquickerand

–Lydiahadtoadmit–muchlessfrightening,giventhepossibilitythatDonSimonmightbedownthereandinsane(andwillthepoisoncausehimtobeawake in daylight hours?), or that Cochran’s thugs might be searching forhim.Theyfoundnobloodon the floor.Anyof the tall luggage rackscouldhave served as an improvised bleeding hook, but neither of them coulddiscover any sign that one had been so used. Nor was anything untowardfoundamongthetrunks:nohairribbon,nokicked-offshoe,noslipofpaperwithMeetmeinthebaggage-holdatmidnightscribbledonitinPolish.Attheend of forty minutes Heller said, ‘I think it is best that we cease ourinvestigationfornow,FrauDoktor.Itwillbethedinnerhoursoon–’hemeantThirdClassdinnerhour,notFirst–‘andIthinkthatwhoeverdidthisthing–whyevertheydidit–theywillbewatchingbehindthem.Theymustbe.’‘Ican’timagineanyonesostupidastobelievethatpeoplearesimplygoing

toacceptthatavampiredidit…’‘Can’t you?’Heller’smouth quirked. Lydia guessed his age at forty, but

therewasabitterwearinessinhiseyesthatagedhimfarbeyondthat.‘Well,you are English,’ he added quietly. ‘One would have to go deep into theEnglishcountrysidetofindthesortofignoranceoneencountersintheforestsof East Prussia, or themining villages far from any town.And I think theEnglishlessinclinedtosimplyhateoutofignorance–hatetheCatholicsortheOrthodox,thegypsiesortheJews.’‘Don’tbesosureof that,’murmuredLydia,andHeller’smouthhardened

foramomentintosomethingthatwasn’tquiteasmile.‘Maybe.CertainlytherearewealthyAmericansandwealthyGermans,who

believe that country folk are easily frightenedbyghost stories. Just as theywillbelieveanything,’hefinishedbitterly,‘thatwilljustifystealingfromthepoor.’‘Youare rightabout that.’Lydiashookherhead, rememberingCochran’s

wordsoverdinnerlastnight.Shedidn’tknowwhethertobegladorsorrythat theyhadfoundnothing.

Glad or sorry that whatever action must be taken against Don Simon stillrestedentirelyinherownhands.Shelookedperplexedlyaroundherattheloomingdark.‘Butuntilweknow

whythisthingwasdone,wedon’tknowhowmuchdangerwe’llbein,ifit’sseen thatwe don’t believe either the vampire story or the crime-of-passionstory.Someoneisclearlywillingtokill…’

‘Exactly.Andwillingtokill,apparentlyatrandom,agirlwhocoulddonooneanyharm.’‘Mightwe…?’Lydiahesitated.‘Mightwemeettomorrow,tocontinuethe

search?Quietly,atatimewhenneitherofuswouldbemissed?’ThewrysmilelightenedtheGerman’seyes,andheremovedhiscapagain.

‘WhomissesaSocialisttroublemakeratanytime,gnädigeFrau?Themeninmycabinareaposseofidiots,buttheyknowtoasknoquestions.Butaladysuchasyourselfwillbeatalltimessurrounded–andthereisyourlittlegirltobethoughtofaswell.Younamethetimeofyourconvenience.’‘Justafterlunch?I’llcomedowntotheship’sforwarddeckwell.’He inclined his head, and grasped her hand as he’d have done, Lydia

guessed,thehandofafellowworkerinsomeBrandenburgfactory.‘Iamgladforthehelp,Comrade.’He listenedat theholddoor foramoment,verymuchasEllenhad, then

openeditquicklyandsignedhertoleavefirst.

NINE

Onlyatriflelate–andresplendentindiaphanousplum-coloredsilkwithanaigretteofmint-greenfeathers–LydiafollowedherAuntLouiseintotheFirstClassdiningroom,identifyingalreadythevoicesofherfellowpassengersasmuchasthemannerinwhichtheystoodandwalked.‘I looked foryouat lunch,’ saidMrTilcott, springing tohis feetwith an

agilityLydiawouldscarcelyhavecreditedtoamanofhisgirth,andguidingher to the vacant chair beside his. ‘I trust you were not indisposed? Ipositivelycouldnoteatamouthful,worryingthatyoumightbelaidlowbymaldemer.’Lydiawouldnothavebettheholeoutofadonutthatanythingcouldhave

reducedMrTilcotttoself-starvation,butshesmiledathimandsaid,‘Thankyou,MrTilcott.No,Ispentmostofthedayexploringtheship.’Whichwastrue,initsway.MrCochran,Lydianoticedimmediatelyasshesat,hadmanagedtoinjure

hisleftarm,andboreitnowinablacksilksling,butTilcott’sdeterminationtomonopolizeherattention–andCochran’sconversationwithDrBarvellonhis other side – prevented her, for the moment, from asking what hadhappened.Thoughtheskyremainedgrayandasharpwindkeenedover thenearlyemptydecks,theseahadn’tbeensufficientlyrough,inLydia’sopinion,to make the stairways a hazard, and the millionaire, though in his sixties,impressedherasafitandactiveman.DrYakuninwasabsent,andhisplace,besidetheprincess,wasoccupiedbyMadameZafferineIzora:gazelle-boned,dark-eyed,andglitteringlikethenightinabeadedgownofebonyfringe.Even without her glasses and across the distance of the table, Lydia

suspectedEllenhadbeencorrectabouttheprovenanceofherhair.Izora’s voice, though deep, was pleasant, and she had an inexhaustible

wellspring of conversation about everything, it seemed, except the War.‘Quite the toast of Broadway, but since his wife divorced him he’s beeninvolvedwithsomeoutrésuffragistpoetorother…Oh,IunderstandPoiret’son the verge of bankruptcy, and can you wonder?When you think of hisdesignsbesidethosebeautifullittlegemsChanelisputtingout;noonewears

hobble skirts anymore! No, spaniels are completely out these days,M’am!ThetrulychiccompanionnowisanAlsatian,orachow-chow.’Sheadded, loweringhermascaro’d lidsas ifgazing through themistsof

time, ‘Cleopatra, you know, owned a black puppynamedAmonophis.’ Shepassedthebacksofherjeweledfingersacrossherforehead.‘Thedearestlittlething.She’dtrainedhimtotakesugaredwafersfromherlips.ItusedtomakeMark Antony almost weep with laughter.’ Then her eyes returned to thepresent and she smiled benignly, as – unsurprisingly – Mrs Cochran andPrincessGromykobeggedherforfurtherdetailsabouthervisit(‘Iwasbornethereinastateoftrance…’)tothecourtoftheEgyptianqueen.Yet another belief, reflected Lydia, like religious prejudice, which didn’t

seemtoberestrictedtoThirdClass.‘SoundslikeMadameIzoramightbeofusetoyou,MrCochran,’declared

Tilcott,signingthewaitertoreplenishhislaitancedepoissonontoast-pointsfor the third time. ‘She’d surely be able to tell who it was who tried tosandbagyou.’Lydiaexclaimed,‘Sandbag?’startled,andthemillionairewavedtheremark

awayimpatientlywithhisuninjuredhand.‘Idon’tneedspiritstotellmethat,’hesaid.‘Themostfrightfulthing.’AuntLouiselaiddownhersilverfork–shewas

keepingupwithMrTilcottonthefishcoursetoast-pointfortoast-point.‘Oneofthosedreadfulanarchistsdroppedanetfullofsandbagsfromtheboatdeckdownontohimashedescendedfromthepromenadedeck!Hisshoulderwasnearlydislocated—’‘He could easily have been killed!’ declaredMrs Tilcott, in tones which

sounded less concerned for a man’s safety than indignant that such thingscouldhappeninFirstClass.Lydia’seyesflaredwithshockand–hermindstillonDonSimon(would

heriskcaptureinordertotakerevenge?)–sheasked,‘Whattimewasthis?’‘Just about two hours ago,’ responded the millionaire’s wife. She was

wearing a tiara this evening, emeralds and diamonds so large that Lydiawouldn’thavebelievedtheywererealhadthepiecebeenonanyoneelse.‘Ofcoursewewerealldressingfordinner,sonobodywasaround.’‘Oh,itwascleverlydone,’growledherhusband.‘I’llgivethemanthat.I

was lured there,M’am.’He turned thosesharpblackeyesonLydia. ‘“Meetmeatsixatthebottomofthepromenadestair.Comealone.”AndIfellforit,likeasap.IfKimball–oneofmyboys–’LydiahadseentwoofCochran’s‘boys’,loiteringoutsidethedining-roomdoorasshe’dfollowedherauntintotheroom–‘hadn’tfollowedmeandyelled,Imighthavebeenbrained.’Six.Lightstillinthesky…

‘WhenIwasagirl–’theprincessleanedforwardlikeacrimson-enameledserpent – ‘my uncle Illya was killed by anarchists. Blown up by a bombhurled ina trainstationata train thatwascarryingCountTolstoy–not thewriter,Idon’tmean,buttheMinisterofFinance…’MrsCochranexclaimedshrilly,andherhusbandjabbedwiththefragment

of artichoke he’d been eating. ‘That’s the kind of thing we’ll be having inAmericanext,ifthesesocialistlaborbastardsaren’tstopped.’Hiswifefrownedatthewordbastard–whichLydia,afterthirtymonthsat

the Front, scarcely noticed – and in an effort to smooth things over, theprincesscontinued,‘Theynevercaughtthemanwhodidit.’‘Well,theycaughtthisone,’declaredCaptainWinstanley,anoteofpridein

hismellowvoice.Hestrokedhissilvermustaches.‘AGermanCommunistonthe run from his own government; one of those labor agitators. He cameaboardwithDanishpapers, under thenameofPaulsen, but his real name’sGeorgHeller.MrKimballgotalookathimashefled,andidentifiedhim—’‘ButIwaswithMr–er–Paulsen,’protestedLydia.That silenced the table.Aunt Louise regarded her as if she’d announced

she’dbeenengagedinaspittingcontestwiththeengineers.‘Really,mydear—’‘It’strue.’LydiaglancedfromCochrantoCaptainWinstanley.‘Isaw…it

soundssosilly,’sheaddedapologetically. ‘Isawwhat I thoughtwasoneofHerHighness’slittledogs,justvanishingdownthestairtoDDeck,andIrandownafterit.Iwasafraiditwouldcometoharmdownthere,orgetitselflost.MrPaulsenwaskindenoughtohelpmelookforit,untilwefounditandsawitwasreallyoneofthekitchencats.Thebig,fat,blackonethathangsroundtheThirdClassgalley.Wepartedatsix-fifteen.Iknow,becauseIdidn’twanttobelatetotakeastrollwithmydaughter.’‘TherecouldbemorethanonePaulsen,’declaredCochrantruculently.‘Oh, I’ll come down and identify him,’ returned Lydia with an earnest

smile. ‘And even if he is a runaway German, I don’t really see there isanythingwrongwithaGerman,ofmilitaryage,notwantingtogobacktotheFront and shoot at our men. If they’d all desert and go to America therewouldn’t be anymoreproblem,would there?’Shewidenedher nearsightedeyes, as she had learnedwasmost effectivewhen dealingwith her father’scurmudgeonly uncles when they’d come to call. ‘If there’s any question, Imean.’CaptainWinstanleyclearedhis throat,and turned inquiringly toCochran.

‘YoudidsayKimballwasdownatthefarendoftheboatdeck…’‘The man Heller’s a labor agitator,’ snapped the millionaire, as if that

accusationwere sufficient. ‘And Iknowfora fact thisPaulsen ishim!You

can bet he’s bound for the States to cause trouble there. Stands to reasonthey’dtrytoputmeoutoftheway.Theyallknowmeforamanwho’llgive’emtrouble.Amanwho’snotafraidtotakeonthemandthepastycowardsinthegovernmenttoo—’‘Yes,butit’sscarcelyareasonforlockinghimupforsomethinghedidn’t

do. Is it?’Lydia turned her gaze from the captain –who didn’t seem to beentirelycertainwhethertodisagreeopenlywithaFirstClasspassenger–toMrsCochran,HerHighness,andfinallyMrsTilcott.‘Well,’saidTilcott,‘notassuch,no.MrsAsherdoeshaveapoint.’‘The man should be locked up in any case,’ put in Mrs Cochran self-

righteously.‘That’shardlytheAmericanWay,’respondedLydia,‘isit,MrsTilcott?’Cochrangrumbledsomethingandshotheranangry look,butMrsTilcott

launched into a recital ofwhy the heritage of Philadelphiawas superior tosuchless-Americanvenuesas(forinstance)ChicagoortheSouth,andundercoverofthis,PrincessNatalialeanedalittleacrossthetabletosaytoLydia,‘Thatwasmostkindofyou,darling,togoseekingwhatyouthoughtwaspoorMonsieur. He is, alas, addicted to low company, as all men are, though Iassureyou,mydearestOssolinskawouldneverbe socarelessas to lethimslip away from her on shipboard! Dearest Zafferine –’ she turned to thepsychic–‘couldyou–mightyou–speaktomyUncleIllya tonight?Bringhim,ormypoorAuntKaterina,tospeaktome?Willyoucome?’She smiled warmly upon Lydia, then turned her great dark eyes to the

captainbesideher,and to theCochrans, themomentMrsTilcottpaused forbreath.‘Perhapsthespiritswillhaveseenwithgreateraccuracythandidyourgood Kimball, M’sieu Cochran, the face of the man who dropped thosesandbagsonyouthisafternoon?Forthespiritssee.’Hersmilefaded,andtheglowoffaithilluminedherdarkeyes.‘Thespirits

seeeverything.Evilmostofall.’‘Nonsense,’declaredMrsTilcott. ‘Superstitiousfol-de-rol. ImustsayI’m

surprisedatyou,MrCochran.’‘Well,’modifiedher son, ‘mymanofbusiness tellsme that all thoseold

documentsyouweretellingusaboutoverlunchmakeafineinvestment,MrCochran! No doubt about that! Thank you,’ he added to the waiter, whobrought in the boeuf marchand de vin and squabs, and helped himself toampleportionsofboth.‘Butactuallygoingtositinadarkenedroomhopingyou’llgettochatwithGeorgeWashington…Not–’headdedquickly,withaglance across at Madame Izora – ‘that under the right circumstances theFatherofOurCountrywouldn’tbedelightedtoattend…’

Mrs Cochran turned bleak eyes upon him and said, ‘You would thinkdifferently,sir,hadyoueverhungeredfor thesightofonelost tothisworldbeforetheirtime.’And Madame Izora laughed gently. ‘My dear Mrs Cochran, pray don’t

concern yourself with my feelings! A man doesn’t believe until the lightcomesintohisheart.Pity,rather,anywhokeeptheirmindsshut,andtrustthattheywillcometounderstandintime!’MrsTilcottandherson tradedspeakingglances.Turningherhead,Lydia

caughtthenarrowed,queryinglookthehandsomeDrBarvelldirectedatMrCochran,whileMrsCochrancommencedtotellCaptainWinstanleyallaboutthe spiritualist she habitually consulted in Lake Forest, andMadame Izoradetailed, to theprincessandAuntLouise, theoccasionuponwhichshehadhadteawithSt.FrancisofAssisi.Astheyallrosefromtheirchairsfollowingthe last creamy fragmentsofmignardises,PrincessNatalia laid abejeweledhandonLydia’s armandurged, ‘Wewill seeyouat the séance,no? Itwillbeginateleven–therewillsurelybethosetherewholongtoseeyou!’‘I’ll come as soon as I can,’ Lydia excused herself quietly. ‘I’m afraid

Miranda isn’t taking this journey as well as I’d hoped, and sometimes shewakesinthenightcrying.’Thiswasacompletelie–betweentheprincess’sdogs,thesaltwind,andbeingwithhermother,Miranda’sonlycomplaintsofar was that she couldn’t go down and play Blind Bock with all the littleRussianandSlovenianurchinsintheaftdeckwell.‘Ifthathappens,I’llbeabitlate.’AndshehurriedtocatchupwithCaptainWinstanley,tomakesurethathe

did,infact,orderthereleaseofGeorgHellerfromtheship’sbrig.

No light shone at the Hotel deMontadour. No one opened the door whenAsher rapped its heavybronzeknocker; noryet again,whenhe’dmadehiscautious way into the next street, where its graceful mansard roofs werevisiblefromtheback,andthenreturnedtoknockoncemore.Itwaspastten,andtheRuedePassypitch-darkandsilentasthegrave.Evenhadtherebeensufficientelectricitytokeepthestreetlampsburning

throughthenight,Paris,theCityofLights,laytooneartheGermanlinestobesafefromairraids.Hearthammering,Asherwalkedforadistanceupthestreetanddownitagain,‘promenadinghimself’,asthevampiressaid.Tomorrow, then, she had smiled. But when he knocked again, the house

remainedsilentanddark.Asherhadgainedtheimpressionthatinlife,ElyséedeMontadourhadbeenaflightypiece,asapt toforgetappointmentsasshewas tomislayher keys.Hehad learned that death – or at leastUn-death –didn’tchangepeople.

Betteryougohomenow.Anattempttoenterthehouse–Asher’spicklocksjingledfaintlyinhispocket–mightbringsomeofthefledglingsoftheParisnest, if they were in Paris and not gorging themselves at the Front. ThosebeautifulyoungmenwhomElyséemadevampires–madeherservants–fortheirgoodlooks,AugustinandSergeandEvrard.Ordidshemakefledglingsanymore?Didshedare?Shehadneverbeen–

Asher recalled Don Simon Ysidro saying – a particularly strong mastervampire, and the frightful events during the first month of the war1 hadrobbedherofmuchofthepoweroverthemthatshe’dhad.Andifshedidn’tmakethem,couldshenowcontroltheonesshehadmade?Asherdidn’tknow.Butheguessed,ashemadehiswaybacktowardshis

hotel – three long and bitterly coldmiles, for theMetro had ceased to runhoursago–ifElyséehadgottendistractedbysomepromisinghunt,andanyofher fledglingswereabout, theywouldkillhimoutofhand if they foundhimwaiting.Allthewayalongtheriver,unseenintheovercastdarkness,helistenedbehindhim,andthroughwhatremainedofthenightinhishotelroomhewoke in sickened panic half a dozen times, dreaming of cold eyes thatgleamedlikethecatsinCyrilBritten’satticoffice,ofcoldhandsstrongerthanthe grip of devils. Lay listening, knowing that even if they were there, hewouldn’thear.Knowinghe’dhavetogoback.Hehadfourdays,beforehe’dhavetostartfortheEasternFrontagain.

Emerging fromthedining room,Lydia trackeddownCaptainPalfrey in theFirstClasslounge,wheretheCityofGold’sdancebandwasjustbeginningitsevening ration of foxtrots and decorous versions of thewaltz from amid aforestofpottedpalms.‘It’sinfamousofmetosendyouaboutlikeanerrandboy,’shewhispered,undercoverof themusic. ‘ButIneedyou to locateallfive ofMr Cochran’s private detectives, and let me know where they are.Now,tonight–atonce.’Theyoungmannoddedearnestly,andwhenLydiacontinued, ‘Ican’t– I

daren’t–tellyouthewhyandwherefore…’Heraisedahandtocutoffherwords.‘Youdon’tneedto.Youdon’tthinkMrCochran…?’Hesoundedshocked.‘Idon’tknow,’saidLydia,andagainhenoddedhisunderstanding,andput

afingertohislips.Lydiahadearlyfounditunnecessarytoexplainanythingto Palfrey. Having accepted that ‘Colonel Simon’ was engaged in counter-espionage so deep that even the Foreign Office didn’t know about it, theyoungofficerwasperfectlywillingtodoanythinghewastold,eitherbyDonSimon or by Lydia. At times in the past this purblind acceptance had

maddenedLydia, but she completelyunderstoodwhySimonhadpickedonCaptainPalfreyashisservant.Hewasaperfectdupe.ShegavehimtheSecondClasscabinnumbersofthe‘boys’–acquiredby

Ellen in the servants’ dining room – andwithin thirtyminutes Palfrey hadreturnedwiththeassurancethatMssrsKimball,Boland,Sweetser,Rand,andJukeswereallplayingpoker in theSecondClasssmokingroom.Moreover,Cochran’smanservant(MrOakley,whomMrsCochranreferredtoasa‘boy’or a ‘houseboy’, despite the fact that he was Jamie’s age) was in his owncramped ‘servants’quarters’ roomonCDeck,confirmingLydia’s suspicionthat, if indeedMr Cochran had Don Simon imprisoned in one of the tiny,windowless servants’ quarters rooms within the Promenade Suite itself, noonebutDrBarvellsharedthesuitewithhim.‘CaptainPalfrey,you’reamarvel,’shewhispered,claspinghishands,and

thenhastenedbacktoashadowedcornerofthePrivatePromenade,towatchthedoorofthePrincessGromyko’ssuiteasherséanceguestsarrived.‘Ihavenoideawherethegirlcanhavegottento,’complainedAuntLouise

as she emerged from her own suite. ‘Given the opportunity to actuallyexperiencethenearnessoftheastralplane…’‘Beyondadoubt,M’am,’saidMrMortling’svoice.‘Ishallsendheralong

whenshearrives.’‘See that you do.’ The dowager walked the thirty-some feet down the

covered way to the princess’s door, to be greeted by the soft voice of thePersian butler. Lydia withdrew a little further into the shadows of thestanchions which, in fairer weather, held canvas sunshades over the stairswhichleddowntoCDeck.MrsCochran,ascendingafewmomentslaterinanother expensive but obviously American ensemble and far too manydiamonds,passedwithinafewfeetofherwithoutseeingher.Evenso,LydiawithdrewdownthestairwaywhensheheardMrCochran’svoicearoundthecornerofthepromenade.Shewatchedhimpass, gesticulating savagely (hehaddispensedwith the

slingandhisleftarmseemedentirelyrecovered)ashespokewithDrBarvell.Heardthedooroftheprincess’ssuiteopenagain,andthemurmuredwordsofgreeting from the princess’s butler. Then, swiftly, she tiptoed up the steps,aroundthecorner,andalongthepromenadetoCochran’sdoor.ItslocksandthoseonAuntLouise’ssuitewereidentical.Lydiamadeshort

work of them, having practiced several times that afternoon. She lit thecandle-stubfromherpocketbythelightofthepromenadelampsandslippedinside. The furnishings were identical as well: sleek American-style chairsandsofaofblackenamelandglisteningchromium.Shedarednotswitchon

thelights,thoughblacklinencurtainsblockedtheglowofthewindows.Theplacewas spotlessly – almost forbiddingly – neat in the dim candle-gleam,eventhenewspapersre-foldedtotheirpristinestate,telegramstuckedbackintheir envelopes. (All concerned the activities of theNewYork andLondonstockmarkets.Lydialooked.)The two bedrooms were similarly immaculate: men’s pajamas laid out

acrossthefeetofbothbeds,naryabookoramagazineinsight.Thecontrastwith Aunt Louise’s jumble of extra cushions, magazines, photographs andDresden figurines to thedécorof the suitewas startling.Theonlyway shecould guess which bedroom belonged to the millionaire, and which to hisphysician,wasthatthepajamasinhisroomweresilkandthehairbrushesonthe bureau solid silver. In that room, also, an almost staggering array ofvegetable pills, cathartic mixtures, laxatives (‘Epsonade – tastes likelemonade!’),butterfatbathsalts,andphialsofextractsofmonkeyglandsandrhinoceroshornrangedbeforethemirror.Bothsmall,windowless‘servants’chambers’werelocked.Onecontainedwhatappearedtobeasmallchemicallaboratory:beakers,a

Bunsenburner,aglassretort,asmallrackofflasks.LydiawonderedwhetherDrBarvellwasemployedtoproducerejuvenativepotionsforMrCochran,aswell as to tame vampires, and if so, howmuch hewas paid. None of thislookedcheap.The second roomheld a large black trunk, laid on one of the chamber’s

narrowbeds.ItwaswhatLydiahadhopedtosee,butatthesightofitpaingrippedher

heart. The smallness of it – it looked scarcely large enough to contain thebody of a man – brought back to her the memory of the vampire’s slightframe, barely her own five-foot-seven-inch height, and narrow-built, like averyoldcat.Ishouldgobacktomyroomandgetmysatchel,shethought.Ifthere’ssilvermeshinsidethecoffinhemaybehelpless.Icandoitnow…Ifhe’sthereatall,andnotmovingsomewherearoundEDecklookingfor

someotherpoorSloveneorRussiangirl…Deliberately, her hands shaking, she removed the chains of silver from

aroundherthroatandwristsandsetthemaside.Thesoftscratching,thefaintstirring,within thecoffinnearlybroughtherheartup intoher throat. Inhermind–shewascertainthewordwasnotactuallywhisperedaloud–sheheardamurmuredvoice.Mistress…Thewhisperofadyingman.Therewere four locks, all platedwith silver. It took her onlyminutes to

pickthemall,andraisetheheavylid.

Awhitehandlikeaskeleton’sreachedupfromwithin,andcaughtherwristinagriplikesteel.

TEN

Just as if he hadn’t killed thousands of people over the course of threecenturies–justasifshehadn’tlookedonthetornthroatandbloodlessbodyof a nineteen-year-old Slovenian girl not quite ten hours before – Lydiahelpedhimsitup.Hefeltlightasahalf-grownboy–shehadlongsuspectedthathumantissueitselfunderwentsomekindoftransformationinitschangeto the vampire state.As she’d suspected, the inside of the coffinwas linedwith a basket-weave mesh of flat slips of silver, a quarter-inch wide androughlyaninchapart.Shewincedtothinkhowmuchthatquantityofmetalwould have cost, even as she observed the places where contact with themetalhadburnedthevampire’swrists,hands,andface.But as she thought all this, she wrapped an arm around Don Simon’s

ribcage,drewhimupoutofthattoxiccasket,andhelpedhimsitontheendoftheoppositebed.Heshiveredviolently,andhishands,clawedlikeademon’sandcoldasdeath,clungtoher,asiftohopeofsalvation.‘Thank you,’ he whispered, his face pressed to her shoulder. ‘I never

thoughtyouwouldcome.’Hisclothingwascrumpledanddirty,theivorygossamerofhislonghairin

tanglesaroundafaceghastly,nakedoftheillusionthatconcealsthenatureoftheUndead.Darkbruisingmarkedhissunkeneyesandthescarshe’dtaken,yearsago,inConstantinople,defendingher,stoodoutlikeswordcutsinwax.Sheknewthenshecouldn’tkillhim.Shewrappedbotharmsaroundhim,

heldhimtight.Hisowncrushedheragainst thebones thatwereall thatshecouldfeelwithinhisclothes.‘Ihavetogetyououtofhere,’saidLydia.‘It’seleventhirty,there’llbeno

oneonthepromenadedeck.They’reallattheséance—’‘Nogood,Lady.’Hereleasedhisholdonheratlast,raisedhisheadtolook

her in the face. He really did look as if he’d been dead for three hundredyears. ‘They’ve injected me with something – I don’t know what. Barvellgives me antivenin, in the daytime, when I sleep.’ He pushed up theunbuttonedsleeveofhispalelinenshirt.Thesilk-whitefleshofhisarmborea line of colorless little puncturemarks, tracking the vein. ‘I feel it inme,deathlikesmokeinthewind,thenturnedbackforatime.’Tisworsethanthe

silver,asifantscrawledandbitwithinthetunnelofthevein,eatingastheycrawl.Séance,yousay?’His eyebrowswent up, his yellow eyes nearly transparent in the candle-

gleam.Lydia nodded. ‘His detectives are all down in theSecondClass smoking

room, waiting for him to ring for them when he’s done. Did he—’ Shehesitated, studying that impassive face. ‘Has he brought you…prey?’ Shealmostcouldn’tspeaktheword,andsawhispalebrowspinch,veryslightly,abovetheaquilineofhisnose.‘Orhaveyougottenout,atanytime?’‘Prey?’ he repeated. ‘Here? On a ship, where every passenger must be

accountedfor?Theman’salunaticbuthe’snotstupid.Andno,’headded,theabsoluteabyssofhisdespairlikeawhisperedechoofbrimstoneinhisvoice.‘No,Ihavenotgottenfree.’Thequirkofhisbrowsdeepenedashesoughtananswerinhereyes.‘There’savampireontheship,’saidLydia.‘Notyou–anotherone.Agirl

waskilledlastnight.’‘Dios.’Hewassilentthen,turningtheimplicationsoverinhismind.‘Are

you sure of this,Mistress?For a vampire to kill here, on shipboard, ’tweremadness.’‘Heller – one of the ThirdClass passengers – is convinced it’s someone

counterfeitingavampirekill,butthat’slunacyalso.MostofThirdClassisinan uproar. They’re ignorant people, country folk, Italians or Russians orSlovenes.TheCaptainisputtingitaboutthatthegirlwaskilledbyherfiancé,but I saw her body. Two gashes, small but very deep, like some of theshrapnelwoundsI’dseeattheclearingstation.’Shetouchedthefleshofherthroat. ‘Shewas nearly drained of blood, and… and therewas no sign ofstruggle.’She turnedher faceaside,wanting toweep–as shehadwanted toweep

hundredsof times, in themoribundwardor theclearingstationfor themendying under her hands. Men killed, not by pale monsters like this blood-drinkingghostbesideher,butbyothermen.Butheisamonster,shethought.AndIcannotlethimgofree.‘Weneedtogetyououtofhere,’shesaid,lookingaroundherquickly.‘We

cangointoallthislater…’‘’Twere no good, Lady, ifwe cannot lay hands on the antivenin.Within

hoursIwillbeincapacitatedbypain.Howlong’twouldtakemetodie,anIdidnothavethenextinjection,Iknownot.Days,thegoodDrBarvell–’hisvoiceslippedwithchillyhatredoverthename–‘hathassuredme.’Rising,hetookher hand, ledher into thenarrow interior passagewhich separated the

servants’ rooms from theelegantportionof the suite, andso through to thephysician’sworkroomagain.‘Cagafuego,’headded,asLydiaswitchedon theelectric light.Theharsh

illuminationshoneonlaboratoryflasksandfittings,onlockedcabinetswhich,whenopened,provedtocontainphialsofassortedsizes,onlytwoofwhich–silvernitrateandpyrrolidine–werelabeled.‘Andnonotes,either.’Hislong,thinfingersflickedopendrawers,sortedthroughtheseveralsmallboxesandcasesasswiftlyasLydiaunlockedthem.‘He can probably tell which is what by their smell,’ Lydia guessed,

checkingthetwoothercases.‘Orbytheshapeof thebottles.Drat theman,there’snowayoftellingwhetherthesethingsaretheantiveninorthepoison,or ingredients of one or the other… phew,’ she added, stoppering a largebottle.‘Andthatoneisliquor.Somuchforhispontificationsonpurebodiesandpurehealth.CaptainCalvertattheclearingstationusedtohidecognacinhislaboratorythings…’‘Hewasnottheonlyone.’And,whenLydiaturnedtohiminsurprise,Don

Simonadded,‘ThinkyouthatIwasnoteversomewherenear,whenyouwereattheFront,Lady?Iknowthemenofyourclearingstationwell.’Killingmeninthemoribundward…Hereyesmethis,andblurredwithtears.Menwhowoulddieanyway.Shehadknowntheircondition,andhadnever

hadthesmallestdoubt.Shefeltthattherewassomethingshemustsaytohim,butwordswouldn’tcome.Itwasshewhoturnedawayfirst,andwentbacktopicking the simple locks on satchels and chests. Most of these had beensilver-plated.DonSimonmovedbehindher,checkingthroughtheircontents.‘The lininghathnot the feelofhavingbeen tamperedwith.Hewillhave

notes–ifhehathsuchthingsatall–uponhisperson.’Heliftedoutasmallbox containing a hypodermic syringe and held it up, glinting evilly in thereflectedlight.‘Myself, Iwouldnot trust thisCochrannomatterhowmuchhe paidme.And here are ampoules for the drug.Hijo de puta,’ he added.‘Onlyoneisfull.Theothers,empty.’‘Andthey’llknow,’saidLydiaquietly,‘ifthatonehasbeentamperedwith,

andwill change all their precautions.Untilwe have some plan, some nextstep,wecan’t let thathappen.’She lookedacross into thevampire’s sulfur-yellow eyes. ‘These empty ones have been used … Ah.’ She withdrewanotherbox,stillinthewrappingofamedicalsupplyhouse.‘And here are newones, not yet filled.He’ll be putting up a newbatch,

nowthathe’ssettledin.’‘Andmayhaphefearsthatoncehehathmixedsufficientquantitytokeep

meobedient,Cochranwilldispensewithhim,andfindanotheralchemist to

dohisbiddingwhenwereachNewYork.Couldagoodchemist,giventhis–’his clawed forefingermade the tiniest tick on the glass of the single filledphial–‘andquantitiesofeachelement,comeontherightmixture?’‘Idoubtit.’Lydiareplacedtheboxofnewphials,arrangedtheluggagein

the cupboard exactly as it had been. ‘Not without Barvell’s notes as totemperatureandtimingofthereaction.We’llhavetocheckagain,later–sohemustn’t even suspect I’ve been in here.We have five days,’ she added.‘Canyou–doyouhaveanypoweratallwithinthecoffin?’Don Simon held up his hand, the silk-white flesh on his wrist seared –

literallyblackenedwithsecond-andthird-degreeburning.‘Withinthatcoffin,nothing,’ he said, in his expressionless whisper. ‘Even here outside, thementalglamour–theinfluenceonthemindsoftheliving–isimpossibleonsovastaworldofmovingwater.YetIcanhearasIdoupondryland,andsee,as always, in darkness. Only for perhaps ten minutes on either side ofmidnight–trueastronomicalmidnight,whenthisship,thistinyworld,standsexactlyoppositetothepowerandpullofthesun–doourfullpowersreturn,ifwebefreetousethem.Knowyouwhenthisgirlwaskilled?’She shook her head. ‘Her body wasn’t found until around three in the

morning,inaplacepublicenoughthatitcouldnothavebeendonethere.Doyouknow–’shetookhiscoldfingersinhers–‘whyitisthatyouonlyregainpoweratmidnight?Jamietoldmeaboutthat–thatavampireishelplessonrunningwater, except at theveryhourofmidnight, or at the turningof thetide…’‘Iknownot,Mistress.Believeme,Ihavestudiedthevampireconditionfor

centuries, e’en as my masters did, Rhys the White of London, andConstantineAngelusinParis.Iknow–theyknew–thatourfleshitselfalters,cellbycell, intosomethingwhichisnothumanflesh;somethingwhichwilltake unquenchable fire in the sun; something lighter and stronger than thefleshofmen.Whateveritis,’twillnotbearthetouchofthingswhichlivingmenfindharmless:silver,garlic,thepetalsoftheChristmasrose.Mymastersknew,asIknow,thatourmindsalteraswell,andweacquirethecapacitytodeceive the minds of the living. They knew, as I know, that this capacitywaxesasweage,untilwecanwalkinthedreamsoftheliving,orcommandthem from within their minds. But what it is in the deaths of our victimswhich feeds our powers; why our powers slack and wither without suchfeeding;whywecannotdeceiveourowneyesinamirror,orusethesepowersuponwatersaveatcertainbriefseasons–thiswedonotknow.NordoIknow–nordidtheyknow–whyanyofthiscametobe.’Hewas silent for a time, looking down at the hypodermicwhich he still

heldinhisburnedfingers.

‘NordoIknowwhethertheyknew–asIhaveobserved–thatmanyofthevampiresIhavemetoverfourcenturiesofagegomad.’Heturnedhisheadsharply,asifatsomenoise,thensaid,‘Bestwegooutside,Lady,whereyouatleastwillbeabletoflee.’Hesetthehypodermicbackintoitsbox,pinchedoutthecandle,switchedoffthelight.Thenhetookherhand,hisowncoldasadeadman’s.His righthand touchedherback,guidingheracross the littlecorridoragainandthenoutthroughthedarkparlor.‘Aretheycoming—?’‘Notyet.Andfromwhatyouhavetoldme,Mistress,Isuspect,’headded,

astheyslippedfromtheblacknessoutintotheharshchillandelectricglareofthepromenadedeck, ‘thatwhenyourauntandallothers leave thismagicalcirclewhichtheyhavemade,CochranandBarvellwillremainforatime,toquestiontheseerinprivate.’‘Aboutwhat?’askedLydia,surprised.He answered as if the reply were self-evident. ‘The whereabouts of this

vampire.’‘Buthe’sgotavampire!’‘Anunwillingone,heretofore.Onewhowastakeninatrap.’Heturnedhis

handsover,consideringtheburnsonhiswrists.‘ThoughnowthatIknowyouareindeedontheCityofGold–ismygoodJohnherealso,bytheway?OrourJames?’‘CaptainPalfreyis,yes.James–Ithink–’hervoicecaughtalittle–‘isstill

inParis.’‘Forgiveme,Lady.’Heraisedherhandtohislips.‘Forgivemecallingfor

youasIdid.Iwas…interrorandinpain.’Thewordscameoutasifhecouldbarelybringhimselftoadmitit.‘’Twasbeyondhopethatyouwouldcomeforme;beyondexpectationthatIcouldavoidthefateofbeingenslavedbythisAmerican.’‘IsheworkingfortheGermans?OrtheAmericans?’‘Nothingsonoble–’hisvoiceagainturnedforamomenttocoldacid–‘if

noblebetheword.Forhimselfonly.Tokill,undetectably, thosewhowouldcause trouble for his factories, his railroads, hismines. ’Tismoney, not thehonorof landorkingorGod, thatmoveshim.Themanhas themindof atradesman.Hisownconvenienceisallhesees.’In his voice she heard the hidalgo of antique Spain, the nobleman who

wouldsufferthegreatestofhardshipsanddangerinthecauseofGodorhisking,butwouldstarvebeforeheearnedhisownbread.Sheremembered,too,thecontemptinGeorgHeller’svoice,whenhespoke

oftherichwhostolefromthepoor.

‘Hewantsabravo, likeuntohisotherhiredbravos.Nowthathehas thispoison, this weapon, hewill scour theworld, I daresay, for another ofmyconditiontoenslave.Themurderofstrikersandsocialists,’thevampirewentonslowly,‘wouldbeonlythebeginning,Ithink.Intime,IthinkthisCochranwould find other uses for onewho can killwith impunity, and I suspect itwould come tobeing lent out like awhore topoliticianswhohaveneedoftheirenemiestovanish.‘NowthatIknowthatyouarehere,Mistress–nowthatIknowthatIam

notalone–’heshuthiseyesforamoment,asifinprayer(dovampirespray?shewondered) – ‘I think that Iwill capitulate, and swearmy allegiance tohim. Know you if he is a Protestant? That doesn’t surprise me. The HolyFatherlongagoabsolvedusallofanyoathmadetoheretics.’Onecornerofhismouthmovedinanironichalf-grin.‘Idon’tsupposeanoathswornonthecross, or a testament, would reassure him. Both he and Barvell wearcrucifixes thesizeof fryingpanswhen theyspeak tomeandseem to thinkthat this –’ he held up his left arm, displaying, on the back of thewrist, asavagecross-shapedburn– ‘was thedoingofOurLord’s imagerather thanthe silvercontentof the talisman. I thankyou,’he saidagain,morequietly.‘DeeplyasIvaluemygoodJohnPalfrey’sloyaltyandstrength,hehathnot,asmyvaletwouldhave said long ago, sufficient brain tooutweigh apistolball.E’enwiththeseaallroundme,’tisgoodtostandhereinopenair.Tonotbeinpain.’Foratimeneitherspoke,andthevoiceofthewatermurmuredaboutthem

like the heartbeat of the world. Voices drifted to them, formless murmurs,fromthepublicFirstClasspromenadebelowthemonCDeck,andfromtheSecond Class promenade further amidships of that. The hour was late, theNorthAtlanticnightfreezing.Beyondtheglowoftheship’slightsonlythinspumesofwhite flickedalong thecrestsofebonwaves.Lydiaguessed thatonly young (or possibly not-so-young) lovers would be strolling thosecovereddecksintheyellowelectricradience,huddledintheirgreatcoatsandwarmedbyeachother’snearness.ShehopedJames,whereverhewas,waskeepingwarm.Thethoughtofhim

wentthroughherpalpably:heart,flesh,tears.Shemadeherselfask,‘Isthereanythingthatcanbedoneaboutthepain?Iknow–you’vetoldme–thattheUndeaddon’t…don’tprocess substances theway the livingdo,notunlessthey’ve been mixed with something like silver nitrate. Does that go foranodynesaswell?’‘Even so, Lady. Another, I assume, of those little jests God plays upon

thoseofuswhowouldsacrifice the livesofothers, thatweourselvesmightliveforever.’

He paused, and glancing sidelong at him, Lydia thought he was –incredibly–abouttosaysomethingelse,somethingperhapsconcerningGodand pain and three centuries of preying upon those he had personallyconsideredlessworthyoflifethanhimself.Butafteramomentheonlysaid,‘I think it likely that Cochran, having convinced himself that he hath themeanstobringtheUndeadtoheel,willenlistmyaidinhuntingthisvampireaboard ship. He might even bribe me with the promise that, the other’sservicesbeing secured, hewill letmego free.Always supposing there is avampire.’Lydiafrowned.‘Whowouldfakesuchathing?Andwhy?’‘Whatvampirewouldbesuchafoolastokillunderthesecircumstances?’‘He–or she– couldbemad.You’ve saidvampiresdo gomad. Imean,

whywouldavampirecomeonboardshipatall?Iwasafraid,’shefaltered,‘thatitwasyou.Thatyouhadbeen…eitherderanged,ormadesodesperateby…byhunger.But it is true,’ sheadded thoughtfully, ‘that suchakillingcouldbefaked.AndwhoeverkilledpoorPavlinaJancu–eitheravampireora…ahoaxer–theykilledherelsewhereandleftherbodywhereitwouldbefound,ratherthandisposingofit.Butifitwassomeonewhowantedtocoverup his tracks for actuallymurdering that poor girl, it’s an absolutely cork-brainedwaytogoaboutit.’‘Onenever—’beganthevampire.Thenhisheadsnappedaround,andhis

browstwitcheddownoverthebridgeofhisnoseagain.Lydiaturnedherheadalso,listening.Wasthatanoisefromtheforedeck

welloftheship,abovethethroboftheengines?‘Screaming,’saidDonSimonsoftly.‘Bestyoulockmeupagain,Mistress,

andgotoseewhat’safoot.’

ELEVEN

Clatteringdownthegangwayintotheforedeckwell,LydiawasovertakenbythemaidTania. ‘What is it?’shegasped,andtheyoungwomanstammered,partlyinFrenchandmostlyinatorrentofRussian,that(asfarasLydiacouldmake it out) Zhenya – the princess’s footman – had rushed into her roomtellingherthatachildhadbeenkilledbythevampire.ThedoorfromthedeckwellintotheThirdClasssectionwasjammedwithpeople,pushinginandoutandclamoringinamixoflanguages.Abigfair-hairedmaninliverycaughtTaniabythearmandpouredoutanexplanationinRussian,then,withTaniaablyassisting(shewasnearlyas tallashe),began toforceawayforLydiathroughthepresstowardstheroomwherethechildlay.‘Ya doktor,’ Lydia gasped, clinging tight to the back of Zhenya’s belt.

‘Zhdravnik…’ She hoped thatwas Slovenian for doctor, anyway.Or closeenough, towhat someof theorderlies at the clearing stationhad called thesurgeons.‘Giatrass…’‘Giatros,’Taniacorrectedoverhershoulder–eithershe’dpickedupalittle

Greekfromanotherservant,orknewitfromsomeoneathome.‘Giatros.Doktor,’ Lydia repeated, thrusting her way through the narrow

doorofthechamber.‘Doktor…’‘I fear–’OldFatherKirn turned from thebunk,onwhich thebodyof a

dark-hairedseven-year-oldgirllay–‘thatthisisnottheprovinceofmedicineanymore, good Madame.’ His deep-scored face was ravaged with horror,grief,andbarely-suppressedrage.Besidehim,thewomanwhohadbeenbentoverthechild’sbodyhalfraisedherselfandscreamedagain,awailingcryofanguish.‘Luzia!Luzia!’Tania knelt at onceby thewoman’s side, put an armaroundher shaking

shoulders.On her other side a girl of fifteen or sixteen kneltwith her armaround her waist, dark-haired and swarthy, wearing the gold earrings andtawdry jewelry of a gypsy. Little Luzia’s ears, too, had been pierced, andmany of the women in the minuscule cabin – crammed to suffocation –lookeduncertainwhethertohangback,ortooffercomforttoonewhothey’dall,clearly,beentaughtwasadaughterofIshmael.

Closebehindher,Lydiaheardthewhisperedwords,Gypsytrash…But four or five clustered round, offering what comfort they could, in

Czech,inWalloon,inYiddishorRussian.Motherswhoknewwhatitwas,toloseachild.‘Luzia!’thegypsywomanscreamedagain.‘Copilulmeu!’‘Whathappened?’‘The little onewasnot inherbunk this evening,’ saidFatherKirn inhis

inaccurateGerman.‘Thiswasnotunusualintheearlierhoursaftersupper.’‘Theroomishot,’spokeupthegolden-hairedSudetendeutschegirlAriane,

whohaddefendedValentynMareklastnight.Shewasonthebed,wedgedinbeside the distraughtmother’s family. ‘I said I’d take them all up into thedeckwell.Everybody’scrampedandboreddownhere.Itwasdark,buttherearelightsupthere.Ishouldhavewatchedbetter—’‘No,no,’thepriestwhispered.‘No,thiswasnoneofityourfault,Ariane.’

ToLydia,hesaid,‘Thelittleone’ssisterscouldnotsayexactlywhenlasttheysawher.Anditis,indeed,dark,withmanyshadows.Ithink,’headded,withacrookedattemptatasmile,‘intruth,thatiswhytheyconsideritsuchfun.’‘Wethoughtshecamebackhere.’TearsfloodedAriane’seyes.‘Orwould

soon.Itwastenbeforeanyonebegantosearch.’In thecorridoramanwasshoutinginGerman,‘It isasIsaid!There isa

vampireonthisship,adevil–vodolak!Nosferatu!Undead!’Someonecriedoutanobjection–at least, itsoundedlikeanobjection,butLydia’sRussian(ifhislanguagewasRussian)wastoofragmentarytobesure.Arianeflinched,buttheoldpriestonlyreachedforthesmallwoodenbox–

likeamicroscopecase,thoughtLydia–thatsatonthefloorathisside,andcarefully took out a fragile wafer of flour, stamped with part of a design.Ariane crossed herself. Luzia’s mother only grasped the priest’s arm andwept.Lydia,kneeling in thenarrowspace thatFatherKirnhadmade forherat

the bunk-side, saw by themakeshift bundles beside the pillow that at leasttwo children were meant to sleep there, possibly more. Tiny Luzia, hertangledblackcurlsstilldisheveledfromtheevening’splay,lookedcalm,andLydia couldn’t help noting,when the priest opened hermouth to insert thefragmentofHost,thatherjawhadn’tyetbeguntostiffen.Thebigarteryofherneckhadbeenslit,twoshortdeepcutssuchasLydia

had seen made by vampire claws. The flesh around the wounds lookedpinchedandbruised,andLydiamentallycursedherselffornothavingstudiedmorecloselytheexactappearanceofvampirebites–heavenknowsI’vehadtheopportunity…

Thechild’shandsandface,chalkywithdearthofblood,werestillfaintlywarm.Leaningclose,Lydiamovedasidethegrape-blackcurls,tolookbehindthe

ears.Noblood,butthehairitselfwasslightlydamp,andsmelledof…Something.Sourish,dirtywater…Anothersmell.Lydiabenttosniffthechild’slips.Chocolate.There was the tiniest trace of it, still clinging to a corner of the child’s

mouth.Turningthelittlehandover,shesniffedthefingers.Thedirty-watersmell

lingered there, too, as if someone hadmopped at the delicate ivory fingerswithawetrag.‘Is thereachance that Icanexamine thischild?’shewhispered toFather

Kirn.‘Toseeifshewashurtinanyotherfashion?’Somethingaboutthesmellofthecandyrevoltedher,remindedherthat thereweremonstersverymuchaliveintheworldthatalsokilledlittlegirlsaftergivingthemsweets.Butitwouldnotdo to say so, notwith thegirl’smother sobbing inches fromhershoulder.Don’tlaythatonher,alongwithherchild’sdeath.Andindeed,ontheocean,withouttheuseofmentalpowersofillusion,a

vampirewouldhavetohuntwithcandy,todrawhisprey.‘In what other fashion do you need, good Madame?’ Gently, the priest

removedtheshortprayerropefromhisownbelt, tied it toapieceofstringfromhis pocket, and put this like a necklace around the child’s neck. ‘Thepoorlittlemiteisdead—’‘Tata,tata!’Themothershookthepriestwithaconvulsivestrength. ‘Tell

mehersoulnotforfeit!Tellmemylittleonenotwalkaslivingdamned!’Outinthecorridor,themanVoduseksniffed,‘Damnedindeed!Iswearthe

gypsybratwasn’tbaptized…’‘Be at peace.’ The old manmade the sign of the cross on the woman’s

forehead,thenfromthepyxbesidehimtookalittlevialofholyoil,andwithit, repeated the sign on Luzia’s forehead as well. ‘Jesus the Christ said,“Suffer the littlechildren tocomeuntome”.Yourdaughter issafe inGod’sarms.’‘It’strue,FrauPescariu,’urgedAriane,puttingherarmaroundthemother

again.‘Youknowit’strue.TheCross,andtheHost,theywillkeephersafe.Thevampirecanendurenoneofthesethings.’Lydia could have disagreed, but didn’t. Someone standing deeper in the

roommade the signof thecrossandLydia recognizedoldGrandpaMarek,tears of agony running down his face. She couldn’t keep herself fromwondering,Howwouldonegoaboutstakingsomeone through thehearton

shipboard? Much less cutting off their head and burying them at thecrossroad?‘Letusthrough!Letusthrough!’Voicesinthecorridor.‘Proydemcherez,’

theyadded,fumblingatthepronunciation.‘Lasciacipassare…’DrLiggattsqueezedandthrusthisangularwaythroughthedoor,withthe

vessel’s bantam-weight First Officer, Mr Theale, a couple of burly deckstewards and a translator. The translator was repeating, in Russian, Italian,and laborious German, ‘Please to clear cabin. Everyone, please to clearcorridor.Admitthesepeopleout.Everythingbetakecareof–pleasetoclearcabin.’PaniMarek,holdingthehandoftheweepingyoungsisterandspeakingto

herquietly,whirledupontheofficerswithaperfectstormofSlovene.Taniaand threeotherwomen in the roomadded theirvoices to thedin,while thegirlArianeheldthegrievingmothertight.‘ForloveofGod,sir,’saidFatherKirntoLiggattinGerman,‘thiswoman

isthechild’smother!’Themenhesitated,thenMrThealesaid,‘Standoverthereforamoment,if

youwould,Father,withher.Doesshehaveahusband?Arelative?Theymayremain,butwemusthaveroom.Yes,’headded,asLydiaroseandapproachedDrLiggatt,‘MrsAshermayremainaswell.Therestofyou,pleaseclearoutandgiveusroom.’Ariane,edgingout into thecorridor,gently tookchargeof the twoyoung

girlswho’d been crowded into the cabin’s farthest corner: dark and tangle-hairedanddressedingaudycast-offs,aged–Lydiaguessed–twelveandten.Theylookedenoughlikethemothertobethedeadchild’ssisters.Theyclungto the older girl, their faces soakedwith tears: guilt aswell as grief. Theywere theoneswho’dbeenplayingwithher,dodgingabout thedecks in thechilly evening before another night – Lydia looked around her in pity anddistaste – of the suffocating closeness of a cabin overheatedby at least tenothersleepingbodies.Stepping back beside Father Kirn, Lydia whispered, ‘Where was she

found?Andwhen?’‘Justaftermidnight,’saidtheoldpriest.‘WhenLuziawasfoundnottobe

inher bed,webegan to search.Even thosewhobelieved that poorPavlinaJancu had been killed byValentynMarek, thought themselves again of theupír. I was one of those who found her –’ he averted his face quickly,wrinkled eyelids shutting as if to close out the sight of the crumpled littlebody inhermendedhand-me-downs– ‘at the footof the stairway, in the–what is it called? The gangway well.’ He pronounced these last words

carefully, in English. ‘Not a hundred feet from this place. This thing, thisdevil,itismerciless—’‘Hadyoubeenupanddownthatstairwaybefore?Duringthesearch?Had

anyone?’Theoldmanshookhishead, tears trackingdownthroughthewrinklesof

his face. ‘Howcould theyhave,andnothaveseenher?Thecrewuses thatstair, but mostly here, we go up and down the larger stair near the diningroom.Doesthatmatter?Thechildisdead,sheisdead,eventheleastofthese,thechildrenofIshmael,isasoulintheeyesofChrist.’LydiabitbackthecommentthatshehadseenFatherKirnstoptwoofthe

little Greek children from playing with the three gypsy sisters only thatafternoon.‘And the thing thatkilledher– the thing thatdrankherblood– it isstill

somewhere on this ship. In the darkness, in the thousand cornerswhere noonegoes.Butwewillfindit.’He turned to look at Dr Liggatt, kneeling with thermometer and probes

besidethecot,andhisdarkeyesgleamedwithsudden,somberfury.‘Thereisgreat evil in this world, Madame. And not all of it concerns guns, andaeroplanes,andtheshoutingoftheWar.Someofitisdeeper,andolder,andmore terrible.But it isgiven toeachman, thathehas thepowerat least tostopthatevil.Andthatwewilldo,Madame.Thatwewilldo.’Gatheringuphissmall supplyof thewafer in itsbox,hecrossedhimself

again,andedgedhiswaytothelittlegypsy’smotherandsisters,toofferthemwhatcomforthecould.

AllFridaymorning,Asherspentattheembassy,alternatelydrinkingteawithCyril Britten and thumbing through reports on various personswithwhomSpenserCochranwasconnected.Hewaseasilyabletoworkinquiet,fortheold head clerk was in and out of the room: word had just reached theambassador that theTsar ofRussia had abdicated, not only for himself butalsoonbehalfofhisfragileson.Asthenext-in-line– theTsar’sscapegraceyoungerbrother–wasrefusingthetitle(andtheresponsibilityforarapidly-destabilizinggovernmentinthemidstofahorrifyingwar–Asherwasfairlycertain that inhisplace, he’d turn it downaswell) until elections couldbeheld, the embassy was in an uproar. Whenever the head clerk was calledaway,AshertookadvantageofhisabsencebyaskingtheassistantthatBrittenhadassignedhim–anothermaninhiseightieswho,likeBritten,kneweveryfileanddossierintheplace,buthadtoberemindedofwhotheambassadorwas andwho theAllieswere fighting – for documents pertaining tomany

subjectsthathadnothingtodowithSpenserCochran,butwhichhesuspectedmightcomeinusefullater.He helped himself to some embassy stationery and a copy of the

ambassador’ssignatureonhiswayout.In the afternoon, armed with credentials and letters of introduction as

questionableasthemajor’suniformthatheworewhenonhisownsideofthelines,hemadehiswaytotheQuaidesOrfèvresandfoundouteverythingthattheParisSûretéknewaboutDrLouisBarvell.Which,itturnedout,wasquiteabit.‘He’s a Belgian,’ said the one-armed clerk who showed Asher into the

department library. ‘Studied in Louvain, though his name was HendrickDoumont at the time. He seems to have specialized in occult lore andchemistry.Thoughheneverobtainedamedicallicense,hesethimselfupinParis as a “nerve doctor” and did a fair business amongwealthywomen: Idon’t believe there’s ever been a record of him paying his own rent.’ Helimped toacabinetandbroughtbacka folderofnewspapercuttings,whichincludedaphotograph that seemed tohavebeen takenon the front stepsoftheHoteldeCrillon.Barvell,atall,broad-shoulderedmanofdarkgoodlooksand natty tailoring, had evidently realized he was being photographed andwashalf-turnedawayfromthecamera.Themiddle-agedwomanclingingtohisarmworeanexpressionofshockeddismay.‘He’s a good-looking fellow,’ the clerkwent on, an ironic sparkle in his

darkGasconeyes.‘Seemsalsotohaveatalentforgettingpeopletohandhimmoney.He’swell-known thesedays inwhat they call “occult circles”, bothhereandinAmerica.’Hefetchedanotherphotograph–equallyblurred–withtheclumsinessofonestilllearningtomaneuverwithamissinglimbandwhatwasclearlyashatteredpelvis.‘America’swherehewent–inahurry–in…Let’ssee…1909.’‘Fraud?’inquiredAsher.‘Orwomen?’‘Accusations–’theclerkputaworldofimplicationinthecockofhisbrow

–‘whichwere laterdropped.Whenhe returned toParis in1913–which iswhen he started calling himself Barvell – he touted himself as a mentalisthealer,anditwasthoughtprudenttokeepaneyeonhim,thoughnothingwasever proven about the client of hiswho disappeared. But itwas noted thatfromthatpointtherentonhisapartmentwaspaidbyanAmericanwhohadcontrollinginterestsinGermanmanufacturingandmines.’Themanshrugged,and made that characteristically French back-and-forth waggle with hisremaining hand. ‘En effet, many Americans had – and indeed, have –investmentsinGermany.’

‘Iunderstand,’saidAsher,‘thatDrBarvell–andhisemployer–tookshipforNewYorkonlyWednesday.Wouldyouhappentoknowifhisapartmentisforrentagain?’‘It is not. The rent has been paid up for six months.’ He handed Asher

anotherfile.‘Youhaveperhapsinformationwhichcanbeaddedtoourstore,onthesubjecteitherofDrBarvellorM’sieuCochran?’‘Atthemoment,no,’liedAsherblandly.‘ButIwillcertainlycommunicate

withyouwithwhateverImightlearn.’The ambassador’s signature – and a few carefully chosen hints about

Spenser Cochran’s German investments – served to get Asher into LouisBarvell’s apartment on the RueMonceau, in companywith a small white-haired gentleman named Lepic who had, like Asher and (Asher guessed)nearlyeveryoneelsehe’dencounteredattheSûreté,retiredfromtheserviceandbeenre-calledtodutywheneveryavailablemanundertheageofforty-five was drawn to the Front. He didn’t expect to find much, and wasn’tdisappointed.TheapartmentwasoneofthethousandsconstructedduringtheSecondEmpire, fourspaciousroomson the‘premierétage’overlooking thebuilding’s courtyard with wide windows, electricity laid on (wartimeshortagespermitting),anditsownkitchen.Oneoftherooms,thoughstrippedofallbooks,papers,andreferences,hadclearlybeenusedasalaboratory.A few chemicals remained, in bottles in the cabinet: silver nitrate, silver

chloride,anddistilledextractsofthingslikegarlicandaconite.Thoughnotachemisthimself,Asherhadbeentaskedtopilfermanychemicalformulaeinhis timeand recognized thenamesof thepowdersandsalts.He recognizedalso a number of botanicals, from his folkloric researches. Everythingwasneatlylabeled,andhecopiedtheinformation.Theequipmentonalowershelfwasmostly standard, familiar to him fromLydia’s laboratory at the end oftheirgardenonHolywellStreet.Helistedthose,too.In the unswept corners of the room he encountered shavings of silver

mixedwiththedust,andshavingsofsawdust.Trestlesinacornerstoodpreciselyastheywouldstand,tosupportacoffin.He turned back to the door,where hiswhite-hairedSûreté guide and the

landladystoodwiththekeys.‘Wholivesintheapartmentabovethis?’Thelandlady’stonewasflat.‘Thegentlemanwhorentsthisapartmentalso

rentstheoneabove.Noonelivesthere.’And,asAsher’seyebrowswentup,shecontinued,‘Itisnotmyaffair,solongastheypayontime.’Asherresponded,‘No,indeed,Madame.’Smaller and lower-ceilinged, those rooms contained nothing, not even

furniture. The uncurtained windows were shuttered, and cobwebs stitched

thoseshutterstogether.Fragmentsofweblikewisestirredinthecorners,liketheghostsoffairiesslainbythesoundofsiegegunsandfallingbombs.‘Whateveritishe’sdoing,’saidAsher,asheandhisquietguidedescended

to the street oncemore, ‘he – or Cochran – doesn’t want the neighbors tooverhear.AndgiventhecrowdinginParis,andthedemandsforapartments,tokeepsuchaplaceemptyforfouryearsarguesapositivemaniaforprivacy.’‘En effet,’ replied Lepic. ‘So much so, that when Barvell’s flat was

burglarizeda fewyearsago– inMayof1913, itwas–no reportof itwasmade, though our sources tell us that Barvell wasmost exercised over thedisappearance of several of his notebooks. Is this not true, Madame?’ Heglancedbackatthelandlady,standinginthedoorwaybehindthem.‘What my tenants choose to do and not to do is none of my concern,

M’sieu.’Sheclosedthedoor.‘Nevertheless,’ thepolicemancontinued,‘I trustyouhavenoobjectionto

my reporting our conversation to M’sieu Ladoux?’ He named the head ofFrance’scounterintelligencedivision.‘Noneintheleast.’‘And what is it, might I ask –’ Lepic offered him a cigarette, at which

Ashershookhishead–‘whichhaspromptedyour interest in thisAmericanandhistameprofessor?’Asher shrugged. ‘They give me names, and ask for “anything you can

find”.SometimesI learnwhat it’sallabout,sometimesIdon’t.’Heglanceddownattheshorterman,whowasregardinghimwithevidentdisbeliefinhislight-greeneyes.‘Butthisshouldinterestthem.’

TWELVE

‘Therearestorerooms–’LydiaconsultedherprintedplanoftheCityofGold–‘atthefarthestextentofthebow,onDecksD,E,F–’shepaused,proppedher spectacles, and looked around at the place by the hard glare of theelectrical fixtureswhichdrownedwhatevermorning lightmight have comedownfromthreedecksabove–‘anddownbelowhereonG.’TheCity’screwhadalreadybeenthroughthatmorning.Anytracesofblood–orfootprints–hadbeenswabbedaway.‘Thatstairwaygoesrightdownthroughtheship.’Not,shereflected,thatmanyclueswouldhavesurvivedthecomprehensive

trampling of every Third Class passenger who’d swarmed this portion ofDeckFthroughoutlastnight,eithersearchingforLuziaPescariuorclamoringfornewsafterherbodyhadbeenfound.Georg Heller touched her elbow, guided her down the low-ceilinged

passageway away from the fore gangway well itself, to the door of thestoreroomattheend,nearlyhiddeninshadow.‘Canyoupickthelocks?’Lydia glanced over her shoulder, at the long artery that fed not only the

ThirdClasscabins in thisbowsectionofFDeck,but, fartheron, thenoisycavernoftheengineroomsandcoalbunkersthatmadeupthewholecentersection of the lower decks. Beneath the heavy vibration of the machinerysurged themutterof talk as the ‘blackgang’– as the stokerswere called–cameandwentfromtheirquartersonthedeckabove:asmanywhitemenasblacks,buteverybody–bythishouroftheirshift–universallygrimedincoaldustandgrease.‘Ishouldn’tcaretotryitatthishour.’Acabindoorontheothersideoftheopenwellofthegangwaycreaked;the

one-eyed man Vodusek slipped out, crossed quickly to a locker in theshadowsunderthestairs,andbroughtsomethingoutofhistrouserpocket–apicklockorakey,thoughtLydia.Anoisedownthemaincorridormadehimturn his head, however, and he startled at the sight of Lydia and Heller.Touching his cap, he said casually, ‘G’nmorgen,’ and strolled away in thedirectionof the engines, slippingwhatever itwas–keyorpicklock–backintohispocket.Turningacorner,hedisappearedintothetangleofside-hallsandThirdClasscabins.

HellerraisedhiseyebrowsandLydiasaid,‘It’snoneofourbusiness…’‘Oneneverknows,’ returned theGerman, ‘whatmay turnout tobeone’s

business.’Withtheguiltysensationofaschoolgirl inmischief,Lydiacrossedto the

lockerandmadeshortworkofitsChubbcylinderlock.Theelectricceiling-fixture nearby showed them only shelves containing bottles of ammonia,JeyesFluid,anumberoffoldedcanvastarpaulins,bleachandsponges.Therewas no sign of blood, but, tucked behind the sponges,was half a bottle ofGlenlivet (of the sort Lydia had glimpsed behind the bar in the FirstClassloungethepreviousevening)andtwopacketsofTurkishcigarettes.Shemadeanoiseofdistaste,andHellercalmlyextractedacigarettefrom

eachpacket.‘Evenifhenotices,hecan’tverywellreporttheloss.Likeasnothe’lljustthinkhemiscounted.Wouldyoulikeone?’Hehelditout.Smilingalittle,Lydiashookherhead.Voicesinthestairwellhighabovemadehimclosethelockerdoorquickly,

andsteerLydiaawayin thedirectionVodusekhadgone, tuckingoneof thecigarettes into the pocket of his tattered jacket and putting the other in hismouth.‘Arekeysthateasytosteal?’‘Iexpectheborrowedone.’TheGermanshrugged.‘Hecouldgetintothe

ship’smachineshopeasilyenough:hewasamachinistattheVulcanshipyardinHamburg,before they started transferringmen to theFront.Noblood,atanyrate,’headded,grimly,andfishedforthasteel lighter,suchas themenhadcarriedintheirpocketsattheFront.‘Orcandy.’Lydiasaid,veryquietly,‘No.’Shewonderedif,whentheyfoundthehiding

placeofthevampire,therewouldbeaboxofchocolatestuckedinwhateverhe–orshe–wasusingforaprotectivecoffin.Asifhesensedherthoughts,Hellersaid,‘Whatyouhavetoldme,ofthe

smellofsweetsonthelittlegypsy’slips–andofwash-wateronherfingers…’Hegrimaced.‘Toapoorchild,andthatyoung,afriendlyman’swhisperthat he will give her chocolate, that is enough to make her hide from hersisters, sneak away to meet him. They starve for sweets, these little oneshere.’Lydia remembered how the children had greeted Tania with joy, as the

dispenser of treats. Evidently sweets weren’t difficult to acquire, if onescraped acquaintancewith the kitchen staff,who seemed to have their ownideasaboutwhatFirstClassamenitiescouldbequietlypeddledtowhom.A littlehesitantly, shesaid, ‘Shewasn’t…harmed…inanyotherway.’

Shewonderedatherowndelicacy.Aman likeHellerwouldcertainlyhaveheardthewordrapebefore.Andwouldknowaboutmenwhopreferredtheir

victimsyoung.‘IaskedDrLiggatt–bothabouther,andaboutPavlinaJancu.Thatis…curious.Ifwe’redealingwithamadman.’‘Ifwe’redealingwithaverycunningmadman…’Hellerfrowned,anddid

notfinishhisthought.Atthefootofasmallerstairway–theshipwaspiercedeverywherewiththem,tyingtheupperreachestothelower–hepaused,andtookthecigarettefromhismouth.‘Ihavenotthankedyou,FrauDoktor,forspeakingoutformetothecaptainyesterdayevening.Myself,IdonotbelievethatanyonemadeanattemptonCochran’s life.AndIdonot think that thiswillbethelastattemptthemanmakesonmine.’And,whenLydiaopenedhermouthprotestingly,Hellerwenton,‘Iwillnot

concealfromyouthatIamaSocialist,Madame.Inmyowncountry,beforethewar, I ledworkmen’s strikes, first in themines of Saxonywhere Iwasborn,thenatfactoriesinHamburgandBerlin.WeshutdownCochran’ssteelmill at Rotenberg for nearly three months. I felt that the war was anabomination and a cheat – a betrayal of workingmen on both sides. Yet Ivolunteered and fought for my country, until I could endure no more.Mycountry–andyours–isbeingbetrayedbytheprideandidiocyofthosewhogovernit.IknowthatthismakesmereprehensibleintheeyesofeveryoneImeet–yourself,probably,included.Iamsorryforthis.’Helookedseriouslyintoherface,givingherthechancetospeak.Behind

them, the fragile-looking little Jewishboy thatLydia remembered from thatfirstnightoutsidetheThirdClasspassengersheddartedpastthemandupthestairway,followedbyaslightlyoldergirl,darkbraidsbouncing,whocalledout,‘Yakov!Yakov!’amidgalesofgiggles.Amomentaftertheydisappearedthetall,elderlyJewshe’dseenwiththechildrencamestridingdownthemaincorridor,scowlingandgrumblinghorriblyandcarryingabeltloopedupinhishand,asifreadywithittowhacksomejuvenilebottoms.Hepausedbythefootofthestair,lookingaroundhim–anarrowcorridor

crossed at that point leading to Third Class cabins on either side – and,diffidently, he approached Heller and Lydia. ‘I beg pardon, good sir, goodmadame …’ He bowed with the obsequiousness of one who all his life,thoughtLydia, had been thrashed, andworse, for being disrespectful to hisChristianbetters.Oneithersideofamonumentalbeakofnose,hisdarkeyeswerewiseandbrightbehindthegoldpince-nez.‘Butdidyouseetwochildrenrunpasthere?Alittlelad,alittlegirl…’Lydiaglancedat thebeltandsaidnothing.Heller replied, ‘Theywentup

thestair.’‘Ach,’grumbledtheoldman,climbinglaboriously.‘Littlemonkeys.’ToLydia,afterhehadgone,Hellersaid,‘Goldhirschmakesgreat threats,

anditistruethathe’smercilesstothosewhoowehimmoney.Yetthesetwo

days I havenever seenhim strikehis grandchildren.Nor are they afraidofhim, as children are with those who beat them. The other children throwthingsatYakov–andathisgrandfather–becausetheyareJews.’Hismouthtwisted,asatthesourtasteoflemon.‘Myself,Ithinkitiswell,thatchildrenarekeptalittleclosernow,asthiskillerseemstohaveatastefortheyoungandthehelpless.’Lydia thought of Miranda, safely watched over by the grim-faced Mrs

Frush,bythecowedlittlenursery-maidPrebble,andbythefaithfulEllen.Sheshivered,andsaid,‘I’msorry.’Hellershookhishead.Below-deckstheairwascloseandfrowsty,butchill

draughtsfloweddownthegangwayfromabove,whererainhadfallen,onandoff,allmorning.Likethedistant tinkleofwindchimes,sheheardthevoicesofthechildrenfromthedeckabove.‘Youareofadifferentworld,FrauDoktor,’Hellersaid.‘Yes,you’vebeen

totheFront.You’veseenmendie.Butyou’venotlivedintheselittlevillages,theselittletowns,whereeverypfennigandeverymouthfulofbreadmustbecounted.Whereyoucannotevengivethemilkyoutakefromyourowncow,andtheeggsfromyourownchickens,toyourchildren,becausesuchthingsmustbesoldthatyoumaypaytherentonyourcottage,whileyourchildrenexistonwaterandbread.Icantellyouthatbeingshotateverydayisnotsobadasthat.’Lydia recalled someof the letters she’d read to themen in themoribund

ward,tooweaktoholduptheill-spellednotessentbymothersandwives,orblindedbygas or shrapnel.Matter-of-fact accounts of the endless, grindingshiftstoaffordafewscrapsofbacon,ortocomeupwiththeinterestonwhattheyowed the localmoney-lender, or theweekly rentdue theownerof therooms they sharedwith another family. Even at herworst, sharing an atticwith two other young women at Oxford, tucking newspapers inside hershirtwaistforextrawarmthandhavingtomakethenightlydecisionbetweensupper and heating-fuel, Lydia had known she had hope. That she wouldeventuallybecomeadoctoroneday,andbeoutofallthat.Quietly,sheasked,‘That’swhatyou’refightingtosavethemfrom,isn’tit?

Thatworld.Thatlife.’‘It is,gnä’Frau.For that, too, isa formofdeath.Notonly inSaxonyor

Germany,buteverywheretherearerichpeoplewhoownminesandfactories,andpoorpeoplewhoacceptafewpfennigsadaybecausetheyhavenootherchoice.Cochranknows this,’he finishedwitha sigh. ‘It iswhyheseeks tokeepmeoutoftheUnitedStates.Sincethecrimes,astheycallthem,whichIhave committedwere in Germany, theymay have trouble at that. AndmyDanishpapersarequitegood.’

‘DoyouspeakDanish?’askedLydia,amused.‘Som en infødt.’ Heller bowed with a flourish. ‘Probably better than

whoevertheauthoritieswillproducetoquestionmeinit.Mycaptain–inmybriefcareerintheKaiserlicheMarine–wasaSchleswiger;halfthecrewofour U-boat spoke Danish better than they spoke German. I will probably“jumpship”,astheysay,ratherthanpresentmypaperstotheauthorities…ifthisCochrandoesn’tcomeupwithsomemeansofgetting ridofmebeforeweland.’As she climbed the stairway to First Class to meet Captain Palfrey for

luncheon,Lydiashiveredagain,guessingwhatthatmeansmightbe.

Afterluncheon,rathertoLydia’ssurprise,shefoundherselfbeingrecruitedasavampirehunterbyMrCochranhimself.Whenshe’dfinallyreturnedtoherstateroomthenightbefore–andshehad

notcomeupfromThirdClassuntilnearlytwothirtyinthemorning–shehadlainawakefornearlyanhour,wonderingwhatshewasgoingtotellPalfrey:aboutDonSimon,aboutSpenserCochran,aboutthekillingsdeepintheholdof the ship. He would almost certainly not believe her if she told him thetruth:thatDonSimonYsidro,his‘ColonelSimon’,wasinfactavampire,oneof the night-walkingUndeadwho survived by drinking the life-energies ofthosehekilled.CertainlynotthatDonSimonhaddeceivedhim,hadskillfullyplantedscenesandpseudo-memoriesinhisdreams,toconvincehimthathe,John Palfrey, was in fact working for and with a member of a BritishIntelligence branch so secret that even the rest of the government wasn’tawareofitsexistence.Thatthevampirewassimplyusinghimashe’dhaveusedanycabdriverin

London,asameanstogethimselfsafelyhome.Tobeginwith,Lydiawasn’tcompletelycertainthatthiswastrue.Sheknew

that even without recourse to illusion, Don Simon could be extremelycharming.But she alsoknew that he couldbe loyal to his ‘servants’, as hecalled them, andhad, upononeoccasion, riskedhis life to retrieveCaptainPalfrey from danger when there was little likelihood that the young manwouldeverbeofanyusetohimagain.And, reflected Lydia – not without exasperated misgivings – she found

herselfdeeplyunwillingtobetraythevampire.Letalonekillhim,sheadded.WhichiswhatIshoulddo.Shepushedthethoughtaway.Ihavefivedaysyet,tomakeupmymindwhattodo.In any case, she found herself, over a veal and ham pie and an apple

meringueintheWillowGrove(shedidn’tfeeluptodealingwitheitherAunt

LouiseorMrTilcott),explaining, to theworriedyoungofficer, thatColonelSimon had indeed been in touchwith her. ‘He leaves notes, in the farthestbookto therighton the topshelfof theright-handbookcase, in theSecondClasslibrary,’shesaid.‘LastnightitwasThePickwickPapers,whichIcan’timagine anyone taking down on purpose to read. He’s in hiding, he said,somewhere on the ship – “hiding” iswhat he said, so I don’t know if thatmeans disguise or actually concealing himself in a baggage-hold or a coal-bunkerorsomewhere.’‘Didhesaywhatdangerhewas in?’Palfrey leanedforward,heaven-blue

eyesdarkwithconcern.‘Isthereanythingwecando?’Lydiashookherhead.‘Butthemarkhemadeontheedgeofthepaper–a

starinacircle–istheonethatmeans,thedangerisverygreat.Allwecandoisstandbyandawaitinstructions.’The young man nodded, accepting. Not even asking – and, Lydia

suspected,notevenaskinghimself–howColonelSimonwasable tocomeandgointheSecondClasslibrary,muchlesshowhe’dinformedLydiawherethedropboxwas.Simon–orSimon’slong-deadvalet–hadbeenperfectlyrightwhenhe’dcomparedtheweightofPalfrey’sbrainsunfavorablytothatofapistol-ball.Lydiahaddevisedanelaborateseriesofback-upexplanations,incaseitdidoccurtohimtoask,butPalfreyneverevenblinked.Butanhourlater,asshewastakingMiranda(andMrsMarigold)foratour

oftheSecondClasspromenadedeck(‘MrsMarigoldwantstowatchoutforGerman submarines, Mummy.’), Lydia was accosted by the PrincessGromykoand,ofallpeople,MrCochran, trailedata respectfuldistancebythe footman Zhenya, Ossolinska, and the burly detective Mr KimballresplendentinthemostAmericansuitLydiahadeverseen.‘My darling, I’ve been looking for you all over the ship!’ HerHighness

thrustherleashes–MonsieurandMadamewerealsopartoftheentourage–into Ossolinska’s grip and seized Lydia by the hands. ‘Tania told me thiscreature,thisthing,struckagainlastnight,evenaswesatinourcircleoflightaroundMadame Izora’s cabinet. Even as dear Spenser here –’ she laid animpulsive hand on the millionaire’s shoulder (Lydia saw him flinch as ifthreatenedwith a rotting fish) – ‘hadwritten already, upon his secret card,askingthespiritsabouttheUndead.’‘Itwasallabouta–adreamI’dhad.’Thehawk-facedmillionairebrought

thewordsoutclumsily.Lydiawasfairlycertainby this timethatheusuallyhad his secretary, the sleek youngMrOliverCochran, tell his lies for him.‘Thefirstnightonboardship, itwas,and it isn’t likeme todream.Almostneverdo.Shookmeup,Icantellyou.’

‘Spenser dreamedof the vampire.’The princess lowered her voice, drewLydia closer, dark eyes burning. ‘He dreamed of that poor girl Pavlina,followingawhisperingvoicedownintoacorridorindeadofnight.Dreamedofadarkfigureenfoldingherinadarkcloak…’Cochrannoddedvigorously.Lydiahadseenmoreconvincingperformances

inheryoungnieces’Christmaspantomimes.‘Thatkindofnonsenseisn’tlikeme,M’am.Don’tevenreadnovels.Butthisdream–thisthingIsawinmydream–lookedtomelikesomethingoutofone.AndallyesterdayIhadthis… this feeling that what I’d seen was true. I’ve been to séances,M’am –hundreds of ’em– and I never felt about ’emwhat I feltwaking from thatdream. I knew that banana-oil Winstanley was spreading around about acrimeofpassion,and“we’vegottheguyandit’sallsafenow”,wasbunkum.’HefixedLydiawiththosesharpblackeyes,asifgauginghowmuchofhis

storyshebelieved.‘Don’tknowhowIknewit.Butthere’ssomethingdownthere.AndHerMajestytellsmeyou’vegonedownandtalkedtothepeopleinvolved.’Thiswasaman,Lydiathought,whosebusinesswastojudgecharacter;to

readwhensomeonewasbluffing,tosenseevasionsorlies.Millionsofdollarsworth of accumulated factories, mines, railroads and banks couldn’t becontrolled, much less added to, by someone who didn’t have a ruthlessinstinctaboutpeopleand–shesuspected–afairlygoodinformationsystemofhisown.Who has he talked to?Howmuch does he guess about why I’m on this

ship?Isthisatrap?Jamiehadtoldherofthetimeswhenhe’dallowedhimselftoberecruited

byGerman or Ottoman Intelligence, turning their own game against them.There’snothingintheworldmoreterrifying,hehadsaid,thanworkingasadouble.Youneverquitegetoverit.Herglance flickeredmomentarily toMrKimball, six feet three inchesof

solidmusclewrappedinthatappallingmustard-browncheck,hisneckbiggeraroundthanhisheadandeyes like twopale-bluechinabeads.Rememberedwhat Heller had said, about it being easy to account for a passenger’sdisappearance.DidIleavesomesign–adroppedhandkerchieforafootprint–inhissuite

lastnight?GoodHeavens,cantheytakefingerprints?If he’d kidnap a vampire – pay and support Dr Barvell in his quest for

whateverawfulpoisonthey’vecomeupwith–inordertokilloffstrikersandtroublemakers,whatelsewouldhedotoprotecthistameassassin?

ButLydiahadworkedherownyearsofmeticulouslyschoolingherself toshownotoneneedle-weightofguiltordreadwhenherfatherorstepmother(or her formidable Nanna) got close to the subject of the books she hadhiddenintheattic;notoneflickerofaneyelidwhenplanswerediscussedthatmightinterferewithherexamstogetintoSomervilleCollege.She’dlongagolearnedhowtobraceherselfforagood,bigliewithoutthesmallesttwitchofhandorlip.She turned her face a little aside, in a way that had always worked for

sneaky, stuck-up Arabella Howard at Madame Chappedelaine’s SelectAcademyforYoungLadies,andsaid ina lowvoice, ‘It soundsmad tome,too, sir. When Tania, and Princess Gromyko, told me about it, I …’ Shelookedbackathim,hereyeswide.‘Therewasagirlatmyschool,yousee.Agirl–Mollie,hernamewas–who…died…’Sheshookherheadwithasortofquickviolence,asiftherecollectionwere

toomuchtoface,evennow.‘It’strue.AndwhenIwentdownwithTania,andheard the girls’mothers – Pavlina’s, and poor little Luzia’s – and themenfrom the villages all talking about… about other things they’d seen, andheard…’‘Here.’TheAmericanlookedforamomentasifhewouldhavegraspedher

elbowperemptorily,thenseemedtorememberhislessonsindeportmentandofferedhisarminstead.‘PleasejoinmeandHerMajestyforacupofcoffee.Wouldyouliketocomewithusandhaveachocolateice,littlegirl?’Hebaredhis big yellow teeth at Miranda in what he obviously thought was anencouragingsmile.Mirandacastahastyglanceathermother–clearlyaghastattheprospect–

andLydiaputahandon thechild’s thin shoulderandstoopeddown toher.‘WouldMrsMarigoldmindifMademoiselleOssolinskacontinuedourtourofthe deck with you? I’m certain Her Highness would let Monsieur andMadamecontinuewithyou…’Sheglancedbackattheprincess,whonoddedatonce.‘IhavesecretstotalkwithMrCochran.Deep,darksecrets.’Mirandatiptoed,andwhenLydiadrewcloseryet,whispered,‘Willyoutell

melater?’Lydiametherdaughter’seyes–coffee-brown,likeJamie’s–andnodded.

THIRTEEN

‘What are they saying below decks?’ Cochran leaned across the delicatewicker table in the Willow Grove Café and grasped Lydia’s hand. ‘Doesanyonedowntherehaveany ideasofwhere this thingmightbehiding?Wecannotrisksuchamonstercomingashore,’headdedsententiously.‘ThismaybeouronlychancetodestroythisthingbeforewereachNewYork.Ifitgetsashore theconsequences toAmericawillbeunthinkable!TherearenosuchevilbeingsintheUnitedStates.’Lydiaputonaterrifiedexpression,andraisedahandtoherlipsasthough

tostifleagasp.Princess Natalia Nikolaievna asked, with great interest, ‘Truly? No

vampiresinAmerica?’‘NoneI’vebeenabletohearof.’Cochranshookhisheadandstartedtosay

something(Lydiaguessed)inproofofthisstatistic,thenseemedtorememberthathisbeliefintheUndeadwassupposedonlytodatefromthebeginningofthisvoyage.‘Imakeitmybusinessto–um–informmyselfaboutpeoples’beliefs.’ Personally, Lydia suspected that he’d searched very carefully forvampires in his own country before taking steps to import the commodityfromEurope.‘Andofcourse,MrsCochran,growingupasshedidinthecountryoutside

of Charleston, has heard every Negro superstition and folk tale in thecountryside.’Thewaiterappearedwithteaandcoffee,petitsfours,biscuits,andasmall

dish of poached pears for Cochran. He remembered all their names – his,Lydiarecalled,wasWilliam–andevenaskedafterthehealthofMonsieurleDuc and Madame la Duchesse. Cochran wiped the spoon with hishandkerchief, tasted a mouthful of the pears, and snapped, ‘You call thesepoached?’Williamtookthembacktothekitchen,withapologies.Lydia recalled her own investigations of property, interlocking bank

accounts,curiouslylinkedwills,whichhadledhertovampiresandvampirenests.TheUndeadobsessionwithowningmultiplerefuges–withthepowerthatmoneycansupply–madethemrelativelyeasytotrace,ifoneknewwhatonewaslookingfor.

Ifonebelievedtheyexistedinthefirstplace.You took that much trouble and expense, all so that you could kill the

peoplewhodaretoquestionyourtreatmentofyourworkers.‘Sofar,’sheansweredslowly,‘IthinktheItaliansandtheSlovenesandthe

Russians – the ones who already believe in… in vampires –’ (Rememberyou’reonlyjustcomingtothisbeliefyourself.)–‘arestillsoshockedthatallthey’re thinking of is protecting themselves. When I was down there thismorning, they were all wearing rosaries around their necks – except theBelgians and some of the SudetenGermans – and I sawmost of the cabindoorshadcrossesmarkedonthem.’Cochrangrimacedalittleatthat–Lydiarecalledhisremarksaboutpeasant

superstitionsfromtheirfirstdinnerontheCityofGold,andthecross-shapedsilverburnonDonSimon’swrist.‘Somepeople,’shewenton,‘—there’saSudetenSlovenenamedVodusek,

andamannamedMarek,thegrandfatheroftheyoungmanwho’saccusedofthe first murder – are pretty vocal about there being a vampire, and morepeoplearestartingtolistentothem.OldFatherKirn–and…andI,too–fearthatpeoplearegoingtopanic,andstartturningoneachother.Thougharen’tvampiresonlysupposedtocomeoutatnight?Soitcouldn’tbeanyonedownthere—’‘No!’protestedNatalia,settingdownhercoffeecup.‘Theupírwalkabout

inthedaylight,ofcoursetheydo—’TheAmerican half-opened hismouth to tell her they did nothing of the

kind,thenshutitagain.HeproddedthepearsthatWilliambroughtbackforhimfromthekitchen,andsentthemawayagain.‘Whatthehelliswrongwiththosenigs theygotworking in thekitchen?Theyneverseenapearbefore?Andthatdishwasfilthy.’‘Daylight robs the Undead of their powers,’ continued the princess,

delicatelysqueezinganetting-wrappedlemonsliceintoherteacup.‘Asdoesthesea.Onlyatthehourofnoon,orofmidnight,orattheturningofthetide,does their strength return for a little time. In thedaylight hours they are asmortalmen,saveforthecoldnessoftheirflesh,andthestenchofdecaythatlingersintheirfleshandontheirbreath.Thatisthegreatfear.’Sheloweredhervoice,andleanedclose.‘Thatisthegreatdanger.Thatany

one of those people – or any one in Second Class, or in First – might bevampir,nosferatu.’Lydiamadeherselfglancearoundinaffrightandforcedherselfnottosay,

Nonsense!She supposed it was amore rational belief than the truth: thatwhen the

disease of vampirism (which Lydia suspected was what the Dutch

microbiologistBeijerinckcalledavirusinplants)tookhold,ittransmutedtheverynatureofhumanflesh.AsDonSimonhadsaid,cellbycell, itbecamesomething other than it had been. Really, to those unfamiliar with thechemicalprocessesofdecayitwouldmakemoresense,thattheUndeadaresimplywalkingcorpses.‘Ihope–Itrust,’theprincesswentonearnestly,‘thatFatherKirnhastaken

whatstepsarenecessary, toguarantee that thispoorchild, thispoorgirl,donotthemselvesbecomenosferatu—’‘Isthattrue?’Lydiacouldalmostheartheclickingofwheelsasthemillionaireturnedhis

intentgazeonheragain.‘Thatthosethevampirebites,becomevampiresintheirturn?’Shebitback,Ofcoursenot!There’smoretoitthanthat!butrealizedthat

wassomethingelsethatsheherselfwouldn’tknow.Natalianoddedvigorously. ‘Unless theyarestakedthroughtheheart,and

theirheadscutoff; theirmouthsstuffedwithgarlicorwiththeearthfromagraveyard—’Where inHeaven’s namewould you get that on shipboard? ‘FatherKirn

seemed to think,’Lydia interposed diffidently, ‘that putting a rosary aroundtheir necks, and a piece of theHost in theirmouths,would have the sameeffect…’Shepaused,asWilliamreturnedoncemore,withnewpears,acleanspoon,

and–obviouslyhavingwaitedonMrCochranbefore–afreshnapkin.‘In any case,’ she added, remembering some of the more melodramatic

incidentsofDracula–andtheburnonDonSimon’snarrowwrist–‘Ishouldthinkifthevictimshadbeen…beentransformed…’Shejuststoppedherselffromsayinginfected,‘theHostandtheCrosswouldhaveburnedthem,anditdidn’t.’Theprincessnodded,muchstruckbythisargument,andCochrancouldn’t

hidehislookofdiscontent.Whetherthiswasbecausehesuspectedhewasn’tgetting accurate information, or at learning that vampires couldn’t bepropagated like sweet potatoes – or because the pears still weren’t to hisliking –Lydia couldn’t determine.DearHeavens, I hope he doesn’t take itintohisheadtoseeifthatbusinessofwalkingaboutinthedaylightistrue!‘Willyouhelpme?’ThemillionairelookedfromLydia’sfacetothatofthe

princess,almoststrainingwiththeeffortofmakingarequestinsteadofeithera demand, a threat, or an offer of money. ‘It is imperative that we – aseducated believers in these terrible fiends – find this thing before theseignorantpeasantsdo.Why,ifthesethingsdomultiplyjustbyabite–ifthis

priest of yours can’t get to them in time – the consequences would beterrible!’Youmean, thought Lydia, the consequences would be terrible if Gospod

Vodusek and his mates do manage to get up a mob and find the vampirebeforeyoucanbringitunderyourcontrolasyou’vebroughtpoorSimon.‘Weknowitmustbehidingsomewhereonthelowerdecks.’Theprincess

stirredhertea,tastedit,andgrimaced.Williammaterializedlikeagenieathershoulder,murmuringhowitmustbecoldandcouldhegetMadameafreshcup?Whenhe’dgone,shewenton,‘Taniahasmademanyfriendsamongthechildren, and their parents as well. The girl Ariane Zirdar, seems to havetaken it upon herself to organize them – the children, I mean – to keeptogether, and she andTania speakwhenTaniagoesdown toFDeck.Taniacantellmeallofwhatisbeingsaid.’‘Good!’Cochran turnedhisattentiononLydia. ‘Yousaidyouweredown

therethismorning,thatyouspoketothegirl’smother,andtheparentsofthisboywho’ssupposedtohavekilledthebohunkgirl.AndthisFatherWhat’s-His-Name…?’‘FatherKirn.’‘Do you speak their lingo? Enough to overhear what they say to each

other?’‘OnlyFrench,andalittleGerman.’Themangrunted,andsippedhismineralwater.‘Youknow,MrsAsher,’he

said slowly, ‘it was foolish of you to speak to that man Heller. And it isHeller,Iknowit is,andtohellwithwhathispaperssay.He’s lyingtoyou.He’swantedinGermanyforrobbery,rapeandmurder.WhileIdoubthe’dbesostupidastocommitoneofhiscrimeson-boardship,myself,Idon’ttrustanymanwho’s too lazy towork for his living –much less onewho goesaround blaming everybody else for how tough his life is. You want to becarefulhowyoudealwithhim.’Lydiawidenedhereyes.‘Howdreadful!’shegasped.‘Andhewassogood

abouttranslatingwhattheotherssaid!Perhaps,afterall,I’dbestnotgodownthere…’‘No, no,’ Cochran reassured her hastily. ‘I’m sure you’ll be perfectly all

right dealing with him. It’s perfectly safe to use him, to get on with ourgreatercause.Just–um–becarefularoundhim.Anddon’tbelieveawordhesays.’‘Oh.’Lydianoddedwithanexpressionofrelief.‘Oh,Isee.’Natalia looked as if she would have protested at that. And no wonder!

reflectedLydia indignantly.Not the coarsest of the soldiers she’dknownattheFrontwouldhaveurgedhertoassociatewithamanknowntobearapist

andakiller,notiftherewereahundredvampiresbreedinglikerabbitsinthecoal-bunkers. For as long as it took Lydia to drink another cup of tea andCochran to snaphis fingers forWilliamandorderanotherportionofpears,she listened to the American’s further animadversions on Socialists: theirruthlessness,theirtreasonousalliancewithGermany,theirattemptstocrippleAmerica’sindustriesandsabotageitsrailroadsandmines.After tenminutes,Aunt Louise entered theWillowGrove andmade her

waypurposefullytowardstheirtable.‘Goodgrief,lookatthetime!’Cochranjumpedtohisfeet.‘YourMajesty–’heturnedtotheprincess–‘wouldyourgoodMrs Izorabeavailable thisevening, foraconsultationabout this?Weshouldn’t neglect even the irrational, in search of this abomination. You’llbothrememberwhatIsaid?’Hedividedhisglancebetweentheprincess,Lydia,andthespeediestroute

awayfromAuntLouise.‘Wemustfindthisthing–andwemustfinditbeforethosedagoignoramusesinThirdClassdo.It’dprobablybebestifneitherofyoubreathedawordtothemaboutwhatwe’redoing–huntingforthisthing.’Lydiasaid,‘Ofcourse!’andNataliaNikolaievnanoddeddecisively.‘Bien sûr! The Slavic soul has great intuition, and mystical powers of

perception,butitisundisciplined.Aswehaveseeninmypoorcountry,theirhearts arepure, but one cannot always count on the actionsof the ignorantamongthem.Notaword!’AuntLouisewasgettingcloseandMrCochranstrodeoffonacoursethat

wouldkeepatleastacoupleoftablesbetweenherandhimself.Heleftnotip.‘Irrationalindeed!’Theprincessscowledafterthatwell-tailoredback.‘So

American!And those teeth!Barbare!Yet it is good to have an ally in oursearchforthismonster.Wewillfindit,’sheadded.‘Wemustfindit,whileitisstillhere,inthissmallspace.Whilethemagnetismoftheoceanstillbindsitspowersandrendersithelpless.’‘Wewill,’agreedLydiasoftly,andlookedoutthroughthelongwindowsat

theocean;sapphire-blackandendlessunderachilly,endlesssky.Ifwe’renottorpedoedfirst.

FOURTEEN

Lydiaspenttheremainderofthedaylighthoursgivingherdaughter’sdollaguided tourof the ship,whileMirandaherselfprovidedMrsMarigoldwithinstructive but odd glosses upon Lydia’s statements: ‘They braid hair fromunicorns’tailsintotheropes,’sheinformedthedoll,afterLydiahadpointedout the lockerwhere thecableswerekept (couldavampirehide in there?).‘Unicornhaircan’tbebroken.’Lydiawonderedwhereonearthherdaughterhadacquiredthispieceoflore

– is love of folk tales hereditary? ‘Then how do they cut the cables to thelengththeyneed?’sheinquired.Mirandaregardedherwithslightsurpriseandanunspoken,anybodyknows

that.‘Theyburnthem,withacandle.’‘Itisverywrongofyoutoencourageher,’AuntLouiseinformedher,when

she came into Lydia’s stateroom (without knocking) later, as Lydia waschanging for dinner. ‘Superstitionmakes children light-minded and impairstheir ability to concentrate. I daresay she’ll becomeaddicted tonovels, likeLavinnia’sgirls.IinstructedMrsFrushtobreakthechildofthehabitandshehasreportedconsiderableprogresseveninthepasttwodays.’Lydia had heard all aboutMrs Frush fromMiranda,who said the nanny

would tell onlyonebedtime storyper night and those, thedullest the childhadeverheard. ‘All about littlegirlswhogot togo topartiesbecause theydidn’t get their dresses dirty. I’m glad she only tells me one.’ Lydia andMirandahadhadstory timealready thatafternoon, sitting inanookbehindthelifeboats.‘Itwouldn’tbenicetoaskherforanotherone,’Lydiahadpointedout.‘She

may only know just enough for one a night all theway across the ocean.’Mirandahadnodded,understanding.Storytime–sinceLydiahadneverseenthepointofbedtimestoriesanddidn’tknowevenenoughforoneanight–hadalwaysconsistedofMirandatellinghermotherstories,aboutprincesseswho ran away to live with bears, and fish who blew bubbles to help beescollecthoneyfromunderwaterflowers.(‘Thebeeshadtopaytheminhoney,butyougetbetterhoneyfromunderwaterflowersthanyoudofromtheonesthatgrowingardens.’)

ButLydiahaddiscoveredthat,dearlyasshelovedherchild–orperhapsasaresultoftheafternoon’sintimacy–evenMiranda’scompanyhadnotservedtodistracthermind, thewayvampirehuntinghaddone,fromthedangerofsubmarines.Fromnearlyanypointonthepromenadedeck,she’dbeenabletoseethelookoutsintheirtallcrow’s-nests(‘They’rewatchingforsubmarines,’MirandahadconfidedtoMrsMarigold.‘They’regoingtotorpedous,becauseofthewar.’).Shehadbeenfrightened,pokingaroundinthedeepsofthehold,evenwithHeller at her side: she knew how quickly vampires could strike.The thought of Miranda drowning in those freezing sapphire-black depthsvisible beyond the deck-railings made her sick with terror, and sometimesalmostblottedallotherthought.NotMiranda…Maybe it’sbecause I’vedealtwithvampires, she thought, asEllen gently

worked the skin-tight lilac kid of her glove over her powdered fingers andAuntLouisecontinuedhermonologueabouttheproperwaytoraisechildren.TheUndeadwere terrifying, swift and pitiless and almost unstoppable, butsheknewthem.SubmarineswerelikethegunsattheFront.One moment you were talking to a man in the sandbagged deeps of a

trench,and thenextyouwere trying tostop thebleedingof tornarteriesonhis screaming, half-dismembered torso for the twominutes and forty-sevenseconds(she’dclockeditevenwhileapplyingtourniquets)thatittookhimtodie.FirstClassdinnerwasateight.TheFirstClasspassengersbegantogather

intheglass-domedfoyerataboutseventhirty,tochat–chatbeingthechiefoccupationofanoceanvoyage,Lydiawasfindingout.Nearthefrosted-glassdoorssheglimpsedCaptainPalfrey,enmeshedinconversationwithayoungcouplenamedAllen(‘Thetrick,yousee,istoputyourmoneyintoaholdingcompany to get around all those regulations…’),whom she’d seen on thepromenade.Closeby,AuntLouisewasdiscoursing to the fascinated-lookingDrBarvell about the countries and raceswhichexistedon the insideof theEarth,whichwashollow,withsecretentrancesatthepoles.DrBarvellalwaysappeared fascinated when any woman of sufficient wealth spoke to him –Lydia had seen him hang breathlessly on every word while Mrs Cochrandescribedabridgehand.MrTilcott fetched her a glass of very excellent sherry, and proceeded to

enlighten her on his family’s contributions toAmerican higher culture, andtheprecisesourcesofhisfamily’sincome.(‘Papawouldnevertouchthekindof shady holding companies that Cochran hides behind.’) The moment heturnedhisheadtoansweryoungMrOliverCochran’sgreeting,Lydiaexcused

herselfanddartedthroughthedoubledoorsandoutintothecolddarknessofthedeck.As shewalkedquickly along thepromenade shedonnedherglasses, and

pulled tight around her arms the beaded silk wrap which had been warmenoughtogetfromthePromenadeSuitestothefoyer.Throughbreaksinthecloud-cover crystal-cold stars were visible, arching down to an ink-blackhorizon; the wind was bitter.Anything, she thought, gazing at the shiftingblackness,couldbeoutthere.Thevampire–theothervampire–can’tgetupontoFirstClass…canit?Not if it’s been hiding down in the grease and soot of the lower decks.

Stewardswereposted–discreetly–neareverygangwaythatledtoDecksD,E,F,and lower,andat ten,Lydiaknew, thewiregrillesat the topsof thesegangwayswouldbelocked.It’snowherenearmidnight.The thought brought no reassurance. Even without illusion, the Undead

couldmove unnoticed as cats in shadows. The still face of the girl on therefrigeratedslabreturnedtoher;thechildonthebunkinthatcrowdedcabin.Thebruised,pinchedlookofthetornfleshoftheirthroats…‘Mistress.’Andtherehewas.DonSimonYsidro,hiswhiteshirtfrontlikeashredof

ectoplasmintheshadowsofthefurledsunshades.Hishandswere icywhen shegripped them,even throughhisgloves and

hers.‘Didheletyouout?’‘You had been proud ofme, Lady –’ the scarred side of his face pulled

askewwithamomentary,bittersmile–‘towitnesshowIabasedmyselftohiswill.’ Inhisexpressionless toneshecaught thebitternessofamanwhohasbowedtonooneinhislife.‘Hebelievedyou,then?’‘Ihaveseenmenenough,whentheInquisitionbroketheirwills, toknow

what to say, and how to say it convincingly. Proud men, until they wereshown the instruments.’ The shrug was barely a flex of his lips. Vagrantbreezestirredhislonghair.‘Andindeed,whereonthisshipcanIgo?ImustneedsreturntoBarvellforantidote,eremanyhourspass.’Lydiastudiedhis face in silence.His true face, she reflected.Theonehe

needed the vampire ‘glamour’ to conceal. A skull barely masked by thestretchedwhite skin, eyes sunken and fangs visiblewith eachword that hespoke.Shebarely noticed it now, save to remarkwhether hewasusinghisskillstoconcealhistruenatureornot.Undeadfaceorthefeaturesofthemanhehadbeen,hewaswhathewas.

Vampire. The terrified passengers in Third Class would need no urgingfromthelikesofVodusekandFatherKirn to tearhimtopiecesanddriveastakethroughhisheart.Nowondervampiresavoidmirrors.‘Didhecommandthatyoufindthisothervampire?’‘E’enso.Asitisimpossibleformetowalkamongthelivingpassengers–

beingunable tomaskmyselffromtheireyes,savefor theminutesoneithersideofmidnight–Ishallengagemyselfthusthroughthedeepofthenight.Iwouldtakeitasakindness–nay,asahelpnighindispensable–ifyouwouldjoinme.’‘Ofcourse.’‘Knowyouwherethetwovictimslie?Theyounggirlandthechild?’‘They’veputasideoneofthepantry’srefrigeratorcompartmentsforthem.

FatherKirnwent in thisafternoon, Iunderstand,and–IsupposeonecouldsayhevampireproofedpoorPavlina’sbody,withholyoilandacrossandapieceof theHost inhermouth. It’sall…It isallbosh, isn’t it?Thewholeidea of someone turning into a vampire just because they’ve been bitten?You’ve toldmevampires aremadebymastervampires, and that theymustconsent…’‘’Tis,asyousay,Mistress,bosh, thoughIdaresay thefamiliesof thegirl

andthechild–nottospeakofalltheotherpassengersofThirdClass–willsleepsounderbecauseof it. Ifanycansleepsound,’headdedquietly, ‘whohavelostonesobeloved.Knowyouiftheykeepvigil?Good.’Shehadshakenherhead.Butsomethinginhisexpression–inthepinchof

paininhisbrows–madeherask,‘Whatisit?’Itwasthefirst timeshehadheardhimspeakoftheparents,thefriends,ofthevictimsoftheUndead,saveaspotentialavengers.Aspossiblethreats.‘Naught.’ One finger moved dismissively. ‘Can we get into the cold

chamber,oncethekitchenstafffinishtheirwork?Excellent.Whenmidnightnears –’ he took her hand, as the faint, mellow note of the dinner-gongsoundedinthedistance–‘bringJohnPalfreytome,here,thatImayreassurehimanddevisesomemeansofcommunicationthatwillnotentailhisseeingmethus.’‘I’vesetupaletterbox,asJamiewouldcallit.Farrightendofthesecond

shelfontheright-handside,intheSecondClasslibrary.’‘Excellent woman!’ He brought her hand to his lips. ‘Bring him to this

place at a quarter of midnight – ’twill give you ample time to attend thisséanceoftheirs–andafterwards,youandIcansearchthelowerdecks,whenallsleep.Weshallfindthiscreatureyet.’‘That’swhatCochransaidtomethisafternoon.Simon—’

Herhandtightenedonhis,whenhewouldhavewithdrawnitandvanished.Only he could not, she realized, simply vanish, the way he usually did,masking himself from her eyes or making her think she’d only seen adissolvingshredofmist.Hewas,likeherself,aprisonerofhisflesh,closertohisdaysoflivingmanhoodthanhehadbeeninthreecenturies.‘Lady?’Shehadmeanttoaskhim,whatthatflinchofpainhadbeenafewmoments

before,whenhe’dspokenofthosewhohadlostonetheyloved,totheneed–orthegreed–oftheUndead.Butshefoundshecouldnot.‘What would a vampire be doing here?’ she asked instead. ‘On a ship,

whereit’sallbuthelpless,evenwithoutsubmarinesandtorpedoesthrownin?WhyleaveEurope,whenitcouldsimplygototheFrontand…andrevel indeath.’DonSimon,lookingquietlyintohereyes,shookhishead.‘Thisisanother

ofthemanythingsIfindmostoddaboutthissituation.’‘I can’t even see that it has a servant onboard– thewayyou’ve always

gottensomeonetotravelwithyou,todealwithproblemsduringthedaytime.It’s powerless, the same way you are, save for those minutes just aroundmidnight,whichmustbewhenitmakesitskills.Iftheshipistorpedoed,evenbynightitcouldonlysurviveinalifeboatuntilfirstlight.Byday,iftheshipgetssenttothebottom,itwillhavetogowithit,entombedandconscious…’She shook her head, cold with horror at the thought. Entombed and

consciousforever…‘IthoughtitmightbeoneoftheRussianvampires,’shewenton.‘Buteven

withtheriotinginStPetersburg,that’snoreasontohavetofleeEurope.Andvampiresaren’t–youaren’t–political,sofarasIknow.’‘Wearenot.’Hisyelloweyesnarrowed.‘E’enhadtheriotinginPetersburg

progressedbeyondwhatthenewspaperssaidlastweek,thevampiresofthatcity,andofMoscow,allhavecountryplacesinwhichtohide–if,indeed,anyremaininRussiaatall.Butthistraveler…Havingkilledonce,whywouldhekilltwice?Isthereonlyone?’Andheshookhisheadatthestartledhorrorinher eyes. ‘I shall bemuch interested inwhat this Izorawoman has to say.Listenforthosethingswhichshecannothavelearnedfromthegossipofthemaids – if anything. For there is something happening which I do notunderstand,andthat,’heconcludedquietly,‘isneveragoodthing.’

FIFTEEN

AsherreturnedtotheRuedePassythatsamenight.TheHotelMontadourwasstilldark.Thewindhadstartedup, turning theday’s thin rain todrivingneedlesof

ice.TheCityofGoldwouldbeplowingheavyseasunderstarlightwhiletheU-boatsthatalmostcertainlyfollowedhercouldglideinstilldarknessbelow.He wondered if Lydia were asleep. Or did she lie awake amid a strew ofbooks and magazines over the counterpane, wrapped in her green satindressing gown, coppery hair lying half-uncoiled over her shoulders andspectaclesperchedontheendofhernose?HasshefoundYsidro?Hasshekilledhim?Willshekillhim?He knocked on the door of the porter’s lodge, the blows echoing like a

bronze hammer in the silence beyond. A wet gust tore at the skirts of histrenchcoat,rainspatteringoffhispulled-downhat.Thethoughtcrossedhismind,ashemovedoffdowntheemptyblackness

ofthestreet,thatifU-boatstorpedoedtheAmericanlinertonight,hehimselfwouldn’thearofitfordays.Theycouldbealreadydead,andallofthis–allofeverything,alloflife–

fornothing.He’d been in the Secret Service – he’d associated with the London

vampires–fartoolongtothinkthatanydespairingcryofhisheart–no!!!–wouldn’tbewhippedawaybydarknesslongbeforeitreachedtheearofGod.AndGodprobablyhadagreatdealelse todo tonight. Itwouldbeblowingsleet in that wretched camp in the black Silesian forests, where the menthoughthewasMajorvonRabewasser,wherepoorlittleDissel,hisbatman,huddled beside the smoky fire in their tent praying he wouldn’t freeze bymorning.Theman’saGerman,myenemy.Ishouldn’tcare.IshouldbepreparedtoshoothimaspromptlyanddiscreetlyasIshotmy

youngfriendJanvanderPlatz,behindthebarnofhisfamily’sfarmsteadnearJohannesburg,whenhebegan–onlybegan–tosuspectme…

Handslikethesteelringsofaviseclosedonhisarmsandhewasshovedintoadoorway;cold-clawedfingerscaughtathisthroatandjerkedbackfromthe silverhewore.Reflectiveeyes flashed in thedistantglowof awindowdownthestreet.Hehadn’tevenseenthemsurroundhim.Hismindhadbeensomewhereelse.Hetriedtowrenchfreeasoneofthemcaughtthefrontofhiscoat,jerked

himforwardsoastosmashhisskullagainstthebrickofthewallbehindhim…‘It’sMadame’sAnglais,’saidsomeone.Hegrabbedthewristofthemanwhogrippedhiscoat,steeledagainstthe

blowifitwascoming.‘IneedtoseeMadame.’Heknewhe’dstandabetterchanceofsurvivingthenextfivesecondsifhecaughttheirinterest.Theywerearoundhim, like sharks in thewater,grippinghisarmsagain.

Still he felt thewhisper thatwent among them– theywere entertained.Heknew they could hear the hammering of his heart. The terror of the livingalwaysamusedthem.Theyloveditwhensomeonesobbeddespairingly,No!They pushed him back against the panels of a door, deep-set in a soot-

grimedwall.Threeofthem,allyoungmen,thoughthey’dprobablybeenbornbefore his grandfather. All in evening dress: he could see them silhouetteddimly against the reflection of windows across the street. Smelled Parmavioletintheirclothing,andstaleblood.‘Madame has left Paris.’ A trace of Norman dialect, stronger than he’d

heard those fewhours crossing throughRennes on hisway toBrest. Therewas an archaic inflection, such as one sometimes heard on the ChannelIslands.Thespeaker–nomorethanadarkshape–wasastallashimself,andwider-shouldered.Ashercouldhearthesmileofcruelamusementinhistone.Youthinkyoucandistractus,talkyourwayoutofdeath.Butwewillkillyouandyouknowit…Keeping his voice matter-of-fact, Asher said, ‘Then perhaps one of you

gentlemancanhelpme.TherewasamannamedBarvell inParis,achemistwho claimed to be a nerve doctor aswell. I have reason to believe hewasstudyingtheUndead.’‘Neverheardofhim.’Therewasanalmostchildlikegleeinthevoice.See,

there’snothingyoucansay…‘He was working on coming up with a way to enslave and control

vampires.Hehasexperimentedonatleastone,maybemore.’It was a bow drawn at a venture but beside him, he felt the slightest

perceptible twitch in thegriponhisrightarm.Thevampireholdinghimonthatsidesaid,inthelightvoiceofayouth,‘Sothat’swhat—’

Thetallvampiremovedhishead,slightly,andtheyouthbesideAsherfellsilent.‘HehadanapartmentontheRueMonceau.’‘Noone controlsus.’The tall vampire releasedhisgriponAsher’s coat-

front.Coldhandsframedhisface.‘Nooneenslavesus.NotMadame,forallherairsandgraces.Andonlyafoolbelievestherumorsofwartime.Heisanevenbiggerfool,whogoesseekingtheUndeadintheirlairs.’‘Serge!’ThevoiceofElyséedeMontadour,comingfromthestreetbehind

them,was like the chopof a silver knife. In the same instantAsher kickedSerge,knowingtheblowwoulddoabsolutelynothingbutknowingalsothathe had nothing to lose.He heardElysée’s voice as Serge twisted his head,tryingtobreakhisneck.Thekickatleastknockedthevampire’sbalanceandtiming askew and the next second Serge was torn away from him andslammed against the corner of the doorway in which they stood. Ashertwisted free, leaving his trench coat in the hands of the vampires on eithersideofhimandlungedpastSerge,stumbling,hissensesswimming.At thishour of the night, in the blackness of the sleet-wet street, he guessed he’dmakeitaboutthreestepsbeforethey’dbeonhim.He fell,butheardElyséecurse likea sailor, standingabovehim,andher

threefledglings–despiteSerge’searlierassertion–evidentlydidn’twanttochallenge the master vampire who had made them. When Asher turnedpainfullyoverandsatup,onlyElyséewastherebesidehim.‘Connards.’Shepulledhimtohisfeetwiththefrighteningstrengthofthe

Undead. ‘Iwill have to dealwith that conceitedwhoreson one day.Why IeverlovedhimI’msureIdon’tknow.’‘Didyoulovehim?’Asherturnedhishead,verycarefully,andfeltbloodin

hishairwherethevampire’sclawshadgouged.‘Doyoulovethem?’Elyséewidenedher great green eyes at him. ‘But of course!Whywould

onemakeavampireofamanthatonedidnotlovepassionately?Thatonedidnotwishtokeepatone’ssideforever?Butwhatablock-head!’Shetouchedhisbleedingscalp,lickedthebloodfromherfingersandthensmelledthem,as if savoring the residue of perfume.Asher backed away fromher secondtouch,tookahandkerchieffromhispocketanddabbedatthecuts,thenkneltto daub the cloth in the puddles underfoot, and wiped the blood morethoroughlyaway.Whenhewentintothedoorwaytoretrievehistrenchcoat,hedroppedthehandkerchief there;she’dsmell it inhispocketanditwoulddistracther.Hewasaware that sheglanced towards it, stilldrawn to theblood-smell,

beforeshereturnedherattentionpolitelytohim.Hewasremindedofachildeyeingthelastcookieontheluncheonplate.

‘I am desolated that I was not here last night. Did you come, you sillyman?’Sheputherarmthroughhis,drewhiminthedirectionofherowndoor.‘IaskedSerge,andLouis-Claud–andI’mverymuchafraidthatLouis-Claudsuggested the most diverting hunt yesterday evening, for some drunkenAustralianswhohadlosttheirwaydownbytheriver.WasIverynaughty?’Sheleanedagainsthim,andAsherfoughttheimpulsetothrustheraway.Asifshefelthisdisgustathershesmiledathim,andinthesamefashion

that inattention and thoughts of his responsibilities had, ten minutes ago,sweptallwatchfulnessfromhismind,hefeltthewarmwaveofhersexualitysurge around him, as it had two nights before: the nearly-uncontrollableimpulsetopullhertohim,tokissthoseblood-redlips.Topushupherskirtsandhaveherinthenearestdoorway.Withcarefulcalmhesaid, ‘Itwasvexing. I learnedsomefactsThursday,

andtraveledtoBrest,tosendawirelessmessagetoLydiaonboardtheshipwhere,I’mnearlycertain,Ysidroisbeingheldcaptive.’‘Captive?’Thedreamyurgencyoflustsnappedoffasifwiththeturningof

an electric switch. ‘It is true, what you said?’ She straightened up in thedoorwayofthelodge.‘Thatthiswhat’s-his-nameyouspokeof,thisBarvell,hasfoundawaytoenslaveus?’‘I think so, yes.’ Asher scratched a corner of his mustache. ‘Or at least

that’swhathehastobeseeking.Andifhe’sbeeninParissince1913,Ithinkhemusthaveusedatleastonevampireasasubjecttoexperimenton.Yousay–’ he spoke carefully, knowing the Master of Paris was extremely touchyabout any slurs on her absolute command of her territory and fledglings –‘thatyouknoweveryvampireinParis.YetinthepastIknowthattherehavebeensomewhowerenotyourget—’‘Pah!Insects.Ihavedriventhemout.’Hereyesglinteddangerously.‘Areyousure?Because—’She looked sharply past his shoulder, and, following her gaze (with an

agonizingcrampin thebruisedmusclesofhisneck),Ashersaw, in thedimreflectionofthehoodedlampthatnowburnedoverthelodgedoor,thattheyhad been joined by another. Dark eyes caught the feeble lamp glow likemirrors, and his hair, slickwith brilliantine,was fair. The high cheekbonesandcupid-bowlips,thedelicateGreciannoseandwell-shapedchin,wereallverymuchthe‘type’thatElyséedeMontadourfavored,andliketheothersofher fledglings that he’d seen, this one seemed to bewearing evening dressunderhisgreatcoat.‘HegetsthemattheFront,’saidtheyoungman,intheyouthfulvoice,and

slightProvençaltrill,thatAsherhadheardminutesbefore.Hiseyebrowswentup.

Elyséesnapped,‘Whodoes?’‘This man – Barvell?’ The fledgling took a step forward, and looked

hesitantly fromElysée toAsher. ‘Augustin–AugustinMalette– I swear toyou, Madame,’ he added, to Elysée, whose eyes had flared wide at thementionof her ‘tricky’ fledgling. ‘Augustin has no thought of disrespect toyou, no thought of challenging you for control of Paris. But he has madefledglings–fourthatIknowof–attheFront.Hesaysthatwhenthefightingisover,hewilltakethemtosomeothercity—’‘Lyingcanaille!’Elyséemovedwiththeterrifyingspeedofthevampire,so

thatAsherdidn’tseeherstrike,butthefairvampirestaggeredandputahandtohisbleedingcheek.‘—BordeauxorBrusselsorMarseilles,’hecontinued,‘andsethimselfup

there. Not that he does not have the deepest respect and love for you,Madame.’ Hand still to his face, he executed a profound and wary bow.‘Pleasedonotdoubtthat.’‘Species of toad!’By the look on her ghost-pale face,Elysée clearly did

doubtit,andwasjustasclearlygoingtohavesomewordswithAugustinonthesubject.ButAsheronlysaid,‘AnddoesAugustin,oroneofhisfledglings,knowof

vampires…disappearing?’‘Two of Augustin’s fledglings, M’sieu. One was a nurse at one of the

clearingstations,amostbeautifulyounglady,theotherayoungcaptainoftheSignal Corps. Augustin…’ The fledgling hesitated, trying to find a tactfulphrase.‘Augustinhasnotthecare–theexperience–toadvisehisfledglings,toguidethemasyoudo,Madame.’Hebowedagain,andtookElysée’shand,tobringit tohislips.‘Thisyoungcaptain, thisyoungnurse, theywereveryinexperienced.TheyhadonlybeennumberedamongtheUndeadforaweek,perhaps ten days.Augustin toldme – somemonths ago itwas, now– thattheyhadbeenkidnapped,disappeared.’Hissharp,youthfulfacetwitchedinalookofconcern,almostfear.‘Hesaid

–thiswasjustafterChristmas,Madame–hesaidtheywerestillalive.Aliveand in terrible pain.He spoke of going to Paris to seek them, but he – hefearedyouwouldbeangryifheconfessedtoyouthathemadefledglingsofhisown.’‘Andwellheshouldbeafraid!’Elysée’shandflickedoutandslappedhim

again,hard.Theyoungmanonlyturnedhisfacemeeklyaside.‘Pig!’‘Ihaveonlyseenhimoncesincethen,Madame,andIdidnotaskwhathad

comeofit.’‘Andyoutoldmenothingofthis?’

‘Madame,’Asherbrokeinquietly,astheenragedvampireshowedsignsofstrikingherfledglingagainand,possibly,drivinghimaway.‘Thisisaseriousmatter.Idon’tknowthecapabilitiesortheexactintentionsofthisDrBarvell– though I have some guesses about the latter. But I do know he’s beingfinancedbyanAmericanindustrialist,andIneedtolearnofhimwhatIcan.NotonlytowhatextentheisabletocontroltheUndead,buthowmanyoftheUndeadhedoescontrol.DonSimonmaynotbetheonlyone.AndDrBarvellmaynothavekepthisfindingstohimself.’Elysée’seyesflaredwithhorror.Shehadn’tthoughtofthat.‘AsAugustin’smaster,wouldyoubeabletofindhimattheFront?’‘Ofcourse!’Shespokesoquicklythatheguessedshehadnoideawhether

she’dbeable to locatehererring fledglingornot. ‘Joël?’She turned to thefairyoungvampire.‘WhereaboutsisAugustin,attheFront?’‘NearNesle,’Joëlreplied.Asher did some rapid mental calculation. ‘Can you meet me there

tomorrow night?’ he asked. ‘I can get authorization to travel, and quitepossiblyamotorcar.’‘Don’tbesilly,’retortedElysée.Shetiltedherheadalittle,listeningtothe

clock on Notre Dame d’Auteuil striking the half-hour. ‘It is not yet twoo’clock.Wecanbetherelongbeforethesunrises.’

‘Darling!’ The princess kissed Lydia on both cheeks, and slipped an armaround her waist as one of her footmen – an American ex-boxer namedSamsonJones,accordingtoEllen’sgossip–resplendentinbluevelvetliverylacedwithgold,shutthesuitedoorbehindLydia,bowed,andhelpedheroffwith her shawl. ‘I am sogladyou could come.How is the little one?Wellasleep? I thought that aunt of yourswouldnever cease her chatter, andherwithouttheslightestknowledgeofwhatitistobeamother.’HervoicedroppedtoawhisperassheledLydiaacrosstheparlor.Asinthe

parlorofAuntLouise’s suitenext-door,Her IllustriousHighnesshadaddedher own touches to the hyper-modern American furniture: a discordantassortmentofpurplevelvetcushions,peacockfeathersinbrassChinesevases(Lydia could almost hear Ellen’s cries of horror at the bad luck evoked bythis, particularly in the middle of the Atlantic with all the U-boats of theKaiserlicheMarineontheirtrail),sinuoussculpturesofebonyandalabaster,assorted photographs and four icons in silver frames. The largest of thephotographs, set prominently on the piano, was of the princess with twochildren,a tow-headedboyandaslightlyoldergirlwhosedarkringletsandheart-shaped face marked her almost definitively as Natalia Nikolaievna’sdaughter.

Bythestyleofclothing,thephotographhadbeentakenjustbeforetheWarbegan.Lydiahadneverheardtheprincesssomuchasmentionthechildren,and wondered where they were now. In a couple of Select Academies inSwitzerland?Orhadshe,likehermaid,lostthem?WasthatwhathaddrawnhertoMadameIzoraandconversationswiththedead?Beside that likeness, nearly as large and in a frame of unmistakable

Fabergéwork,wasaphotographofMonsieurandMadame, the twoFrenchbulldogs.TherewasalsoasolidsilvericonoftheVirginofKazan.‘Of course,’ Aunt Louise proclaimed from the inner room into which

Natalia ledLydia, ‘it isn’t the same thing as superstition at all. Lydia, takethose ridiculous glasses off! They make you look like an insect!CommunicationwithspiritsontheAstralPlane,’sheresumed,turningbacktoMrsCochran,‘hasbeenscientificallyproven,incontrovertibly,timeandtimeagain.’‘Incontrovertibly,’echoedMrsCochran,movingupbesideherattheround

pedestaltable–itsglassandchromesurface,Lydianoted,suitablycoveredinblack velvet. The handsome Dr Barvell helped her into her chair, withconsiderably greater attention than Cochran demonstrated. The room – theequivalentofLydia’sownchamberinthenext-doorsuite–wasalargeone,itswindowsheavilycurtainedinblackvelvetwhichhadclearlybeenaddedtothesuite’sexistingdraperies.Notashredoflightcanenter…Of course, she recalled. Spirit contact was supposed to be impossible in

daylight.Lest accident disrupt the etheric vibrations, the bulbs had been removed

fromtheelectricalfixturesandtwooillampssubstituted(didshebringthose,too?),glowingwithasoftgoldenlight.BetweenthewindowsthemysteriousboxthathaddrawnLydia’sattentiononthegangwayWednesdayloomedlikeapeakintheGrampians:shecouldn’timaginehowithadbeenbroughtintothe stateroom.Closer to, she recognized it as a structure similar to the oneshe’dseenattheséancewhichhercousinshadheldatPeasehallManorlastsummer,whenshe’dbeenhome,briefly,fromFrance.Mediums(media?),hercousinMaria had informed her, called them ‘spirit cabinets’; their functionwas to ‘focus astral energies’ or ‘act as a spiritual battery’.As far asLydiacould tell, their actual function was to conceal behind their black velvetcurtains the fact that themediumhim-or-herself couldeasily slipoutof theropes thatboundhimhandandfoot,andsoproduceallsortsofsoundsandeffectswhilesupposedlytiedup.Itresembledalargearmoire,somesevenfeettallandmountedontrestles

which raised it another twelve inches from the floor. Black velvet curtainshungover its open door. (Heaven only knowswhat’s inside it.) Though the

stateroomwasgenerouslyproportioned,thecabinettookupagreatdealofit.Additionallyanddisconcertingly,alongthewallatrightanglestoittherewasa sort of platformwhich could have been two trunks placed end-to-end, oronetrunkeasilylargeenoughtocontainahumanbody.Itwasdifficulttotell,becauseyetanotherblackvelvetpallcoveredthewhole.HerearlierconversationwithDonSimonreturnedtoher.Surelynot…?Lydiacastastartledglanceattheprincess,whowasdirectingthefootman

Zhenya in shifting the eight chromium chairs around the central table.Everyonewasbumpingelbowsandtripping.Sixbellsrestedonitstopofthedrapedplatform,eachcoveredwithaglassdome,and,alsocoveredinglass,aslate.Lydia,whenshemadetheexcuseofsteppingoutofMrCochran’swayandputherhandontopofthealmost-six-footplatform,didn’tfeelabreakinthesurfacebeneaththecloth.Itcouldalmosthavebeenacoffin.GoodHeavens, isMadame Izora the servant of this other vampire?With

theprincessasherdupe?She removed her glasses again beforeAunt Louise – expounding on the

natureoftheSuperiorRacetoDrYakunin–couldgettoherfeettotakethemforcibly from her face, and glanced quickly at Mr Cochran, who alsoappearedtobestudyingtheplatformorwhateveritwasunderthosedraperies.With the lampsso lowitwas impossible to tell,andshecouldn’t thinkofaconvincingreasontolookunderthedrapeherself.GoodHeavens,ishegoingtosendMrKimballandhisthugstoburglarize

theroom?ButjustthenMonsieurleDuc,escapingfromMademoiselleOssolinskain

the outer parlor, slipped through the door and jumped nimbly up onto theplatform,thebettertolickhismistress’face.Hmmn…well,anothertheorygonewest.Inanynovelthedogwouldhave

takenonesniffofavampire’scoffinandrunyelpingfromtheroom.It probably only holds more equipment of Madame’s or the works for

ringingthosebellsundertheglassdomes.Butstill…Madame Izora, sylph-like in a clinging gown of iridescent black silk

(Vionnet,Lydiaguessed),litasinglecandleinthecenterofthetable.Zhenyablew out the lamps, tuckedMonsieur le Duc under one arm, and steppingoutside,closed thedoor. ‘Please,’said theseer, ‘look into thecabinet,allofyou.’Both the Cochrans demurred, insisting that they trusted Madame Izora

implicitly, and that to peek behind the curtains was an insult. But at thePrincessGromyko’surgingtheydidsoatlast.Morebumpingandblunderingamongthechairs.Lydiaputonherglassesagain,despitefuriousdisapproving

signals from Aunt Louise, and looked also. She guessed there would becomment if she took out her pocketmeasuring tape and checked the inneragainsttheouterdimensions.It reminded her forcibly of the narrow locker of cleaning supplieswhere

Gospod Vodusek was hiding his pilfered liquor. A few shelves contained,among other things, a small brass bowl ofwhat smelled like some kind ofherbseeds–Lydialaterlearnedthesewerelavenderbuds–abranchoffernlying on an intricately folded piece of white silk, and a ‘talking board’ or‘ouijaboard’ofthesortthatLydia’scousinshadusedatthePeasehallManorséancelastsummer.When everyonewas seated–Lydia still bespectacled–Madamebrought

out the fern and the lavender buds andperformedwhat looked like a ritualaspersion (James had told her all about such folkloric practices in theirvariouslocalguises).Replacingthese(andpresumablyhookingupwhateverequipmentinthecabinetwasnecessarytoringthebells),theseerbroughtouttheouijaboardanditslittlewheeledplanchette,andtookherownplacewithherbacksoclosetothecabinet,owingtothecrowdingoftheroom,thatthevelvet curtainswhichdraped itsopeningactually swaggedover thebackofherchair.Atlastsummer’sséance,Lydia’scousinshadinformedher–withagood

dealofreproach–thatthereasontheirattemptstocommunicatewithspiritshad come to nothing was because of Lydia’s unbelief. ‘The spirits do notdeign to convince unbelievers,’ had declared Cousin Maria, while CousinTilda, fourteenandpassionateaboutnearlyeverything,hadbeggedLydia to‘openherhearttotheforcesbeyondourcomprehension’.Clare,stilladriftinherpersonaldarknessafterthedeathofherhusbandintheYpresSalient,hadsilenced the other girlswith a quiet, ‘It isn’t anybody’s fault’.But thewayshe’dglancedatLydiahadgiventhelietoherwords.AndmuchasshesympathizedwithClare’sdesperationtohavesomeword

fromGeorge,Lydiacouldnothelpreflectingonhowconvenient itwas thatno‘spirits’wouldmanifestthemselvesinthepresenceofthosewhowerenotreadyandwillingtounquestioninglybelieve.In any case, whatever spirits floated above the heavingAtlantic outside,

they seemed to have no qualmswhatsoever about presenting themselves inthe company of a skeptic. They obligingly chimed the bells within theirdomesofglass,andplayedthepianointheparlor.Muffledbythecloseddooroftheséanceroom,Lydiathoughttherewassomethingstrangeaboutitstoneandwonderedifinfacttherewasagramophonesomewhereoutthere.Inthedense gloom it was difficult to tell. (‘The harsh rays of ordinary light areinimical to the spirits,’ had said Cousin Maria. Another convenient

circumstance,hadreflectedLydia–despitethefactthatshewas,perforce,afirm believer in the Undead and was in fact wearing a pearl-and-emeraldTiffanynecklacegiventoherbyamanwho’dbeendeadfor362years.)Aunt Louise received a brief message from her deceased school friend

MarthaBarnes (full of generalities,Lydia thought – and in any case itwasdifficulttopictureAuntLouiseatboardingschool)andsheherselfonefromher mother. Safe, the planchette laboriously spelled out, sliding across thepolishedouijaboardundertheskilledhandofMadameIzora.Childsafeuponthewaters.Noenemyhere.Lydia guessed the seer had been chatting with Aunt Louise. It was all

windowdressing,but she still felt the stingof anger at seeinghermother’sname.Theyjoinedhands.MadameIzoraclosedhereyes.Intime,whenthebells

chimedagainwithintheirglassprisonsandthenfellstill,Madamewhispered,‘Sheishere.Phyleia…’Phyleia, the princess had earlier informed Lydia, was the name of

Madame’s spirit control, formerly a hetaera in fifth-century Athens. HadJamiebeenpresent,LydiawouldhavewhisperedtohimtoaddressthespiritinClassicalGreek.AndJamie,Lydiawassure,wouldhavewhisperedbackthattodosowould

onlydistractthemediumwhentherewasinformationthatshemight,possibly,beabletosense.‘TheUndead,’whisperedPrincessGromyko. ‘Thedrinkersof death.The

drinkersofsouls.Aretheyonthisvessel?’Inacuriouslyflat,harshvoice,theseerreplied,‘Yes.’‘ThisthingthatkilledthechildLuzia,’urgedtheprincess.‘Thatkilledthe

girlPavlina…’Madame Izora’s dark brows knit below the edge of her black-and-gold

headband.Sheflinched,andturnedherfaceaside,likeawomanwhoisbeingshoutedat and fearsviolence.Glancingbesideher in thecandlelight,LydiasawCochran leaningforwardacross the table,hiseyes fixedon thewomanandglitteringwithakindofstarvedeagerness.‘Killedthem.’Thewordcameoutaflatcroak.‘Not…Spanish…’Theothers lookedbaffled,butLydiahad topinchherownhand,hard, to

keepfromexclaimingaloud.‘Whereistheonewhokilledthem?’demandedCochran.‘Aretheretwoon

thisship?’Theprincessgasped,‘Two?’andMrsCochranlookedasifshewouldhave

broughtherfingerstoherlips,hadnotherhusbandontheonesideandAuntLouiseontheothergrippedthemhard.

‘Two…’MadameIzora’sfaceconvulsed.‘Twoofthem.Onewhokilled.Onewho…Onewho…’‘Whereistheother?’Cochranlookedasifhewereabouttograbherbythe

armsandshaketheansweroutofher.‘Theonewhokilled?’‘Darkness …’ The slender little woman began to tremble convulsively.

Thenshesobbed,‘Oh,dearGod!Somebodystophim!Thelittleboy–he’sgotalittleboy!Darkness–chains–oh,dearGod,somebodyhelphim!’‘Where?’shoutedCochran.Lydia,leaningforward,asked,‘Whatdoyouhear?Whatdoyousmell?’‘Whereisithiding?’Cochranleapedtohisfeetandletgoofthehandsof

bothLydiaandhiswife,tograbIzorabythearms.With a cry the little woman tried to twist free of him, then crumpled

forwardinastormofweeping.

SIXTEEN

Thedead travel fast,Bürger says in ‘Lenore’, andafter anhour in the rearseatofabigPeugeottouringcarwithJoëlatthewheel,Asherwantedtoasktheauthoroftheballadifthiswaswhathe’dmeant.‘Youknowifherunsusoff the road,’ he remarked in what he hoped was a conversational tone toElyséebesidehim,‘itwon’tkillhim,oryou,butitmayverywellstrandyouintheopenatsunrise.’Sheleanedagainsthischest–warily,becausehestillworechainsofsilver

aroundhisneckandwrists–andtweakedhismustache.‘Ehbien,Professor,weallofus,whohuntthenight,havelearnedhowtofindshelter.Andallthemoresonow,whensomanyhavefledtheirhomesbeforetheguns.’It was true, Asher observed, as they drove north and west through

CompiègneandNoyonandonintothedarkness,thatnolightsglowedintheabyssesofwhathadoncebeenpopulousandpleasantcountryside.Warhadadvanced, and retreated, and advanced again – the Germans had sweptthroughherenearly to thesuburbsofParis inAugustof1914.ThoughJoëlpersisted indrivingataspeedsuitable for theroadsofwhat feltnowlikeadistantpast–almostanotherplanet– thepavementwasbrokenandtornbythe passage of heavy vehicles, and the motorcar swerved wildly andrepeatedlytoavoidshellholeshalf-filled,bythesmellofthem,withstagnantwateranddeadthings.Not a place to be stranded afoot,Asher reflected grimly, evenwithout a

brokenlegorabrokenshoulder,iftheUndeaddriverhappenedtodemolishthecarandthenflittedofftoseekshelterfromtheday’saccusinglight.Atalittleafterthree,byhiswatch,stillthedeadoftheearly-springnight,

the flicker of what he would have taken for heat lightning – had it beensummer–begantoshowinthenorth-east.Withit, thefar-offrumbleoftheguns.He’dspentnearlyayearontheWesternFront,mostlydressedinaGerman

uniformsittingonbenches inprisonerdepots.He’d listened to thecapturedmen around him, chatted occasionally with them of where they’d beenstationedandwhere they’dcome from, andwhat conditionswere likebackhome(‘I’vebeenheresolongitseemslikesomeotherworldtome,’he’dsay

to them. ‘Like something I dreamed…’).HisGermanwas flawless andheknew the boffins back atWhitehall could discover all kinds of informationfrom thebitshecollected, fragments that couldbe fedback toagentsmoredeeplyburiedinGermanitself,ortinywedgesthatcouldbeleveragedintheeventofnegotiations,onceGermanybecamesufficientlydesperate.Later, he had hated the dark forests of Silesia, the dank sourwetness of

those endless half-frozenmarshlands – themonths of inactivity, starvation,anddespair.Butlivingasalostsoulinaregimentoflostsoulswasstillbetter,hefelttothemarrowofhisbones,thanlivingwiththeconstanthammeringoftheguns.Joël hadn’t switched on the Peugeot’s headlamps, so Asher could see

nothing of the land around them as they neared the lines.But the smell ofthem intensified, even in the cold. The smell of the trenches, faint at first,grew stronger: the stink of latrines, or of corners of the maze of thoseinterconnectedditcheswheremen relieved themselves rather thanbother towalkthedistancetotherat-swarmingprivies.Thestenchofcorpses,deadinthewiresandshellholesofNoMan’sLand,thatthemedicalorderlieshadn’tbeen able to retrieve. The reek of cordite that overhung the trenches like afog; of woodsmoke where the men burned whatever deadfalls or bits ofshoring–or theruinsofsmashedfarmhouses– theycouldfind,against thebone-eatingcold;ofthechurned-upearthitself.Asallthesegrewstronger,hecaughtnowandthenintheblacknesstheflickeringwhiffofcigarettesmoke,whereasentrysuckedonaWoodbinetokeephimselfawakeortostaveoffhunger.Thegunsgot louder.As the flareof an explosion lighted thedistant sky,

theypassedamakeshiftsignpostthatmarkedthewaytoChaunyandAmiens,andasifthroughthewrongendofatelescope,tinyandveryfaraway,Ashersawthecountrysideashehadseenitfirstinhisteens.Hedgerowswhitewithblossom,farmtracksshadedbyoakandbeech.Thesmellofhay. Itpiercedtheverycoreofhisheart.He had walked this very road, half a dozen times. Could remember the

nameof the farmerhalf amile east of this crossroad,whowouldgivehimlunchandaskhimaboutEngland,andboastabouthisownsonwhoworkedinArras.Asherwonderedifthatfarmer–orhisson–werestillalive.Didthevampireseverfeellikethis?hewondered,lookingatthedarkcurls

lyingagainsthisshoulder,clusteredbeneathElysée’sfashionablevelvethat.See a place, changed and chewed and unrecognizable with time, andremember?Wasthatwhysomeofthemwentmadastheyaged?

Or did people to whom such thoughts were likely to occur, not becomevampires?Thecarslowed,asthepotholesgrewthickerandtheroadsurfacevanished

inamorassofchopped-uppavement,earth,andmud.Joëlswore,andElyséesaid, ‘Never mind, my beautiful one, we’re only a short walk from thehospital.’ Asher guessed she meant the clearing station, a mile or so backfromthe lines.Andindeed, thereek in thedarknesshadbecomeworse,notonly of NoMan’s Land itself, but of gangrene and rotting tissue, and thehorrible greasiness of human flesh consumed by incinerators. Theyabandoned the car and walked, the lights of the clearing station appearingdimly throughtheruinsofwhathadbeen–Asherguessedfromthegroundunderfootandtheregularityofthetrees–anorchard.Tentssurroundedwhathadbeenasizeablefarm.One,setalittleapartfrom

theothers,was,heguessed,theMoribundWard,wherementoobadlyhurttoliveweremadecomfortable in the fewhoursordays left them.Among theblacktreesofthatblackorchardhesmelledmorecigarettesmoke.Inanotherplace,vomit.Oncehesawtheglimmerofabullseyelantern,shadeddowntoaslit,andbesideit,heardawomancryingasifherheartwouldbreak.Heknewtherewerevampiresintheorchardbutknewthatthewoman–a

nurse,oranambulancevolunteer–wasperfectlysafe.Acrumbonthefloorofabanquetinghall.Hewassotiredhebarelyfeltanger,thoughheknewhewoulddosolater.Closertothetents,hecouldhearthevampires.Seethem,sometimes,orat

least see theireyes,when theycaught the lightof the lanterns.Muchofhisadultlifehe’dstudiedthelegendsoftheUndead–muchofhisadultlife,notbelievinginthem–andnothinghadpreparedhimforthis.Glimpsesofpalefaces, pale hands. The flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye.Voicesbelow the lowestwhisper, yet audible, ‘Darling, absolutely themostdelicious little whore… pursued her for hours through the warehouses…Well,onehastokeepone’sskillssharp…’‘Goingtobeapushon,upatArras…’ThislastinFrench.‘Theshooting

shouldbeoverbyWednesday.’AndinItalian:‘Themiserablelittlecatamitehad cards stuck under the bottom of the table! If he hadn’t been GrafSzgedny’sI’dhavebrokenhisskinnyneck…’Graf Szgedny, Asher knew, was the master vampire of Prague. He held

sway,withanenclaveofhisfledglings,overthisareaoftheFront.Orhehad,ayearago,beforeAsherhadbeentransferredeast.Itsoundedlikehestilldid.Besidehim,AsherheardElyséewhisper,‘Augustin…’Amomentlatershe,andJoël,weregone,leavinghimaloneinthehaunteddarkness.Hestoodstill,knowing–oratleasthoping–thatshewouldreturn.

Hoping–andtherewasnoguaranteethatthiswouldn’tactuallybethecase– that all of this journey hadn’t been an elaborate game, of the kind thatvampires liked to play. To sweeten the taste of another’s death with thefragrancesofdespairandtrustbetrayed.Hecertainlywouldn’tputitpasther.Hefelt thembehindhim,aroundhim,whisperinginthedark.Theyknew

he’dcomeherewithoneoftheirown.Theypassedthewordalong.Withouteven thechallengeofahuntanymore, theywouldbemorenosy

thanever–andcruelwiththecrueltyofthebored.Heaskedaloud,inFrench,‘IstheGrafherethisevening,then?’Afteralongstillness,awomanasked,alsoinFrench,‘Whoisitwhowould

know?’‘My name is Professor Asher,’ he responded politely, and removed his

peaked uniform cap. ‘I’m here with Madame Elysée. We seek AugustinMaletteofParis, or anyofhis fledglings. Iwasunder theprotectionof theGraf Szgedny in Amiens, two years ago,’ he added, vampires no less thanmotorpool clerksbeing susceptible toname-dropping. ‘Iwould like topayhimmyrespects.’Hefeltratherthanheardthemwhisper.Thenawoman–maybethesame

one,maybeanother–said,‘ElyséewillkillAugustin,forgoingandmakingfledglings.He’llbehalfwaytoEnglandbeforemorning.Forcertainshe’llkillhisfledglings.’‘Icantakeyoutohim,’saidanotherwoman,andAsherfelthishairprickle,

guessingshewouldnot.Beingsatedwithdeathswouldnotlessen,forthem,theentertainmentofa longchasethroughthehorrorofabandonedtrenches.‘He’snotfar.’Shesteppedfromthedarknessthen,apaleglimmeringshapeinthefar-off

gleamofthelanternsintheclearingstation.VampiresattheFrontoftenworeofficers’uniforms.Thisgirlhadchosentoclotheherselfasadreamdreamedby dyingmen, ormen in terror that each quarter-hour would be their last.Thinwhite lawnmovedlikeashroudwith themotionofhernarrowflanks.Herarmswerebare,andmuchofherthroat.Thewarmth,Asherknew,ofthedeaths she had absorbed kept that milk-white flesh warmer than the heartwhichhadoncebeatinit.Blondehairhungpastherwaist.Herfacewasthefaceofatrustingchild.When she reached to take his hand he stepped back a pace, and she

regardedhimwithpityinherdarkeyes.‘There’snothingtofear.Ifit’ssomethingsoimportantthatyoucomehere,

comewithElysée,comeamongus,canyounottrust,evenforalittlewhile?’

Sheprobablywasn’tveryoldinherUndeadstate–theexaggeratedrushofdesireforherwasheavy-handedandobvious.Ifshesurvived,Asherguessedshe’dbeverygoodat it in time.Whenhe shookhisheadher eyes seemedabouttofillwithtears.Thensheretreated,seemingtobere-absorbedintothedarkness.

‘Whereisit?’CochranjerkedMadameIzorauprightinherchair.Shestaredathim,with the blank, utterly baffled face of one pulled suddenly from deepsleep.‘What?’Shewipedathercheeks,lookedinfrightenedastonishmentather

wetfingersandthenupattheothersnowcrowdingaroundher.‘Where—’PrincessNataliathrusthimasidetocatchtheseer’shands.‘Whatdidyou

see,chèrep’tite?’Hervoicewasgentle.Izorashookherhead,clearly–andasfarasLydiacouldtell,genuinely–

ignorant.‘WhatdidIsee?’sherepeated.‘TheUndead,’snappedCochran.‘Thevampire.Yousaiditwassomeplace,

thatithadkilledaboy—’WhenIzorashookherheadagain,helookedreadytoslapher.‘We’dbettergetdownthere.’Lydiastartedtorise.‘No!’Cochranclappedahandonhershoulder,almostthrustherbackinto

herseat. ‘That is– I’llgo.Louis,getyourgear–andmakesure thesuite’slockedtight.Kimball!’Scuffing in the other room of the suite. Angry voices. Then the door

openedtoadmitthedetectiveandtheprincess’stwoprotestingfootmen.‘Getthe boys and come with me. There’s been another murder down in ThirdClass.’MrKimball’s glance,where it touched thepale and shaken seerwith the

princess and Mrs Cochran bending close around her, was eloquent withdisgustanddisbelief.Buthetookthecigaroutofhismouthandsaid,‘Sure,boss,’andsteppedasidetoletthe‘nervedoctor’pass.‘And don’t ask questions!M’am.’ Cochran turned to jab a finger at the

PrincessGromyko.‘Don’tyou–Princess,’hecorrectedhimself,atasavagestarefromhiswife.Hefumbledhiswatchfromhispocket,checkedthetime.‘It’saftermidnight,M’a—YourMajesty.Itprobablyisn’tsafeforyoutogodowntoThirdnow.Youstayhere.Allofyoustayhere,’headded,sweepingthelittlegroupwithhissharpblackgaze.‘I’llgetmyboystogether…’‘Shouldwenotnotifythecaptain?’Theprincessstraightened,herhandstill

protectivelyonIzora’sshoulder.‘Ifthisthingishunting,movingaboutinthedarkness—’

‘I can surely be of assistance.’ Dr Yakunin, visibly pale with shock andfear,fumbledwithhissilverpince-nez.(Lydiacouldn’timaginehowanyonecouldbalancethethingseventoread,muchlesschasechildrenupanddownFDeckasoldHerrGoldhirschhaddone.)‘Ihaveknowledgeofthesethings.’‘No!’snappedCochranagain.‘I’lltakecareofallthat.Forrightnow,don’t

anyoneleavethissuiteanddon’tanyonetalktoanyoneaboutwhatwassaidhere.There’snosensestartingapanic,’headded,asAuntLouiseopenedherlipstodeclare,probably,thatshewoulddonothingofthekindandhehadnorighttoorderheraround.‘Andthat’swhatwe’llhaveifwordofthisgetsoutbeforewe’vetrappedthething.’He glanced over his shoulder, making sure that Kimball was out of the

room.Then he lowered his voice still further. ‘It’s dangerous.Deadly.Andthough its powers are halved by the power of the ocean, it can still causeterribleharmifitthinksit’sbeenfoundout.M’am–Princess–whydon’tallyouladiesstayhereandlookafterMrsIzora?Gethersomesmellingsaltsorsomething.Seeifyoucanfindoutanythingelsefromher.’Hiseyesdarted toLydia,andhebentcloser toher, towhisper. ‘You’rea

doctor.Youknowanythingabouthypnosis?Maybethatwould—’Izora looked frightened (aswell shemight! thought Lydia), and Princess

Gromyko said, ‘She remembers nothing, Mr Cochran. She never does.Remember,itwasnotshewhosawthisthing,butthespiritPhyleia.’He opened his mouth to suggest something else – or possibly to damn

Phyleia as superstitious nonsense – then closed it. ‘See what you can findout,’heorderedafteramoment,thenturnedandstrodefromtheroom.Lydiaheardtheouterdoorofthesuiteopen,andclose.‘Well,’saidAuntLouise.‘Ithinkwewouldallbebetterforacupoftea.’‘I’ll see if Ossolinska is about,’ said Lydia quickly, and hurried after

Cochranandintotheparlor.The over-decorated room was empty – she wondered if Cochran would

have the presence of mind to know he’d better take a translator with himbelowdecks–andshecrossedit,quickly,totheouterdoor.Thissheopenedthebarestcrack,andpeeredout.And,yes,Cochranwasoutside,adozenfeetdownthepromenade,holding

DonSimonYsidroroughlyby thearm. ‘—madeakill,’ themillionairewassaying in his sharp, harsh voice. ‘The crystal gazer said “darkness” and“chains”.Weneedtogetdowntherefastandcatchitbeforethekid’sbodyisfound.Shesaiditwasa“littleboy”thistime.IhopetoGodthethinghidthebodybetterthistimethanthoseothertwo.Thewholeplace’llbeinhystericsandwe’llneverfindwhereit’shiding.’

Don Simon inclined his head. ‘It shall be as you command, lord.’ Hemovedasiftowithdraw,butCochran’shandtightenedhardaroundthatthinbicep,jerkinghimback.‘AndIbetternotfindyouteamingupwiththatthingtodouble-crossme.

You’reonparole,Ysidro.Itwon’ttakemeandLouisanytroubleatalltopickyouupandstowyoubackintheboxwhenyoudoubleupscreaming–exceptmaybetogetyouawayfromthemobthat’sgonnatearyoutopiecesbecausetheythinkitwasyouthatkilledthosegirls.Andtheywillthinkit’syou,theminutetheygetalookatyourface.Sodon’tyoutryanyfunnybusiness.’Inatonethatheldasmuchshockasdisgust,DonSimonsaid,‘Allymyself

withapeasant?Whatwillyouthinkofnext?’Cochran laughed,and lethimgo.DonSimonbrushedhis sleeve,as if to

straightenwrinkles or dust away filth. Themillionaire looked at his watchagain,andsaid, ‘Looks likeyougotfourhours,before theantidotestarts towearoff.I’llseeyoubackatthecabinatfourthirty.’‘Itshallbeasyoucommand,’thevampiremurmuredagain.And,stepping

backintotheshadows,hewasgone.

SEVENTEEN

LydiadartedtotheelectricbellthemomentCochranwasoutofsightintheopposite direction, gave the order to Bahadir, the princess’s butler, to havecocoa and tea brought to the séance room (presumably Her IllustriousHighness’cookwasstill awakealso).Thoughshewasoverwhelmedby thedesiretoremainandlistentowhatMadameIzorahadtosayabouthervision– or whatever it was – she hurried back into the chamber and said, ‘I’mterriblysorry,but…I’mgoingtogobacktooursuite,Aunt.Ican’t–afterwhatMadamesaid–Idon’twantMirandatobealone.’‘Nonsense,’snappedAuntLouise,whohadpre-emptedtheseatbesidethe

still-shakenMadameIzora thebetter tosolicitouslycoaxfromherwhateverrevelationsmightbepending. ‘ForHeaven’s sake,Lydia, thismaniac that’sprowling the ship – and I refuse to believe it’s some sort of vampire orwerewolf!–isn’tgoingtocomeuptoFirstClass.’Hadshebeenconfrontingherauntalone,Lydiaknewthattearswouldhave

been useless. ButwithHerHighness andMrsCochran present, she let herfacecrumplealittle–she’dprudentlyremovedherglassesonherwaybackacrosstheparlor–andsaid,inhermostquaveryvoice,‘I…Ijustdon’twanthertobealone.’Andthrewinthetiniestsniffle,foreffect.AuntLouise looked as if shewere about to tell her not to be silly – she

didn’tdisbelievethetears,simplyregardedthemasasignofweakness.Buttheothertwowomencrossedswiftlytoherintenderestsympathy.‘Ofcourse,sugar,’ said Mrs Cochran, and the princess put her arm around Lydia’sshouldersinawarmhug.‘Biensûr,youmustgo,dearest,’murmuredNataliaNikolaievna.‘Weshall

behereuntilMonsieurCochranreturns,whichIthinkmustnotbeuntilnearlydaylight. Otherwise, send me word the moment – the very moment – youwake,andIwilltellyoueverything.Thoughintruth–’shesankhervoicetoawhisper, and glanced back at the very palewomanbesideAuntLouise –‘mydearIzoraneverrememberswhatPhyleiaspeaksthroughhermouth.AndifthatweaselBarvellcomesnearher–IwouldnotputitbeyondCochrantotry to give poor Izora hyoscine or paregoric! – I shall have Samson andZhenyathrowhimoverboard.Alors,mylittleones,’sheadded,astheanxious

MonsieurandMadamepatteredintotheroomandcrowdedtoherankles.‘Alliswell,mesenfants!Alliswell!’‘Dear Dr Barvell always prescribes morphia for my nerves …’ Mrs

CochranwashintingtoDrYakunin.‘Thereissomethingfanatic–didyounotthink?–intheman’spursuitof

thevampir,’ theprincesswenton inahushedvoice,pickingupMadame laDuchesse inher arms. ‘Thewayhe insists that it behe, and no other,whofindsthisterriblething.Likeatrophyhunter,whowillletaliongoonkillingvillagersratherthanseeanothermanslayit.Didhenotseemsotoyou?’‘Hedid indeed.’Lydia gave the princess a quickkiss on the cheek. ‘But

pleasedon’ttellhimIsaidso.Wemayneedhim.’Sheputonherglasses,andslippedoutintothenight.Don Simon fell into step with her, halfway down the promenade. He

murmured,‘Dios,’whenLydiadescribedMadameIzora’svision,andwaitedwhileLydiaslippedintoherstateroomandfetchedthelong,drabgarmentthatshethoughtofasher‘vampirehuntingcoat’andawoolencap,forthenightwasnowbitterly cold.She also snatchedupher satchel,whichDonSimonregardedwithraisedbrowswhensheemergedontothepromenadeagain.Canhesensethesilver,thegarlic,theChristmasroseinside?Shehadremovedthenecklace and wrist-chains of silver that she habitually wore after dark –Cochranwouldalmostcertainlyhavenotedthem–butcarriedthem,too, inthebag.Butheonlysaid,‘Whatthinkyou,Mistress?’asheguidedhertooneofthe

manynarrowgangwaysthatleddowntothebowelsoftheship.‘Doyoumean,doIbelieveachildreallywaskilledtonight?’Sheshivered

asshesaidit.Someone’schild.Someone’slittleboy…He shook his head. ‘I am certain that one was.What think you of this

vampire?’‘Shesaid,’recalledLydiaquietly,‘therearetwo.Ithoughtshemeantyou

were one of them, but…What you said about there beingmore than one.You’veoftentoldmethat theUndeadcangomanydays,sometimesweeks,betweenkills—’‘Heavenknows,’ agreed thevampirequietly, ‘there areplaces enoughon

thisshipforadozentohide.’Lydiawondered if the princessmight be prevailed upon to volunteer her

dogs.‘If itweresomeonewhohasbeenontheFront,’shesaid.‘Whohasbeen

killing–asIknowmostofyouhavebeen–twoandthreetimesanight…Doesitbecomehabit-forming,likeadrug?Having…havinggottenusedtothatleveloffeeding…?’(Ican’tbelieveI’mtalkingofthis,ofthemurdersof

threepeople,twoofthemchildren,socalmly…ThoughIcan’timaginethatmehavinghystericswouldhelpmatters.)‘Therecouldbethat,also.’DonSimonpausedatthefootofthestair,where

itopened into thecorridorcommunicatingwith the lesserFirstClasssuites,andconsultedthemapoftheshipwhichhe’dtakenfromhispocket.Hewore,overhisratherfrayedeveningclothes, theofficer’scoat thatwaspartofhispersonaas‘ColonelSimon’attheFront.ItwasthefirsttimeLydiahadseenhim less than completely assured of where he was going. But after amoment’s study, he led the way a few yards down the corridor to anothergangway,thisoneleadingstraightdownwhatlookedlikeashaftofsixtyorseventy feet. Evenwith electric bulbs burning, in the silence there was aneeriehorriblenesstoit,likeaplacevisitedinadream.‘Theyarepeopleofnoaccount,thesevictims,’hesaid.‘Awomanwithno

family of her own; a gypsy’s child. Even as I, formany years, killed onlyProtestants,knowingtheirsoulstobedamnedinanycase.’Helookedaroundhim. The corridor was silent, save for the distant heartbeat of the ship’sengines. JohnPalfrey,Lydiaknew,hada roomhalfwayalong this corridor;she shivered at the thought of encountering him.Madame Izora’s suite layonlya fewdoors fromwhere they stood. ‘Itmaybe theironly sinwas thattheywereweak,andpoor.’Lydiawondered if the stylishMr andMrsAllen, or the overbearingMr

BowdoinofMassachusetts–anothercasualPromenadeacquaintance–orhisgentle littlewife,who’d admiredMiranda’s prettiness yesterday – did theysleep the sleepof the just andwealthy?Were theysecure in theknowledgethat,asAuntLouisesaid, thismaniacthat’sprowlingtheship isn’tgoingtocomeuptoFirstClass!Thereflectionmadeherdeeplygrateful,andprofoundlyashamed.‘Doesitbecomehabitforming?’sherepeated,astheydescendedagain.‘Iknownot,Mistress. In thedaysofNapoleon’swars inSpain, Iwas in

London,orinParisforalittletime.AsattheFronttoday,thosewhohuntedthenightuponthepeninsulakilledwithabsoluteimpunity,andthePeaceofParisdidnotbringpeacetoSpain.’TisdifficulttoknowwhethertheUndeadwhohadfollowedthebattlesleftoffindiscriminatekilling,intheyearswhentheliberalsandtheCarlistsfoughtoneanotheralloverthecountryside.ThevampiresofEngland–ofallEurope–visitedtheplace.Myself,Ithinknot.Oneheardrumors…’She remembered the last glimpse of the green coast of England, as it

vanishedintothesilveryhaze.‘HaveyouneverbeenbacktoSpain,then?’Shehadtraveledagooddealinthepastnineyears–toConstantinople,to

Russia,toChina.Butoneveryjourney,oneverydaythatshe’dwatchedthe

desert on the banks of the SuezCanal ormarveled at the low-built grubbylabyrinths of the Peking streets, there had been in her mind, in the verymarrow of her bones, the green quiet of England. The smell of rain in hergarden onHolywell Street. The knowledge that she had only to get onto atrain,toreturntoWilloughbyClosewhereshehadbeenborn.Hesaid,inthatsoftuninflectedvoice,‘Never.AndthevampiresofSpain–

ifanysurvived thoseyearsofwar–donotcross thePyrenees.Perhaps forthatreason.’He was silent for a time, and around them – save for the throb of the

engines,andthemutedclankoftheirfootfallsonthemetalstair–theCityofGoldwasquiet,too.‘YetthereweresomeinFrance,andintheGermanlands,inthewakeoftheWarsofReligion,whodidindeedgomadinthoseyearsofhorror.Theybecamesousedtokillingwhenandhowtheypleasedthattheydidnotorcouldnot leave itoff.Therewereat least twosuch inParis, andConstantine–theMasterofParis–spokeofthemtome.One,hesaid,calledsuchattentiontoherselfwiththenumberandindiscretionofherkillsthatthemen of the St-Antoine quarter banded together to hunt her systematically,underthecommandofacattledrover.’In the open doorway at the stair’s foot they stopped again, the shadowy

spacebeforethemthrobbinglouder,smellingofcoalandoilandsteam.Metalwallscrossedbetweenboilerrooms.Steampipeshissedsoftlyinthedarknessoverhead.‘They killed three people, Iwas told, ere they located the vampire.One

man they burned for a sorcerer, and a woman they drowned because herhusbandandchildrenhadalldiedofthesmallpoxthathadleftherunscarred.Theykilledalsoamoneylender–thoughnot,Ithink,becauseanyoneactuallythoughthimUndead.ConstantinecommandedthiswomantoleaveParis,forthehunterswerecomingtooclosetoothersoftheParisnest.Hesaidshedidso,butkilledwithsuchfrequencyinthecountrysidethatshewasobligedtoreturn to the city, and sowas found at last anddragged fromher coffin, toburnlikeatorchinthelightofday.’‘Becauseshecouldnotstopkilling?’‘ThatalsoIknownot.Shedidnotstop,when’twascleartoherthatherlife

was at stake for it. Not long after that another came into Paris from thebattlefieldsofGermany,wherehehadfollowedinthewakeoftheProtestantarmiesandslewthreeandfourvictimsanightamongthevillagesandinthewoods,andnonenoticednorcared.ThismanalsoConstantinewarned,and,Constantinetoldme,themanbeggedhim,weeping,formercy,sayingthathecouldnothelpwhathehadbecome.Asortoffrenzyseizedhim,hesaid,andhecouldnotgoanight–nay,nothalfanight–withouttheecstasyofakill.

ThevampiresofParisthemselveskilledthisman,lesttherebeanotherhunt.Yetothers,Constantinesaid,hadalsofollowedthearmiesthroughThuringiaandBohemia,andhadsufferednosuchmadness.’‘Asortof frenzy,’ echoedLydia softly, and followedDonSimon into the

shudderinggloom.‘Isuppose,’sheadded,almostshoutingastheynearedthehugeturbineroom,‘thatifavampiretraveledtotheUnitedStates,he–orshe–couldfindplaceswherehecouldkilllikethat.FromwhatMrCochranhastold me, there are strikes and lockouts in factories and mines all over thecountry.Peoplebeingkilled everyday.Heavenknows, in theSouth, if onemovedaboutenough,onecouldfeedoffthepoorNegrochildreneverynightandnowhitesheriffwouldturnahair.’‘Thedifficultybeing,’saidDonSimon,‘movingabout.Whatyoudescribe

is inessencewhatCochranhasofferedme.’Thevampirepausedbefore themetal doors of a coal bunker, spread his long fingers and held his palm aninchfromthedoor,yelloweyeshalf-shut.Thenhemovedalongtothenext.Lydiasawthefine-cutnostrilsflare,andknewthatthoughDonSimondidnotbreathe,hissenseofsmellwasacute.Canhesmellthechild’sblood?‘If the vampire is killing down here,’ she ventured, ‘why not leave the

corpse hidden in oneof the bunkers?One fromwhich the coal has alreadybeentaken?Itwouldn’tbefound,probably,untilwereachedNewYork.Orwhynot throw itoverboard?AlthoughI supposesince it’s fourdecksup totheoutsideair…’Somewhere in themazeofmetal-walled corridors large and small,Lydia

heard light footfalls running, and a girl’s voice called out, ‘Kemal?Kemal,whereareyou?Canyouhearme?’Thesoundwasswiftlylostinthenoiseofthe engines, but as they moved on other sounds whispered to them, othervoices. Women’s voices, mostly, though Lydia thought she heard the manVodusek shouting. Then, like a flurry of bird-cries, from another direction,thoseofchildrenagain:‘Kemal?Kemal?’DonSimonsaidsoftly,‘Evenso.’

Together they hunted through the lower holds until shortly before daylight.Don Simon would sometimes pass his hands across the doors of the coalbunkers, or along the walls of the vast, dark, crowded baggage holds, butfrustration and discontent flickered in his eyes, andLydia recalledwhat hehadsaidabouttheeffectsofthelivingmagnetismofthesea.Othertimeshewouldstop,asiflistening,orhisnostrilswouldwiden,likeadog’stryingtoscenttheelusivetraceofprey.ButthelowerholdsoftheCityofGoldheldinthemalltheclammydanknessofairthathasbeenyearsawayfromsunlight

orwind.Doeshesmellallthoseyears?wonderedLydia.Theexhalationsofthousandsof crewmen, the sweatof theirporesmixedwith the stinkof thebilges,thedryfoetorofcoalandtheoilyreekofthesteam?Howcouldyouteaseouteventhecopperytraceofbloodfromallofthat?Weareasothermen,hehadsaid,saving–Lydiaguessed–thathehadthe

hyper-acute perceptions of the Undead state. In the lightless cavern of thedeepestbaggageholdhehadmovedabout,hishandsonherwaistandononeofherhands,as if theywere ice-skating,pickinghiswayunerringlyamongtrunksandcratesand(Lydiapresumed–suchwasthedarknessthatshewasliterallyandabsolutelyblind)mailsacks.Onlyonceortwicedidhershoulderbrushtheedgeofsomething,orherfootbrieflytouchacorner,totellherthatthisholdcontainedthesamejumbleofobjectsshe’dalreadyencounteredbyGeorg Heller’s lantern-light in the First Class Baggage Store on the deckabove. Twice, moving silently among the cacophony of metal walls thatenclosed the engines and boilers, the vampire stopped, and drew her asideintothedarkness,halfaminutebeforeherownlesspowerfulhearingdetectedthefootfallsofacrewman.Once she heard a man – in a party of clattering feet – grumble,

‘Mohammedanbrat…allaprank…’anddeducedthatthemissingboywasone of the little group of Bosniak Muslims, shunned by Catholics andOrthodoxalike.Hehadherwaitinthedarknessintheverystern,whileheslippeddowna

final ladder into the deepest belly of the ship, the bilges beneath the orlopwhere,Lydiaknew,theratsbredintheblacknessandthegreatblackbeetlesand roaches hid – creatures she’d already glimpsed among the engines,bunkers,andlockersoftheorlopdeck.Inthefewminutesthathewasgonesheshudderedatthenearnessoftheabyss–wemustbethirtyfeetbeneaththesurface already! – and of its black depths falling away below her. Thoughneitherfancifulnortimid,Lydiafoundherselfwonderinghowthickthehullplateswere:justundertwoinches,shereadlater,butlayeredandre-enforcedso that the actual hull was nearly two feet. Even that information didn’tremovetheterriblesensationthatshehad,ofbeinginsideabubble,deepandinescapablyfardownintheworldofairless,deadlywater,acurtain’sbreadthfromdeath.IfsomethinghappensIcannevergetout…Nothing’sgoingtohappen,shetoldherselffirmly.Andyou’vehadcasualty

clearingstationsshelledoveryourheadandyoucamethroughthatjustfine.AndanywaytheCityofGoldhasbeencrossingbackandforthforsixyearswithoutmishap.Movement in the corridor. Close to the floor, the pin-light flicker of

reflective eyes. Lydia was able to tell herself, I’ve seen bigger rats at the

Front,butshewasstillrevolted.Eventhetrencheshadn’tservedtoeradicateherhorrorofthevermin.DonSimonemergedfromtheladder,andstoodforamoment,leaningone

handagainst thewall. In thedimlighthe lookedghastly,halfstooped-over,hisfacesetagainstawaveofagony.‘Whatisit?’askedLydia,shocked,andthevampireshookhishead.‘Serum,’hewhispered.‘Poison.Takeshold…thus…’Hewasshakingallover,unableeventodrawawayfromher,whensheput

herhandonhisarm.Hemanagedtosay,‘Cold…’andthensethisjawhard,untilthetremblingceased.‘’Twillcomeonworse,’hesaidafteratime.‘Bestwereturntotheregions

above,Lady.Firstlightwillstaintheskyinlessthantwohours.Theyinjectme with antidote once I sleep, with daylight – I think they fear I willsomehow learnwhere theykeep it, rather than fearingme.Theyknow thatunlessIhavethatphysic,Iwillquicklyberenderedhelpless.Theyhavebuttostandback,andwatchmescream.Foraslongastheyfinditamusing.’SobitterwashisvoicethatsheguessedthiswaspreciselywhatCochran,andthesmooth-manneredDrBarvell,haddone,atleastonce,toconvincehimofthepoison’sefficacy.Shefeltherearsgethotwithrage.‘Curious,’hewenton,ashe tookherhandandguidedher towardoneof

theinconspicuousgangways,‘thatwehavefoundnothingsofar.Notcoffins,or travel trunks,orplaces securedashideouts.Myself, I shouldnot care totravel so.’He looked aroundhimat thegreat greasy cylindersof the steampipesoverhead, thehuge steel turbines andgears. ‘Onecouldneverget thecoalsmelloutofone’sclothing.YetdidIso, Ishouldat least takepains tomake formyself a sleeping place secured alike from rats and from chancediscoverybystokersandmechanicsgoingaboutinpursuitoftheirduties.’‘Not tomention,’ commentedLydia, ‘thieves looking for places to cache

theirgoods.’TheirsearchhadrevealedhalfadozenbottlesoftheAmericanLine’sbestliquor,cigars,andtinsofcaviarandfoiegras,tuckedincornersoflockers and storerooms. Lydia wondered if these were all Vodusek’sgleanings,oriftherewereseveralpettythievesatwork.‘Ihaveseenadozenlikelyplaces,onwhichnomortaleyeshavelookedI

daresaysincethesewallswererivetedinplace.’Hefrowned,followingherupthemetal steps to the quieter regions above. ‘Yet I see nothing thatwouldoffer protection from rats, during the hours when we sleep perforce, andcannotwake.’‘IsupposeonecouldtravelFirstClass–thecabinsinSecondareallshared

–andhuntinThird.’

‘ToomanyservantsinFirst.’Hisslightgesturedismissedthewholeofnon-PromenadeFirst. ‘If there isone thing Ihave learned in three-hundred-and-sixtyyearsofbeingdead,Lady,’tistobewareofservants.Bribethemasyouwill,threatenthemasyoumight,yettheywilltalk,andforus,awhispercanmeandeath.Hereupontheocean,Ihavenotthewholeofanightinwhichtomold theirdreams.Only for those fewminutesbeforeandafter thehourofmidnightcanIwhispertothemtheimpressionthattheysawmewalkingonthePromenadeDeckinthefulloftheday.CanImakethemthinktheydidnottrulyseewhattheysaw.Somemightattemptit.’Heshrugged.‘Iwouldnot.’‘It’s true,’ agreed Lydia slowly, ‘that Ellen, or Tania – the Princess

Gromyko’s maid – the one who hasn’t been laid up from the start of thevoyage with sea-sickness – would have heard, had one of the First Classpassengersbeenlockinghiscabinduringthedaytimes.Iunderstandthatit’sgeneralknowledgeintheservants’dininghallthatMrCochranlocksuponeroomofhissuite.’‘DidItravelupontheocean–’DonSimonsteppedpastheratthetopofthe

flight,toopenthedoorthatledontoFDeck–‘fornoconsiderationwouldIhunt,noryetpermitotherstohuntforme.Sixdaysis—’‘Vampír!’shriekedavoiceinthecorridor.‘Vrkolak!’DonSimonmovedback immediately into the shelterof thedoorway,but

Lydia, stepping forward, saw in the hallway no one near them, only ascrimmage of men and women with their backs to them. Others wereemergingfromthecabinsthatlinedthecorridor,womenwiththeirlonghairplaiteddownthebacksofpatchedandshabbynightgowns,meninundershirtsandpantswithbracesdangling.‘They’vefoundhim,’breathedLydia.

EIGHTEEN

‘Go.’ShecaughtDonSimon’shand.‘I’llseewhat’shappening.’Withoutawordhetouchedherfingerstohislips,andwasgone,evenon

themetalstairhisswiftascentsoundless.Lydiashiveredatthethoughtofhisbeing taken by another convulsion, being trapped, unable to flee, by thosewhowouldseehimashewas.Butevenasthethoughtswentthroughhermindshewasrunningalongthe

corridor, hearing before her the jumble of shouting. Meaningless words,mostly, but charged with the hysterical venom of hatred. Now and then aBelgian or a German would shout to some compatriot words that Lydiaunderstood.‘Bosniakboy—’‘Deckwell—’‘Mohammedan—’‘Bleddry—’‘Bloodonherdress—’‘Whore—’Andawomanscreaming.Lydia dashed along the corridor as hard as she could pelt, following the

mobandjoinedonallsidesbyhard-faced,oldfarmers,half-crippledsoldiers,carryinghammersandwrenchesfromtoolkits,knivesandscrewdriverswhichtheyheldlikestilettos–acoupleofgenuinestilettosaswell,andacoupleofguns. The women who surged among them bore ropes, or clutched thecrucifixesthatdangledfromtheirnecks.Themobbunchedupsuddenly,jammedtightinthenarrowspaceinfront

of the doors of the Third Class dining saloon. Lydia could hear a manshoutinginGermanandtheninFrench,andrecognizedHeller’svoice.Othersyelledtodrownhimout,‘Vrkolak.Upír.Vampire.’Lydiapushedandwriggledthroughthepress,slitheringalongthewalluntil

shereachedthefront.AwomancrouchedinacornerofthehallwaynearthedoorsoftheThirdClassdiningroom.Hellerstoodinfrontofher,ahugepipewrench in his hand, facing outward to themob.One of the oldermen – afarmer with muscles like an ox – had fallen back before him with blood

streamingdownhisfaceandanothersatslumpedagainstthewallholdinghishead,ghastlypaleandsweating.Oh,dear,Ihopehisskullisn’tfractured…Hellershoutedatthecrowd,‘Whoisthiswoman?Whatlanguagedoesshe

speak?’‘She’s a whore!’ yelled a woman in German, and someone else howled

somethingthatendedin‘vampira’.Thewomancrumpled to the floor,hidingher face inher longblackhair.

Her nightgown had been torn nearly off her – it was close to two in themorning.Lydiacouldseescratchesandbruisesonherarms,andbloodonthefrontofthetatteredlinengarment.FatherKirnpushedhiswaytothefront,demandedsomethingsternlyofthe

womaninwhatLydiathoughtmightbeCzech,theninhaltingGreek.One of the Slovene women yelled in bad German, ‘She kill little boy!

Drinkblood,leavebodyinstairsplace—’‘Nikogda,’sobbedthewoman.‘Yanikogda—’‘Sheisawhorewhosleepswithgoodmenandmakesthembad!’another

womanyelled.‘Andnowshemurdersthislittleboy!’Hellerkneltbesidethewoman,turnedherfacetohimandlookedatherfor

amoment, thenstoodagain. ‘You’re idiots,’hesaid to thecrowd. ‘Yousayshe’s a vampire, no? I have seen her walking about the deck well in thedaylight.’Therewasapause,andanangryrippleoftranslation.ThenVoduseksaid,

his voice pitched to carry, ‘Everybody knows vampire can walk about indaytime.Justtheyhavenopowerinsunlight,beingchildrenofSatan.Therewasman inmyvillage, inMalareka, thatwasvampire.Everybody seehimwalk about by daylight. Then in night, he turn himself intowolf, into bat.Slavikheresawhimdothis—’‘Withmy own eyes,myself!’One ofVodusek’s friends stepped forward,

pockmarkedandlimpingalittleonawoodenleg,butmuscledwithalifetimeoffarmwork.Heller turned to FatherKirn. ‘They found the child, then? The boywho

wasmissing?’Theoldpriestnodded,andhis lined facewasharsh. ‘KemalAdamic.He

wasinthedeckwell—’‘Whereeverybodyhadbeenrunningaboutsincetheboywasfoundgone?’

demandedHeller.‘Shestandbyhisbody—’‘Thatbloodonherhand—’‘Sheisawhore,’repeatedtheGermanwoman.‘Awitch,Satan’sservant—’

‘Somebody,’shoutedHelleroverthedin.‘SomeoneRussian.Yousayshe’savampire,eh?Canavampirespeakthescripture?You…’A golden-haired boy had emerged from the crowd. Twelve or thirteen,

thought Lydia. Just too young to be conscripted. In German he said, ‘IRussian.’‘Youwanttoseejusticedone?’Hellerlaidhishandontheboy’sshoulder,

lookedgravelydownintohiseyes.‘Da,Gospodin.’‘Good.Goodman.Youaskher,speakLord’sPrayer.Canvampiredothat?’

This last he addressed to the mob, his pale blue eyes singling out firstVodusek,thentheGermanwoman.Thenheturnedtothepriest.‘Canvampiredothat?Sayprayer?’Somebody in the mob shouted, ‘What you know about prayer, you

Communist?’Hellerignoredher.‘No,’ said Father Kirn. ‘Walk about in daylight – so I have sometimes

heard.ButnevercantheDevilspeakthewordsofOurLord.’‘You tellme.’Heller lookedbackat theRussianboy. ‘Tellme true,does

shespeakthewordsoftheprayer.’Theboykneltbesidethewoman,askedhersomethinginherowntongue.

After amoment, thewoman stammered, so faintly that she couldbarelybeheard,‘Otchenash,suschiynahnebesakh…’Whenshehadfinished,theboystoodup,nodded,andsaid,‘Shesayitall,

every word.’ He glanced from Heller to the mob, and looked scared –understandably,Lydiathought.Theywerereadytoturnonanyonewhokeptthemfromendingwhattheysawasthecauseoftheirfear.FatherKirn took theRussianwoman’s hand, helped her to her feet. The

mob growled, and shifted about, reminding Lydia of the horses penned fortransport to theFront.Terrifiedofnewsounds,newsmells,ofa threat theycouldn’tdefine.Themansittingbesidethewallhadslippedoverandlayonthefloor,breathingstertorously.Noonegavehimaglance.Fromaroundhisownneckthepriestremovedhiscrucifix,andholdingupthewoman’shand,pressedthesilvercrossfirstagainstherpalm,thenagainstherforehead.‘That’sEasternChurch!’yelledsomeonewithinthemob.‘Easternheretics,

likeher!NotrealChristian!’Andawomanshrilledfuriously,‘Andshe’sstillawhore!’‘Oh,putasock in it,Gertrude!’ retortedHeller. ‘Whosefault is it ifyour

husbandwantstostayoutofyourbed?It’snoreasontokillsomeone.’ThemanVodusekstepped forward,heavyeyebrowsbristling,and looked

from Father Kirn to the dark-haired woman. Then he turned back to thecrowd.Hecalledoutsomethinginhisboomingvoice,spreadinghisarmsasif

makingaspeech,makingapoint.Heheldupthewoman’shand, toshowitunmarked by the touch of the Cross. Lydia heard him say something andrecognized the word vrkolak. Then he said it again, declaiming, his singledarkeyeblazingwithanger.Hellersteppedforwardandgrabbedhimbythearmwithanimpatientword,andVodusekshookhimoff.Themobbegantodisperse.ThepockmarkedSlaviksaidtosomeonebeside

him, ‘Well, the brat’s only a heathen.’ Father Kirn led the woman away,murmuringsomething toher.Probably, reflectedLydia,Go thouandsinnomore.Somewhere,faroff inthecorridors,shecouldhearawomanwailing,‘Kemal!Kemal!’Shewent tokneelbeside the injuredman,butVodusekandSlavik thrust

Lydiaasideandgatheredthemanup,andhelpedhimaway.Lydia stood up again, in her battered overcoat and the green silk dinner

frockshe’dworntoMadameIzora’sséance,herredhaircomingundonefromits pins and trailing down over her shoulders. She felt suddenly exhausted,andwantedonlytogointosomedarkcornerandnotseeorspeaktoanyoneandparticularlynotAuntLouise.Shewantedthevoyagetobedone.ShewantedJamie.‘Heshouldseeadoctor,’shesaid,asHellercametoher,hiswrenchstillin

his hand. Like the othermen, hewas clothed only in his undershirt and introusershastilydonned, thebracesdangling about his thighs.His feetwerebare. She saw two scars where bullets had torn into his collarbone andshoulder,notmorethanafewyearsago.Therewasamucholderknife-scaronhischest.‘They’llmakeupsomemuckofduck-shitandherbs,’hesaid.‘Theydon’t

trustdoctors.They–Slavikand thoseothers–don’t trustanyone that’snotfromMalareka. Don’t trust Catholics, don’t trust Jews. They are villagers,ignorant – frightened.Don’t even trust those from the next village. It isn’ttheirfaultbutit’smaddeningtodealwith.They’vegotoneofthemwhowasa doctor back in Malareka; there’s about six of them, all from the samevillage.VodusekandSlavikservedtogetherontheEasternFront.’Heshookhishead.‘DidyoucomedownherehuntingforthelittleBosniak

boy,Madame?Thatwasgoodofyou.Itisamaniac,amadman,thatwedealwithhere,butsometimesIwonderif thatgangfromMalarekaaren’tjustasmad.Why make it into a monster? People are frightened enough, waitingeverydaytobetorpedoed,notknowingifeachhour–eachminute–isgoingtobeyourlast.’‘Whatdidhesay,thereattheend?’askedLydia.‘Oh,drat,herecomethe

stewards…’

Theclatterof feetechoed in thecorridor,men’svoicesasking inhesitantItalianwhatwasgoingon.Hellerpaddedswiftlytotheoneopendoorleftonthehallway–hisowncabin,Lydiaguessed.Someonecalledoutaquestiontohim inGerman fromwithin,andshehadavague impressionofmovement,andofthesmellofmalesweat.Hecalledoutoverhisshoulder,‘Bullesontheway. You heard nothing, saw nothing.’ Then he dropped the wrenchinconspicuouslyaroundbehindthedoorjambandsaidtoLydia,‘Youmustgo…Voduseksaid,ThereisaservantofSatanonthisship,andweshall findhim.Heavenhelpthemantheypickon,whentheydo.Becausetheyarereadytokill.’

Thegunswentquietaroundfive.Onlythesplatofrifle-fireechoedacrossthedesolatewetacresofblood-soakedground,wheresentriesshotatwire-cuttingparties or at the orderlies who’d sneaked out in the hopes of rescuing thewounded. Sometimes the hard rattle ofmachine-gun fire swept the groundwhereaboredgunnerwantedtomakesureofapreyhecouldn’tquitesee.Ataboutthattime,Ashersensedthatthevampiresvanished,eithertoseektheirholes–indugoutsorabandonedfarmcellars,orthevaultsofruinedchurchesorchateaux–ortohaveonelastkill,outonNoMan’sLanditself,whilethesentriesdrowsed.Night’sswiftdragonscutthecloudsfullfast,PuckwarnsOberon–words

thatevenbeforehehadknowntheirtruth,hadalwaysstirredAsher’sheart.

Atwhoseapproachghosts,wanderinghereandthere,Troophometochurchyards:damnedspiritsall,Thatincross-waysandfloodshaveburial,Alreadytotheirwormybedsaregone,Forfearlestdayshouldlooktheirshamesupon

Or for fear, reflectedAsher, lest day should ignite their transmuted flesh tounquenchableflame…Hecontinued topace theorchard,notdaring tositdownbetweenfearof

fallingasleepandawarenessoftheconstant,stealthyscurryofratsinthedeadleavesunderfoot.Bysixthirty,heguessedthatElyséehadgottendistractedbyeitherakillor

achat,andwouldnotbereturningforhim.Annoyed,weary,andchilledtothebone,heturnedhisstepstowardswhere

he guessed the road lay – yes, this was old Vouliers’s farm, all right. Herecognized the lineof thesmashedhedgesand theshapeof thesquare-builtroof.Quietly,fromthebottomofhisheart,hedamnedthewarandthemen

whomadeit.Theorderliesmovingaboutamongtheroughsheltersandtentsemergedwhentheysawhimcomeuptheroad,butdidn’traisethefusstheywouldhave,hadheapproachedthroughtheorchard.Heaskedwherehewas,was taken to thecampcommander,presentedhiscredentials, andexplainedthathehadbecomelostandthattheengineofhiscarhadfailed.‘Didn’t sound like fuel lines or the carburetor, but therewas no sense in

tryingtosortitoutinthedark.’Giventheiffystateofmostmotor-poolenginesattheFront,nottospeakof

thequalityof the availablepetrol,Asherdoubted that anyonewould find itoddthatthePeugeotwouldstartupjustfineforwhoeverMajorBriscoesentout to fetch it in.And at a guess, the commanderhadother things to thinkaboutthantelegraphingwhereverthehellJoëlhadstolenthePeugeotfrom,orcheckingAsher’sbonafides.MajorBriscoesympathized,offeredhimbreakfastandadrinkoffar-from-

contemptibleScotch,andassignedhimacotinthetentreservedforvisitingofficers.‘We’llhaveyouonyourwayinnotime,sir.’

NINETEEN

‘The freighterCumberland was torpedoed last night,’ Ellen whispered toLydia, as she tiptoed into the stateroom atwhat Lydia – normally an earlyriser – felt to be an embarrassingly late hourSaturdaymorning:Ten thirty!PoorMiranda,tohavebreakfastonlywiththathorridMrsFrush.Sheputonherglasses,andsatupinbed.Rainhadbeenfallingbythetime

she’d climbed to B Deck after leaving Heller, and only grayness showedthroughtheportholewhenEllenputbackthecurtains.Lydiawasconsciousoftheheavierchopofthesea,andofthewindscreamingalongthehalf-desertedpromenades.Throughtheconnectingdoorcamethewelcomeodorsofbathsoapandthe

faint,dry-leavesscentofcleantowelsheatingonanelectricrack.‘Two-hundred-fiftymiles south of here,’ themaid continued. ‘A hundred

men lost. The E.C.Baldwin picked up the survivors an hour ago, andMrTravis – our cabin steward – says Captain Winstanley refused to changecourse tohelp,even thoughwewerecloser.Hesays thesub thatdid itwillstillbeinthearea,waitingforjustthat.MrTravissaysinthecrewloungethebets are four to one against theBaldwin making it a hundredmiles beforethey’retorpedoed,too.’ShefetchedLydia’srobe,andgathereduptheshabbycoat thatLydiahad

leftdrapedoverthebackofthechair,andbrushedlightlyatthecoaldustonitsskirts.Inavoicemorequietstill,sheadded,‘MrTravistellsmetherewasariotbelowdeckslastnight,overalittleArabboybeingfounddead.They’rekeepingitquiet,hesays,buthesaystheimmigrantsareinanuproaroverit,andnosurprise,Isay.’Andshelookedinquiringlyfromtheblacksmudgesonthecoat,toLydia,

who murmured, ‘Another time.’ She didn’t feel up to explaining that theBosniakMuslimswerenomoreArabicthanAuntLouisewas.Abovetheracingofherheart,shethought,Twomoredays.Tuesdayatthelatest,we’llbesafe.‘Well, it’snomore than is tobeexpected,’AuntLouisedeclaredanhour

laterwhenLydia–bathed,powdered,creamed,coiffed,manicured,clothedintobacco-colored Vionnet and embellished with delicately undetectable

whispers of rouge andmascaro – finally emerged into the parlor. ‘Peasantsstraightoutof theMiddleAges,asHerHighness saidatdinnerWednesdaynight.Ofcoursethey’llturnaperfectlystraightforwardcaseoflunacyintoavampiretale.AnditdoescausemetowonderwhetherMrCochranactuallybelievesit’savampiredoingthis,orwhetherhe’sjustusingthattermbecauseit’swhatMadameIzorabelievesishappening.It’sshocking,’sheadded,herpluckedgraybrowscloudingwithself-righteousdisapproval,‘thatawomanof her spiritual insight doesn’t have the judgment to realize the differencebetweengenuinecommunicationfromtheAstralPlane,andthesesillyfairytalesthattheignorantmakeup.’SheplacidlyturnedapageofThePassingoftheGreatRace.‘Isuppose,’saidLydia,hervoiceheldsteadywithaneffort,‘thedangerof

beingtorpedoedmagnifies—’‘Nonsense.’AuntLouisefoldedupherbook.‘We’reinnomoredangerof

torpedoesthanwewouldbelunchingattheCaféMetropole.I’msurprisedatyou,Lydia.Thatfreighter,whateveritwascalled,thatMalkinwasblitheringabout this morning – it’s astonishing how the lower orders can workthemselves into a panic over nothing! –was simply asking forwhat it got.Theyweretakingmunitionstoabelligerentcountryinwartime:whatonearthdid theyexpect?Take those frightful spectaclesoff,child, ifwe’regoing toluncheon!Honestly,yourhusbandshouldneverhavepermittedyoutogotothe Front, if it’s caused you to forget … I suppose the crew of theCumberland were being paid by the British Crown. All those Americanfreightersare,thesedays.OfcourseonecannotcountenanceblowhardbulliesliketheGermans,buttheyaren’tstupid,youknow.’At luncheon, this opinion was heartily seconded by Mr Cochran, to a

degreethatwouldhavegottenhimcalledout–inLydia’sopinion–hadnotCaptainWinstanley absented himself from the meal. ‘Cowardice!’ stormedthemillionaire. ‘Submarines – bunk! Like anyGerman captain in his rightmindisgoingtoruntheriskofsinkinganAmericanboat!Why,theHunsareshaking in their boots at the thought thatWilson’s going to join theAllies!Theywouldn’tblowaspitballatus for fearwe’llcomeover thereandslapthemintosubmission.’‘Do you think they will?’ Dr Yakunin cocked his head, fish fork poised

delicatelyaboveanartistically-curledpairofshrimp.‘Enterthewar?’‘Wilson’ll be a fool if he does.’ Tilcott mopped with a roll at the

hollandaisethatwasallthatwasleftofhissecondhelpingofdeviledlobster.‘Americans’ll never stand for it, after all that campaign ballyhoo last year:“AmericaFirst”and“HekeptusoutofWar”.He’ll lookadamn fool ifheturns around and gets us into a war. Let the kings and the kaisers and the

emperorsandthesultansfightitoutamongthemselves,that’swhatIsay.It’snoaffairofours.’‘It’llbeouraffairifwegettorpedoedonaccountofit,’venturedLydia,and

MrsCochranpattedherhand.‘That’ssimplynotgoingtohappen,sugar.’Shewaswearingpinkdiamonds

thismorning, tomatchher frock, andby the lookof her pupils had clearlygottenDrBarvelltoadministeraninjection‘forhernerves’.‘Damnrightit’snotgoingtohappen,’sniffedCochran.‘Butit’lldamnwell

be our affair if the kaiser starvesBritain into submission and takes it over,givenallthemoneywe’velenttheBrits.Youcanbetwe’llneverseeadimeofitiftheylose.’‘MydearMrCochran.’AuntLouiselookeddownhernoseathim.‘What

have youbeen reading?TheGermans are no closer to starvingBritain intosubmissionthantheyaretoflyingtotheMoon.Itiswewhocontroltheseas.’‘Just what I’m saying.’ He stabbed at her with his fish fork. ‘Only

Winstanley’sanoldwomanwho’ssoafraidofhisownshadowthathe’llletpeoplefreezeoutontheopenocean,ratherthanturnasidetogoget’em.Butpeopleare insucha frenzy tomake it toNewYork thedayafter tomorrowhe’llletordinaryfolksgohang.’‘Well,really,MrCochran,’hiswifesaidwithafrown.‘Commonhumanity

is one thing, but as youyourself saidWednesday night, theAmericanLinedoeshavearesponsibilitytothebusinesscommunity,toprovidetheswiftesttransportation.WeneedtogettoNewYork,andhavearight—’‘Isaidnothingof thekind,’snappedCochran,fromwhichLydiadeduced

that his burst of common humanity probably stemmed less from concernabouttheCumberland’spassengersthanfearthathewasn’tgoingtofindtheCityofGold’svampireintimetoworkoutastrategyofentrapmentbeforetheshipdocked.Once in New York, he was well aware – and Lydia was even more

conscious–theunknownvampirewouldvanishforgood.At eight hundred feet by ninety, theCity ofGold was one of the largest

ships afloat: ten decks deep, mazes within mazes of corridors, staterooms,coalbunkers,storageholds,refrigeratedlockers,smokingroomsandsquashcourts(squashcourts?),but thatstillonlycametofivehundred thousandorsocubicyards.AsLydiaexcusedherselffromherun-eatenlunchandmadeherwayacrossthediningroomtothetablewheresherecognizedDrLiggatt,apartofhermindwastortuouslyawarethatthemomentthelinerdrewupattheNewYorkdocks,herownoptionsastowhatshecoulddoandwhatsheshoulddowouldchange,irrevocably.Ican’tletavampiregoashoreinAmerica.

Andherheartpoundedattheknowledgethatitwasn’tthesecondunknownvampirethatshemeant.Orthatsheshouldmean,anyway.Ihavetokillhim.Ihavetokillthemboth.Ican’tletamanlikeCochranhaveone–letalonetwo–vampireslaves.FreeingDonSimonfromhiscoffinwasnotasolutiontoeitherproblem.Therewasonlyonesolution.Theship’s surgeon,MrAllenandMrBowdoin (towhoseopinionsabout

bi-metallismDr Liggatt had been politely listening), rose from their placesandbowedasLydiaapproached.‘Please,’shesmiled,theportionofhermindnottakenwithgriefandanxietygratefulthatatleastDrLiggatt,withhisflax-pale hair and sunburned complexion, was readily identifiable at a distancewithoutglasses.When theothermensat, thesurgeon retreatedwithher to thesideof the

room.‘You’llbewantingtohavealookatthelittleAdamicboy?ItwasallIcould do, to get him away from his mother.’ He shook his head, facetighteningwithconcernanddread.‘Justliketheothers.Twoshortincisionsinthethroat,mostoftheblooddrainedfromthebody.Nobloodontheclothingorinthehair.Poortyke.Hecouldn’thavebeeneightyearsold.’

Later, reading toMiranda in the shelter of the Promenade while gray rainsluiced into the gray sea, Lydia couldn’t erase from hermind themother’sdespairing screams:Kemal! Kemal! She remembered Aunt Louise’s casualremark,I’llwagershecan’trememberalltheirnames,whilelookingdownatthe children crossing the gangplank, and tears blurred the print before her.Kemalhadbeenhismother’seighthchild.Thedespairinhervoicehadbeennoless.Dr Liggatt had been perfectly correct in his report. There had been no

bloodon thewax-white little face,under thecoldelectric lights in themeatroom;noneintherumpledblackhair.Thecupid-bowmouthhadbeenslightlyajar. The child’s mother had placed a rolled-up fragment of writing –presumablyKoranic scripture – on the boy’s tongue, and a string of prayerbeadsencircledhischubbyneck.AboywhowouldneverseeAmerica.Brothersandsisterswhowouldone

daysay,Wehadalittlebrotherbuthediedonthevoyageover.His short, stubby fingers had been sticky. The smell of peppermint

lingered,veryfaintly,onhislips.Lydia’srenditionoftheaccountoftheintrepidDorothy’sconversationwith

theKingof theWingedMonkeysfaltered,andMiranda’ssmallhandclosedaroundherthumb.‘Mummy,don’tbeafraid.’

Shesetthebookquicklyonthedeckbesideher,andduginherpocketforahandkerchief.Miranda,onthechild-sizedchairbesideher,setMrsMarigoldasideandleanedclosertoLydia,andwhispered,‘MrsMarigoldisscared,too.ButItoldherit’sallright.’‘Of course it’s all right.’ Lydia deftly dabbed away the incipient tears –

fromlongpracticemanagingnottodisarrayhermascaro–andsmiled.‘Themermaidsgottothesubmarines,’explainedMiranda.‘Theyrubthem

all over with blue lotus, while the crew are sleeping, so seamonsters willcomeandswallowthemwhole.Seamonsterslovebluelotus.’Shelookedupintohermother’s face, serenely certain and at the same time concerned forLydia’s distress. ‘They like the blue best, but they’ll eat the yellow, too, iftheycan’tgetblue.’‘Thatmakessense,’Lydiaagreed.‘I’dneverheardthat.’Mirandaexplainedindetailaboutmermaidsandthebluelotusthatgrewin

Atlantis (whereonearthdidsheget that?) then listened to theremainderofthechapterfourteen,sufficientlydistractingLydia’sthoughtsfromhersenseofoncomingdespair.ButwhenshesawthePrincessGromykoatthefarendofthePromenadewithherdogs,shethoughtlongandhardbeforetuckingthebookbeneathherarm,removingherglasses,andfollowingMirandatogreetthem.Ican’tlethimgoashore.NotasCochran’sslave–andnotasafreeman.‘Darling…’Theprincessgreetedherwithakiss,and,withaglancebefore

heratMiranda,handedtheleashestoMademoiselleOssolinskaandloweredhervoice.‘Taniasaystheyknowwhothevampireis.’Lydiastared.‘Ithinkit’snonsense,myself,’theolderwomancontinued.‘Peasantrumor

—’‘Who?’askedLydia.‘Not,where?’‘Inplainsight,undertheirverynoses.’NataliaNikolaievnashookherhead,

alookofconsiderationonherexquisiteface.‘WhichIsupposewouldmakesense, if one were a vampire seeking to emigrate. Myself, my old nursealwayssaidthatthevampirecannotgoaboutinthedaylight,butTaniasaysno,thatisnotthecase—’‘Theycan’t,’saidLydia.‘Iknowthis,’sheadded,ashercompanionopened

hermouthtoargue.‘Whoissaying—?’‘Everyone,evidently.MenfromthevillagesoftheSudetensaytheyhave

seenthem.Anditisafact,thattheJewcangivenogoodaccountofhimselfatthetimethosepoorchildrenwerekilled.’‘WhatJew?OldMrGoldhirsch?’

Theprincessshrugged.‘Idon’tknowwhatJew.There’sawickedoldJewinThirdClass,Taniasays,andshesaysthatwordisgoingaboutthatheisthevampire… which I must say doesn’t surprise me. There is something…sinister…abouttheJewishrace,isn’tthere?Somethingaccursed.Onehearsfrightfulthings…’‘That’snonsense.’Lydiawasalmost toostartled, for themoment,even to

feel angry. ‘One hears frightful things about fortune tellers also, but thatdoesn’tmeanthatMadameIzoraisamadwomanoraconfidencetrickster.’‘That’snotthesamethingatall!’Lydiaopenedhermouth to snapback that first, itwas agooddealmore

likely that madame was a confidence trickster than that Mr Goldhirsch –however hard-fisted and unsympathetic he might be – was a vampire andsecond,therewasnowayofknowingwhethertheoldmancouldgiveagoodaccountofhismovementsatthetimesofthemurdersornotbecausenobodyknewwhatthosetimeswere.TheninthebackofhermindsheheardJamiesaying – following one ofAunt Isobel’s diatribes against the Irish –Thereisn’tmuchlikelihoodthatanythingIsayisgoingtochangehermind…andwe need to pick our battles. (That was, Lydia recalled, on an occasion onwhichtheyneededAuntIsobeltointroducethemtoaMemberofParliamentregardingaright-of-waynearOxford.)Inanycase,betweenherstepmotherandherNanna,Lydiahadgrownup

pickingherbattles.So she took a deepbreath and said, ‘No, of course it isn’t – forgiveme.

Thatwasabadsimile.OnehasonlytolookatMadametoseeherhonesty.’Loweringhervoiceandlayingahandonhercompanion’sarm,shewenton,‘The thing is, Natalia Nikolaievna, I’ve come across something entirelydifferent. And if it’s true, I don’t see how poorMrGoldhirsch could haveanythingtodowithanything.I’vecomeacross—’They’dreached thecornerof thePromenadeandsheglancedaroundher,

thoughinfactthecoveredwaythatfrontedtheTilcottandCochransuiteswascompletelyvacant.Almostinawhisper,shesaid,‘I’vecomeacrossevidencethatMrCochran

knowsmoreaboutthisvampirethanhe’sleton.Shh—’sheadded,puttingaquickfingertoherlips.The princess, dark eyeswide, nodded her understanding, and steered the

partybackalong theway theyhadcome.Behind them,Lydiaheard adooropen, and a moment later the bulkyMr Kimball and another ‘detective’ –lanky and sallow, and clutching aGladstone bag – passed them,mutteringdiscontentedly.

‘The thing is,’continuedLydia inahushedundervoice, ‘MrCochranhashad his men searching the ship – quietly, secretly – since the start of thevoyage,evenbefore thefirstkilling. Iheardhimthefirstnightgiving theminstructions:The silver crucifix should keep you safe, he said.Bringhim tome,Ineedhim.Thenlaterhesaid,Remember,thisisabusinessdeal.Ididn’tknowwhathemeant,untillastnight.MrCochranknowshe’sonboard,andistryingtokeepeveryoneelsefromfindinghim,untilhe’smetwithhim–andnottodestroyhim,ashe’dhaveusbelieve.He’sprotectinghim.Hewantstomakeadealwithhim.’Theprincess’sbreathleftherinalittlegasp.‘Infamous—’‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ added Lydia darkly, seeing she had her full

attention and belief, ‘if itwasMrCochranwho is putting it about thatMrGoldhirsch is thevampire,asawayofdeflecting thesearch fromwherevertherealvampireishiding.’That made sense even to her, and the Princess Natalia, much struck,

whispered,‘You’reright!’Shedidnot,Lydianoticed,evenquestionwhethertheAmericanmillionairewoulddosuchathing.‘Don’t tell Tania.’ Lydia glanced around her again, trying to sound like

someoneinablood-and-thundernovel.‘Whateveryoudo.Don’ttellanyone.You know how these things get about. But I need to get in and searchMrCochran’ssuite.’‘Ah! So!’ Illumination brightened the princess’s face. ‘And if our good

MadameIzorahasa…arevelation,avision,adream—’‘Exactly!’Lydiamarveledagainather friend’scombinationofcleverness

and absolute credulity. ‘And if Madame says she sees or smells a … anunknownsubstance,a jarorbottleclutched in thevampire’shand,Cochranwill bringBarvellwithhim, to askquestions about it.Barvell is a chemist,youknow.Itwillhavetobetonight,’sheaddedquietly.‘Wecannotriskeventheslightestchance,thatthis…thismonster…willreachAmerica.Certainlynotifit’sallieditselfwithCochran.IfoneofhisdetectivesisinthesuiteI’llhavetocomeupwithsomewayto—’‘Theywon’tbe.’Theprincess shooed theproblemaside likeamosquito.

‘Samson–myfootman,youknow–saysthatnoneofthemhavebeenaboutthesuiteallday.OnlyBarvell.See—’shepointedbackalongthePromenadetoward Cochran’s suite – ‘they’ve put extra locks on the outer doors. Apadlock–Heavenknowswhat theypaidCaptainWinstanley to let themdoit!’SheputahandonLydia’selbow,whenLydiawouldhavetakenheratherword and gone to look. ‘And it makes sense, you know. Samson told meyesterdaythatM’sieuCochran’svalet,even,sharesasecond-classstateroom–thesmallestofthatclass,downonFDeck!–withOliver–thenephew,you

know,thesecretary.Oakley–thevalet–isobligedtogoupfiveflightsatasettimeeachmorning,toshaveM’sieuCochranandhelphimdress,anddoeseverything by time schedule, and now I see why! The American does notwanthim–oranyone!–inthesuite,exceptthatpoisonouscreatureBarvell.Youdon’tthinkheishidingthisvampire,thiscreature,inthesuite,doyou?Likemine,itmusthaveaninnerroomwhichcanbekeptlightless…’Lydia shook her head quickly. ‘If hewere, hewouldn’t be searching for

him, which he obviously is.’ And, because the princess was cominguncomfortablyclosetothetruth,sheadded,‘Monsieurseemstohavemadeafriend,’noddingalong thePromenade toward the littlegroupofOssolinska,Miranda, and the two dogs.They had been joined by theAllens,MrAllenholdingawellwrapped-up infant inhisarmswhilehisslender, stylishwifestoopedtocaressthelittledog’shead.‘Dreadful people.’ The princess raised her lorgnette momentarily, as if

peeringthroughoperaglassesatadistantstage.‘IfAllenis theirrealname.Tania tells me that it was originallyAltmann; Jew bankers from Holland.’Disdaincurledtheedgesofhervoice.‘M’sieuisconstantlyupanddowntothewirelessroom,tryingtogetnewsoftheNewYorkstockmarket.Hemustbe,asMadameCochransays, likearooster inanemptyhenhouse,with thewirelessoutthisafternoon.It’sallJewsthinkabout,youknow.’ShepausedtobestowawarmsmileinpassinguponaMrTyler,wealthy–

accordingtoEllen–fromtheproceedsofastringoffactoriesinPittsburghinwhichimmigrantgirlsworkedsixteenhoursaday.The industrialistbeamedandtippedhishat.‘Isthewirelessout?’Lydiaglancedupautomaticallyinthedirectionofthe

Marconiroom,thoughitwashiddenbytheroofofthepromenade.‘Sotheysay.Thoughmyself,Isay,oneofthegreatjoysoftravelistobe

adriftfromthecaresoftheworldonehasleftbehind.Tobeonewiththeseaand the sky. To come to know one’s fellow passengers –’ she smiled, andtightenedherelbowoverLydia’shand–‘withoutallthatpesteringabouthowmany men were killed last week in Flanders, and what those imbeciles inPetersburgaredoingnow.IcanreadaboutitallwhenwereachNewYork.’Lydiacouldnotstopherselffromthinking,IfwereachNewYork.The twowomenrejoinedMirandaand thedogsandOssolinska (Miranda

was explaining to the fragile-looking Mrs Allen about mermaids and bluelotus),andthelittlegirl’swordsturnedLydia’seyestowardsthegraysurgeofthesea.Sheshouldn’thave tobemakingupstoriesaboutwhywearen’t really in

dangerfromsubmarines.

Atthefarendofthepromenade,Lydiacouldseetheship’slookoutmast,athinspikeofwoodwiththeroundwhitecrow’snesthalfwayupit,ratherlikea Sterno tin impaled on a kitchen spit. The pale gray daylight glinted onbinoculars:twomensearchingtheocean’ssurface.Searchingforsomethingtheyprobablywouldn’tevenseeuntil itwastoo

late.They’reoutthere,thoughtLydia.Underthewater.Sniffing,likewolveson

abloodtrail,forprey.ShewonderedifthecrewoftheE.C.Baldwinhadyetpaid for their Good Samaritan impulse. Aunt Louise had remarked, whenLydia had spoken of it on the way to lunch, that she was entirely sick ofhearingaboutsubmarinesandthatsheheartilyagreedwiththeRoyalNavy’sordersthatnovesselwastogototheaidofatorpedoedshipforfearthattheattackermightstillbeintheneighborhood.Isitworse,Lydiawondered,tobetrappedonashipwithavampire(well,

twovampires),orsurroundedbyenemysubmarines?Ortoknowthatbeforetheendofthevoyage,you’regoingtohavetokill

someoneyoulove?‘Personally,’ said the princess, moving on along the promenade and

obligingtherestofherparty–companion,dogs,Miranda,Lydia–toabandontheunworthyAllens,‘Ishallbegladwhenthisvoyageisdone.’AgustofwindflungsprayandrainonLydia’sface.Itwasfouro’clock.

TWENTY

‘I’mtowaitforhimathalfpasteleven.’CaptainPalfrey,hisfaceaglowwithrelief,checkedhiswristwatch,asiftomakesurehe’dresetitearlierthatdaywhentheCityofGoldhadcrossedthroughintoyetanothertimezone.Lydiatriedtomentallycalculatewhattimeitactuallywas,inrelationtowherethesunwouldbe(ontheothersideoftheworld)whenitwasmidnighthere,andfailed (drat it, I forgot to pack a sextant. I wonder if Captain Winstanleywouldlendmeone?).(Probably the reason Don Simon set their rendezvous for eleven thirty.

He’llbeaslateasheneedstobetobringtheillusionintoplay.)AWillowGrove waiter – Roger – brought their pot of tea and plate of

sweetbiscuits.Acrossthecafé,shecouldseeMirandasitting,verylady-likein her pale-green, ruffled frock,with the princess andMadameOssolinska,drinking ‘cambric’ teaheavily lacedwithmilk fromthedemi-tassecup thatWilliampresentedtoherwithasmile.AuntLouisecouldsaywhatshelikedabout Aunt Lavinnia as a preceptress, but Lydia could see no fault in herdaughter’sbeautifulmanners.Probably better than had I had charge of her, she thought sadly, for the

pasttwoandahalfyears…But her grief at having left her child, at the age of two and a half, to

volunteerherskillsattheFrontwasstilladaggerinherheart.‘Doyouknow,’wentonPalfreyeagerly,‘IsawColonelSimonyesterday,

ontheSecondClasspromenade?Ipassedonmywaytothebarbershop,andsawhimstandingbytheforwarddeckwell,chattingwithMrsBowdoin.Hecaughtmyeye, raiseda finger tohis lips–’ theyoungmandemonstrated–‘whenIlookedagain,hewasgone.He’sadeepone,’headded,pleasedandproud.‘He is indeed.’AsLydia had spoken to Palfrey on Friday afternoon, she

knewthat,hadheactuallyseenDonSimonafewhoursbeforethat–inthemorningonhiswaytothebarber’stobeshaved–therewasnowayhewouldhave neglected tomention it to her.Simonmust have put a dream into hismindlastnight,atmidnightof localtime–adreamthathe’dseenhimthatmorning.

AdreamsorealthatpoorCaptainPalfreynowthinksitactuallyhappened.NowonderMrCochranwantssomeonewhocandothat,tobehisslave.She sipped her tea. It was five. The rain had ceased, though the sky

remainedgrayasiron.I can’t let it happen. The thought turned again and again on itself in her

mind,asshereturnedtoherroomtochangeintoherThirdClass togs,afterarrangingwithPalfreytostandwatchonthepromenadethatnight.Nor,shereflected,wouldDonSimonwantittohappen.Therewerethingsabouthimthatsheknewshewouldneverunderstand,butsheknewhispride, thecoldhaughtiness of a sixteenth-century Spanish nobleman. To be ordered aboutlikeahiredassassinbyacold-bloodedmoney-grubberlikeCochran…Tobebroughttohisknees,helplessinthekindofpainshehadfeltthrough

dreamslastweek…Tobepassedalong,towhoeverCochranneededpoliticalfavorsfrom…Hewouldratherdie.She thought about that, slipping quietly from her stateroom when Ellen

gesturedtoherthatthecoastwasclear.Wouldheratherdie?Shehadseenhimdoubleover,foramomentspeechlesswithagony,asthe

poison first bit.Had heard, on other occasions, the screams of vampires astheirfleshignitedwiththesun’sfirsttouch.Hadseenmendie…ThegirlsintheSwissboardingschoolshe’dgoneto,theyoungladieswho

hadcome‘out’withher,intheSeasonof1899.Theywerealwayssaying,I’dratherdie…Attheprospectofwearinglastyear’shattotheRoyalHorticulturalSociety

Flower Show, or being seen taken into dinnerwith poor stammeringHughWigram.Atthemerethoughtofstaying–andbeingseentobestaying–ataninexpensive boarding house rather than one of the grand seaside villas inDeauville…I’dratherdie.Lydiawonderediftheysaidthingslikethatstill.In the foredeckwell,olderbrothersandmothersgrouped in thecorners,

watching the few children who still played games of bounce ball andhopscotchinthegraychillofthewetdecks.Theirmovementswerehesitant,as if they feared to get too far from their friends. Theymissed easy shotsbecause theywere looking over their shoulders. In the shelter of the cranemechanism, Ariane Zirdar was telling a little cluster of the smaller ones astory,withelaboratepantomimebecause severalof themspokenoGerman.ButwhenLydiawent throughthedoor intoEDeck,shesawmanymoreof

them, either playing in the cramped cabins, the doors propped open for aircirculation,orsittingjustoutsidecabindoorsunderthewatchfuleyesoftheirelders.Morewere in thedining room, fretfulandcrying,while themensmoked

andmutteredincorners.‘I’mreadytosettlethatimbecileVodusekwithawrench,’growledHeller,

fetching two cups of execrable tea from the samovar at the side of thedayroom.Thecoffeewasexhaustedalready,andunwashedcupsagainpiledthe long sideboard. ‘After they nearly killed that poor Russianwoman lastnight, he’s still insisting to everyonewho’ll listen that it’s a vampirewho’sdoingthesethings.Shoutingthatweneedtofindtheabomination,notthatit’sa madman and that we need to get police to take fingerprints andmeasurements. Listen to me,’ he added, with a bitter chuckle. ‘My oldcomradeswouldlaughtheirheadsofftohearmesayweneedthepigs.ButIthinkthisisacasewherewedo.Weneedtheirresources.Thiswillend—’Heshookhishead.‘Didyouseethechild’sbody?’‘Yes.I thinkhewasluredwithcandy, like theother.’Shegaveadetailed

account of her examination of Kemal Adamic’s little corpse, ending with,‘Arethemenstillsearching?’‘Someofthem.Enoughoftheblackgang,andtheenginecrew,havecome

tobelievethetalk,thattheyletsearchersintotheengineroomsandthecoalbunkers.Thoughifthekillingsweredoneinacoalbunkerthere’dbesignsofit on the victims’ clothing.’ He grimaced. By the soot smudges on hisunshaven face, Lydia guessed he’d been one of those patient, tirelesssearchers. It crossed hermind towonder if the sneak thieves of liquor andcigaretteshadsteeredthesearchersawayfromtheirpersonalhidey-holes.Shecertainlywouldn’tputitpastVodusektodoso.‘Andsomeoftheblackgangareassuperstitiousasthefarmersandminers.

ItriedtotalksomesenseintothatoldGod-peddlerKirn,butallhehadtosaytomewas“Get theebehindme, Satan”, and quoteme someBiblical swillabouttheJewsbeinganaccursedraceofChrist-killers.’‘They’resaying,’saidLydia,‘thatthevampireisoldGoldhirsch.’‘Quatsch!’Hemadeafaceofdisgust.‘AndawomaninFirstClass,’wentonLydiacarefully,‘whoclaimstobe

psychic,saysthattheboywaskilledinaplacewithchains.Adarkplacewithchains,shesaid…’Hellerhadliftedhishandasifabouttobegtobesparedanymoreclaptrap,

butpausedinthegesture.‘Chainlocker,’hesaid.Andseeingherblanklook,explained, ‘The space in the nose of the ship, where they stow the anchorchainwhilewe’reatsea.It’srightabovetheballasttank.Nowthatyouspeak

of it, were I to murder someone aboard-ship,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘thatwouldbe agoodplace todo it.Nobodygoes there. It’s full of rats, and soclosetothebilges,it’sfoulasanyslumouthouse.’His eyes narrowed as he turned the matter over in his mind. Near the

depletedcoffeeurns,Vodusekandhissour-lookingfriendSlavikharanguedaknotofuneasywomeninSlovene,amidacloudofcigarettesmoke.‘IfIwantedtohangandbleedsomeone,’theGermanwenton,‘Icoulddo

itfromtheupperportionofthechainitself,whereitrisesthroughtheceilingto the anchor. The bottom of the locker’s always a couple of feet deep inwater,justfromwhatdripsinwhenthechain’spulledup.Youcan’tevenseeit, because of the chain piled in it.With a funnel you could just drain thebloodstraightdownintothebilgeandnobodywouldnoticeanythinguntilwedocked.Probablynot then.Withtheotherstinksinthere,Idoubtyoucouldsmellevenacoupleofgallonsofbloodmixedwiththewateratthebottom.’‘Couldsomeonegettoit?Thechainlocker?Draggingorcarryingabody,I

mean?’‘Oh,yes.Therearealwaysemergencydoorsintoit,incasethechainitself

kinks or hangs itself up. On this ship, it’s probably from one of thedormitories where the stokers and greasers sleep.Maybe another from thebulkcargoholdonedeckbelow.Youcouldgoinwhenthemeninthatroomareallon-shift.Nobodywouldseeyou,ifyou’recareful.’Andifyoutimedyourkill,thoughtLydia,forthosetenorfifteenminuteson

either sideofmidnight,when the vampiremind regained its full powers, toturntheperceptionsofthelivingaside…‘Canwe…?’shebegan,butvoicesinterruptedher,shoutinginthecorridor

outside.Achild’sfranticwailof fear.Anotherchild,shoutingsomething…Lydiasprangtoherfeetandstrodetothedoor,followedbyeverypersonintheroom.Butinaweirdparodyoflastnight’sriot,acrowdofthechildrenthatLydia

hadseensorecentlyinthedeckwellwerepushing,shoving,throwingbitsofchalkandtrashatthetwochildren–Yakovandhissister–thatsheandHellerhad seen yesterday while searching the rear portions of the ship. They’dcorneredtheminaturningofthecorridorandYakovwascrying.Hetuggedathissister’sskirtandsobbed,‘Rivkah!Rivkah!’andthegirlRivkahpushedhimbehindher,stampedherfootandshoutedsomethingatthejuvenilemob.Lydiaheardthemyellback,‘Zid!Iudey!Jüden!’andknewwhat thetroublewas.Before she could step forward, the girl Ariane, gold braids swinging,

shovedherwaythroughthepackandgrabbedthedarkgirl’shand.Herfaceconvulsedwithanger,Arianeturnedandshoutedatthemob,evidentlywords

to theeffect that theywerecowardsand (probably,Lydiaguessed)nogreatadvertisement forChristianity themselves. They protested, but backed off afewpaces–atfifteenArianewashalfwaytoadultauthority,andlargerthanmostofthem.FrauZirdarstrodefromthegrouparoundVodusek,shoulderedpastLydiainthedoorwayandcalledouttoherdaughter,gesturingforhertocomeawayandnotinterfere.LydiacaughtthewordforJew.Arianedrewherselfupandretorted.FrauZirdargesturedmorefirmly,andhervoicehardened.Threatofa thrashing,guessedLydia,seeing thegirl’s face.Tears flooded

Ariane’s eyes but she didn’t give ground. Yakov and Rivkah, meanwhile,boltedawaydownthecorridortotheWCattheend,evidentlytheonlygoalthat could have gotten them out of their grandfather’s cabin. Frau Zirdarstrode forward, grabbed her daughter by the wrist, and at the same timeshouted something at the other children that made them scatter. Then shehauled her daughter away down the corridor for the promised punishment,whatever itwas.Ariane followedmeekly, her one attempt to explain beingsilencedwithaharsh,‘Utihnil!’‘Little bastards,’ saidHeller quietly. ‘Therewill be trouble indeed, ifwe

don’t find thismadman,andsoon.’HeglancedsidelongatLydia. ‘Someofthe stokers were saying this morning that an American freighter wastorpedoed,afewhourssouthofus.Haveyouheardfurtherofthis?’Lydiashookherhead.‘Theship’swireless isout,’shesaid. ‘They’vegot

extramenuponthe lookout,butI’mnotsurehowmuchgoodthatwilldo,againstasubmarine.Particularlynotonceitgetsdark.Ididhearthatatleastsome of the freighter’s crew – and passengers, if there were any – werepickedupbyanotherfreighter.’‘The captain of that ship is a courageous man,’ said Heller. ‘I’ve never

reallyblamed thepriestand theLevite,youknow, forhasteningawayfromthestrickentravelerinthetaleoftheGoodSamaritan.That’stheoldesttrickin thebook.Leaveadyingmanby the roadsideasbait, and rob thosewhostoptohelp.ThatSamaritanwasluckyhegotawaywithhisownlife.’‘It’swhatmostofthepeopleintheFirstClassdininghallweresayingthis

morning,’saidLydia.‘They’reprobablyright.AndI’dprobablytellthemthatthepriestandtheLevitewenttoHellanyway,ifmyowndaughterweren’tonboard.Doyouhavechildren,HerrHeller?’‘I did,’ said Heller. ‘He was killed in a mineshaft cave-in, because the

companyhadskimpedontheshoringinthetunnels.Hewaseightyearsold.ThatwaswhenIbecameaSocialist.’

Movementinthedarkness.

Asher checked his watch. It was eight o’clock, well after full dark. Thebarrage,whichhadbegunlateintheafternoonawaytothenortheast,seemedtobemovingcloser.Faroffhecouldseeactivityaroundthecasualtyclearingstation, lanterns barely visible through the tangle of orchard trees. Hewonderediftheyweregettingreadytoclearout.Older vampires – Elysée, Asher knew, had become vampire around the

year1800–wereabletomoveaboutattheendoftwilight:hehopedthatpaleflicker he had glimpsed was she. In the open motorcar, drawn up a fewhundredyardsfromtheclearingstationamongthetangleofdisusedtrenches,hefelthopelesslyexposed.Hepulledtheblanketaroundhim,andwaited.He’dlefttheclearingstationwhileitwasstilllight,toavoidsuspicion,not

tospeakofthepossibilitythatthecommandantwouldgetareplytoquestions–ifhe’dwiredthemtoParis–thatthePeugeothadbeenstolen.Afterjoltingawayontheshell-holedroadhe’ddoubledbackatNesle,andpulleduptohispresentpositionatshortlybeforeseven,wheretheruinsofoneofoldM’sieuVouliers’sbarnsconcealedthedimbeamofhisbullseyelanternfromview.Itwouldbesafer,ofcourse,towaitintheemptytrenchesthatslashedthe

landscapeto thewest.Thevampireswouldfindhimeasilyenoughineitherplace, and if the enemy chose to shell the clearing station hewould be farsafer. But aside from the fact that the men in the front-line trenches wereclearlyusingthesesecondaryonesaslatrines(ratherthantakealongerhiketothedesignatedareas),thethoughtoftheratsthatswarmedtheditchesanddugouts filled himwith loathing. Even in the front-line trenches theywereeverywhere, barely bothering to get out of the way of the men who wereforced to sleep, eat, andwait in those half-floodedmuddy hell-pits for sixweeks at a time. Last year – during his stint as a ‘listener’ – Asher hadsometimes gone with bored soldiers on shooting expeditions to the lessinhabitedportionsofthefoullabyrinth.Thethoughtofsittingdownthereinthedarknesstonightwasmorethanhecaredtodealwith.At least, he thought, this early in spring one didn’t have to deal with

maggotswrigglingoneverysurfaceaswell.Hetriednottothinkaboutthefactthathewasn’tgoingtohaveaccesstoa

newspaperuntilsometimetomorrow.Eveniftheshipwastorpedoedthenewswouldn’tbeprinted.Stop that. It was, as he’d seen in Paris, another way in which vampires

hunted.Theolderonescouldgetyourmindtodrift,soyoudidn’tsee themuntilitwastoolate.She’sfine.She’ssafe…

He shivered in the dampwind. Like a thousand other rendezvous. Howmany hundred nights spent waiting, for somebody to show up withinformation: a word, a name, a packet of letters or maps. Prague, Vienna,Constantinople,Tsingtao.ThesourdarknessofthemarshlandbelowtheruinsofNineveh.Wondering if he’d be quietly on a train the followingmorningwithhisinformationtuckedintoahollowedwalkingstickortheliningofhisluggage, or if something was going to go wrong, that would result in hisdeath.Seventeenyearsofit,beforehe’dhadenough.BeforeAfrica…There.Movementagain.Heflexedhishand,whichhehadwrappedwiththesilverchainsfromhis

wrists. The silver would badly burn a younger vampire. Even Elysée,seasonedby thekillsof a century,wouldbe scorchedand seared, forced tofleeandseekhealingintheenergyreleasedbyakill.Hewonderedifkillingthreeandfourtimesanightrenderedeventheyoungvampires,thefledglings,tougherthanthosehe’dencounteredinthedaysandthetimesofpeace.ItwasthekindofquestionLydiawouldhaveaskedYsidro,hethought.Don’tthinkaboutthem…Hesnappedhismindbacktofullconcentrationintimetoseetwovampires

aboutayardfromthecar,visibleinthesuddenglareofanexplodingshellahalf-miletotheeast.He switched on the car’s headlamps and brought up his silver-wrapped

hand, but he’d already recognized Elysée’s fledgling Joël, fair-haired andprettyasagirlintheeveningclotheshe’dwornlastnight.Theother,dressedintheuniformofaFrenchcolonel,wasalsofair–Elyséelikedblondemen–butofaheroichandsomeness,astallasAsherandbroadofshoulder.Asherwonderedifhe’dstolentheuniformfromoneofhisvictims,orhadpurchasedit from some venal stores clerk. It was clean, smart, and fitted him as iftailored.Ashersalutedhim, lettinghimsee thecoilsofchain thatgleamedaround

hishand.‘Keepwatch,Joël,’thepseudo-colonelsaid,andthesmallervampirefaded

intothedarkness.The‘colonel’regardedhiminsilenceforamoment,andanotherexplosion

flashedsuddenandsinister,reflectedinhiseyes.‘You’ve spokenwithElysée?’ askedAsher politely, but did not offer his

hand.Theofficertookastepnearer,wary.‘Doyouknowwheresheis?’

Asher shook his head. ‘Looking for you, I presume. Shewasn’t pleasedwhen she heard you’d made fledglings of your own – if you are indeedAugustinMalette.’‘Iam.’‘AndifwhatJoëlsaysis true–thatyou’replanningtosetyourselfupas

masterofsomeothercity–Iassumeyou’vebeenrecruitinghelperstodoitwith.’The gold head nodded again in assent. ‘Paris has changed,’ said the

vampire,inahoarsebaritoneandaninflectionAsherrecognizedasbelongingto the lower-class neighborhoods of that city’s Right Bank. ‘Between theBocheandthatswineBonaparteguttinghalf thedistricts’–bywhichAsherguessedhemeantthethirdNapoleon,notthefirst–‘there’snotalotleftofthecitywhereIgrewup.Ishouldbejustashappytoleaveit.’‘I know the feeling.’ Asher thought of the bombed-out ruin of the

countryside around them. ‘Joël said that two of your fledglings hadvanished?’AugustinMaletteglancedoverhisshoulder,asiffearingtobeoverheard.

‘YvesandMiriyam,’hesaid.‘CaptainYvesGalerien,pied-noirfromAlgeria.Miriyamwasanambulancedriver,anAlgerianJewess.Itookthemboth,in1915,nearSoissons.Oneof thePraguevampires,Petrus, toldme–showedme–howone…whatonedoes,tocreateafledgling.To…totake,tohold,thesoulofavictiminone’sownmind.’Foraninstant,hisfaceconvulsedwithdistaste.‘And I take it Elysée never told you what happens when one of your

fledglingsdies?’‘No. Miriyam … when she was … was killed, I felt it. Not what had

happenedtoher,butthepain.Daysofit.Iknewitwasshe,butIcouldn’taskElysée. TheGraf –Graf Szgedny – said that not allmasters feel it to thatdegree.Somefeelnothingatall.ButI’dseen…’Hehesitated,lookedaroundhimagain,searchingthedarkness.Quietly,Ashersaid,‘HadyouseenamannamedBarvell,hereamongthe

trenches?’‘Faugh.’Then,afteralongmoment’sstillness,added,‘Whatdoyouknow

aboutBarvell?’‘Whatdoyouknow?’Anothersilence.Augustinwasstilllisteningallaroundhim,thoughAsher

heardlittlebeyondthedistantpoundingoftheguns.Behindthearroganceinthe vampire’s eyes, Asher read fear. He knew that Elysée de Montadourherselfwas ignorant of the deeper lore of theUndead state – and jealouslyguarded those elements of it that she did know. Keeping her fledglings

ignorantintheirturnwaspartofhercontroloverthem,andheguessedthatthis heroic-looking figure in the pale-blue uniform was seriouslyinexperiencedinthesimplelogisticsofbeingUndead.Ofknowingwhatsituationswereperilous,andwhatwerenot.At lengthAugustinsaid, ‘Hemetme in theBoul’Mich’,before theWar.

HeknewwhoandwhatIwas.Offeredtobuymeadrink,damnhischeek.’‘Anddidhe?’Theman’s fangsgleamed inhis ironic laugh. ‘Aneleven-year-oldwhore,

jaggered to the eyebrows. And you’ll laugh, Anglais – like that brainlesswitchElysée laughed–whenI tellyou, Ibunked it. Ididn’t touch the littlebint.He’d shot something inher arm– I saw themark–buthowwas I toknowitwasn’tsilvernitrate?Oroneofthoseotherthingseverybodyalwayswhispersabout,that’llparalyzeus,turnthebloodinourveinstopoison?’Hismouth twitched at the recollection. ‘Serge calledme coward, to turn

downakill,andasweetlittletastykilllikethatone.Youshouldhavetookthechildandtheman,too,whilehewasgettinghimselfhappyatthesightofherdeath.That’sallhewanted,hesaid.Butitwasn’t.’‘Youknowthat?’‘I know.’ He turned his head sharply at some noise below the range of

Asher’s hearing. Then he stepped close, eyes like fire in the headlamps’reflected glare. Asher raised his silver-wrapped hand warningly, but thevampire came within arms’ length of the car, his face suddenly like ademon’s.‘Ifyou’reworkingforher,Anglais—’Asher shookhishead. ‘Shedesertedmehere lastnight, after comingout

withme fromParis. I think she thought she could follow Joël to you.YouknowwhatBarvellwaslookingfor,whenhespoketoyouinParis?Whyhecaptured, and killed, two of your fledglings, the two least experienced andweakest vampires in this section of the Front?Has anyone else along theFrontmadefledglings?’Augustinshookhishead.‘Themasterskeepatightreinonthings,’hesaid.

‘Damn them. Damn Szgedny, and that spidery old spook Hieronymus ofVenice.They’vewarnedus all – as if therewasn’t enoughand to spare foreveryoneanda thousandmore.Bastards,everyoneof them,andElyséetheQueenWitchandstupidasacobblestonetoboot.’‘DidyoutellheraboutBarvell?’‘No.’‘DidBarvelloffertohelpyouagainsther?’Thegleamingeyesnarrowed,suspicionineverylineof thatgodlikeface.

‘Whatdoyouknowofit?Who’veyoubeentalkingto?’

‘Noone,’saidAsher.‘Itsticksoutamile.Whatdoyouofferawhore,orabeggar,towalkdownadarkalleywaywithyou?Money.Whatdoyouofferadrunkard?Abottle.Heofferedyouwhatheguessedyou’d follow: freedomfromyourmaster.Heknowsenoughaboutvampires,topromisethat.’Afangglinted,withtheliftingofthevampire’slip.‘Didhespeaktoyouagain?’‘He wrote me twice. Second time, I had to give up a perfectly good

’commodation address, for fear he’d bewatching the place and followme.GodonlyknowshowhefoundoutwhereIgotmyletters.Ididn’tknowwhathewanted,buthewantedsomething…Anditwasprettyclearheknewaboutus.Merde,’headded,turninghisglancetotheeast.‘Heretheycome.’

TWENTY-ONE

The roar of the guns suddenly redoubled to the east, and the open carshudderedwiththeshakingoftheground.Beneaththeartillerychatteredthestaccato of defenders’ machine guns; the Germans, presumably, had creptclosetotheBritishlinesandwerenowreadyingacharge.AsherreachedforthePeugeot’sself-starterandflinchedasashellscreamedoverheadandstrucktothewestofthem.BeforeAshercouldbreatheorblinkAugustinsprangtothecar’srunningboard,grabbedAsher’scoat,anddraggedhimout.‘Don’tbeafool,’headded,asAsherbroughtuphissilver-wrappedhand.

‘Getundercover!’Thevampirethrusthiminthedirectionofthenearesttrench.Ashedidsoanothershelllandedtothewestofthecar,closerthantheone

before.ThenextsecondahitobliteratedtheVouliers’barn–inwhichAsherhad napped one hot August afternoon thirty years previously – and Asherplunged,slithering,downthemuckysideofoneofthecaved-intrenches,inwhich Joël had already taken refuge.When another explosion bleached theskyabovethemhesawratsstreamingalongthebottomofthetrenchoneithersideofthewidebandofmuddywaterthatfloodedit.Clodsandfilthraineddown,andthethreemen–livingandundead–huddledintowhathadbeenasleepingdugoutforshelter.‘Thisway.’Augustintookhisupperarm,draggedhimtowardazigzagged,

narrowcommunicationstrenchthathadatonetimeledbacktowardtherear.Asherstumbledafterhim,flatteningagainstthewalleverytimeashellstrucknear.The vampire’s keener hearing seemed able to distinguish between thegenuinely dangerous trajectories, and the simple near-misses, so theymadegood time. At length they ducked into another dugout, this one almost aproper room(andwe’dbetter not takeahit aboveus), flooded ankle-deep,shored up with the broken beams of some farmhouse or shed, and stillcontaining the tattered, rat-stinking remainsof a coupleofmattresses andabrokenLouisXVIchair.Betweenflashesoftheexplosionsabovethem,theroomwaspitchblack.Afteratime,Augustinwhispered,‘Whatis it thathewants?ThisBarvell

…’

‘Youdidn’ttrytofindthatout?’inquiredAshersoftly.‘InMayof1913?’Thevampirecursed,unimaginatively.‘Somemuck.Icouldn’tmakeheads

ortailsofit.’‘He’s come up with a way to subdue vampires to his will,’ said Asher

quietly.‘Didhetellyouthat?Somethingchemical,I’mguessing,fromwhat’sleft inhislaboratory.Somewaytomakethemhisslaves.AndI’mguessingthatheknewthateveryvampire inEuropewouldbehere,at theFront,andthat itwas here that he could find subjects to try it out on.Whendid yourfledglingsdisappear?Yves,andMiriyam?’‘November,’ said thevampire. ‘Andyes, I thought I sawhim–glimpsed

him–inaconvoy,aweekafterMiriyam’sdeath.IknewhewasbackinParis,butIdidn’tthink—’‘Whyelsewouldhehavereturned?HealreadyknewabouttheParisnest,

probablymorethananyofyourealized.’Ashershrugged.‘He’dhaveguessedyou’dbesomewhereinthisareaoftheFront,closetoParis,toterritoryyouknow.He’dhaveguessedyou’dhavemadefledglings.’‘And he was telling the truth?’ Augustin’s voice sounded suddenly

thoughtful in thedarkness, andhishand tightenedonAsher’sarm. ‘HecanenslavetheUndead.Anyundead?Youknowthisofhim?’‘Iknowthis.He’sinthepayofanAmerican,amillionaire.Idon’tknowif

theman’sanagentofsomeoneelse,orworkingonhisown.’‘Whereishenow?’askedthevampire.‘ThisBarvell?’‘On his way to America. And I don’t think there’d be much chance of

makingadealwithhim.Morelikelyyou’dbeenslavedyourself.He—’‘Youletmebethejudgeofthat.’Anothershellstruckoutside,fartheroff

thistime,andinthebriefgleamAshersawthecalculatinglookinAugustin’snarrowedeyes.‘Thismethodofhis,ofenslavingvampirestohiswill–itis…science,yousay?Itcanbeusedbyanyone?’BecauseAugustin was young and ignorant in his powers, Asher felt the

vampire’s clumsy attempt to turn his thoughts aside before he struck. Hedodged,shuckedhimselfoutofhisgreatcoat,andevenastheclawsrakedatthesideofhisneck,slappedwiththesilverwrappedaroundhishand.HefeltitconnectwithfleshandheardAugustinscream.Joël,herecalled,wasnearthedugout’sentry:heflattenedbackagainsttheearthwallbehindhim,handraised, ready fora secondattack– if it’sbothof themImaybeable to slippast…Awhisperofsound–clothing.Heswungin thatdirectionwithhishand,

then flunghimselfback intoacornerof thecrampedearthen room.Ahandcaught his neck in the darkness and released him at once – he was still

wearing treble chains of silver around his throat – and he heard a hoarse,sobbingscreamofrage.Then silence, forwhat felt like tenminutes butwas actually, he thought

later,aboutninetyseconds.The dugout shook under the force of another explosion and harsh light

flaredoutside.Theroombeforehimwasempty.

Itwasteno’clockbeforeLydiacouldescapefromtheprotractedritualofFirstClassdinner.Nearlyeveryoneatthetable–andtheothertablesaswell,sofaras Lydia could overhear – was still preoccupied with the ship’smalfunctioningwireless. Indeed,most seemed considerablymore indignantabouttheabsenceofstockmarketnewsthanaboutthepossibilityofatorpedoattack.Certainlynooneseemedconcernedwith thefateof thecrewsof theCumberlandortheBaldwin.Don Simon, impeccable in evening dress, was waiting for her on the

privatepromenadeoutsideAuntLouise’ssuite.‘Isitpossibleforyoutolistenforsubmarines,’Lydiaaskedhim,‘theway

I’ve seenyou listen forpeoples’dreams?Trace thecrewsomehowby theirdreams?Ordoestheseadeadenyourperceptionthewayearthdoes?’‘Atmidnight.’Thevampireconsidered,hiseyesontheinkyblacknessthat

laybeyondthepromenade’slights.Hisskeletalfacewashaggard,asifevenwithBarvell’speriodictreatmentssomedeeppainthreatenedtoconsumehim.‘T’would be at the expense of missing speech with our good Captain

Palfrey,andImislikelettinghimgosolongwithoutactualconversewithme.’TistrueIchosetheyoungmanforhisstupidity–aye–’heraisedaglovedhandagainstLydia’sindignation–‘’twastheactofacynicandanevildoer,and an insult to a good and well-meaning youngman. Yet a man of suchmentalacuityasyourself,orourJames,wouldlongerethishavespottedthediscrepancies inmystory.Fewonboard,’headdedsoftly, ‘willnotat leastknow that there was a riot below-decks last night, sparked by rumor of avampireontheship.’Lydia reflected on the lines of communication – cabin stewards, barbers,

dining-roomstaff…andthencetothevaletsandmaids.Theyallatetogether,andpassedgossipfromonetoanother,andthence,backto theiremployers.‘Captain Palfrey might not be… well, there might not be a great deal offurnitureinhisattic,’sheadmitted.‘Buthehasthekindness,andthesimpledecency,torefusetoserveyou,ifheknewwhatyouwere.’‘’Tis more than that, Lady.’ Don Simon’s fingers were cold within the

pearl-colored kid of his glove as he took her hand. ‘He is a soldier, and, I

think,haththesoulofahero.’Twerenotbeyondpossiblethat,intheangerofdisillusionandtheoutrageat thesekillings–forhowwouldanyonebelievethattherearetwovampiresaboardonevessel?–hewouldturnuponmeandkillme.Andhemightwellthinkitappropriatetokillyouaswell.’Shehadn’t thoughtof that,andafter thefirstshocked,hewouldn’t!anger

flashedthroughher.Thoughhisexpressiondidn’tchangesheknewhesawit:angerathim,forputtingherinthepositionofbeingaccomplice–accessoryafterthefact–tohismurders.Andtomurdersthatweren’this.‘I need a henchman, Mistress,’ he finished quietly. ‘You – and Miss

Miranda–needaprotector.Andwill themoreso,should thisvampire–orvampires–getashoreinNewYork,andobligeustotrackhimthere.’Hewasright,ofcourse.Hemusthaveseentheindignationinhereyes,for

hewenton,withthefaintflickerofahumansmile,‘Fearnot,Lady.Thereistoomuchinthisthatwecannotknoworcontrol,formetorefusemyhelponshipboard simply to stay you from killingme. The situation on this vesselgrows hourly more volatile, to say nothing of the danger that lies –’ hisgesturetookintheblacknessoftheinvisiblesea–‘separatedfromusbynomorethanacurtain,perhaps.IwilldowhatIcan.ButtotouchthedreamsofthosetowhomIhaveneverspoken–thosewhoseeyesIhavenotmet–takestime. I need a door, an entry of somekind, into the deep realmof dreams.Withtime,atthehourofmidnight,Ican—’He broke off, turning his head, then touched Lydia’s elbow and led her

down the flight of steps toward the fore deck well, out of sight of thepromenadeabove.AmomentlaterLydiaheardPrincessGromyko’shoney-darkvoice:‘And,

LadyMountjoy,IswearmypoorIzorawaswhiteasaghostwhenshetoldmethis!Shedreadsthisevening’srevelations,shesays,butbecauseofwhattheshining figure toldher, sheknows shemust findout!She says, only in thecompany of the true believers, and protected by the strength of their innerlight—’‘I knew it!’ boomed Aunt Louise’s voice. ‘What time will the séance

begin?’‘Your idea?’ murmured Don Simon’s voice in Lydia’s ear, as the two

womenwentintoAuntLouise’ssuite.‘Verygood!’‘I’ve managed to get two hypodermic syringes from the infirmary,’ said

Lydia.‘ItoldDrLiggattthattheonesIuseforinjectionsofvitamins,andfora paregoric solution for neuralgia, were broken. Dr Barvell should havebrewedenoughantiveninbythistime,totakeyouthroughtoNewYork,andadayortwobeyonduntilhecangethislaboratorysetupthere.Dependingon

howmuchhe’smade,Ihopetobeabletotakeenoughfromeachampouleforafewinjectionsforyou,withoutthelossbeingobvious.’Rather likeGeorgHeller,shethought,stealingonecigarettefromeachof

Vodusek’s stolen packets, lest the thief realize his hiding place had beenrumbled.‘Itwillbuyustime,shouldweneedit.IfIcan,I’lltakesmallamountsof

thechemicalshehasaswell,tomakemore…’Shebitoffthewords,oncewegettoNewYork.DoIlethimgoashore?Knowingwhatheis?DoIhelphim?Knowingwhatheis?Shedidn’tknow,sosheonlywenton,‘I’vealreadytoldEllen–whothinks

we’rehuntingGermanspies–togatherupasmanysmalljarsasshecan,forwhateverIcanpinch.AndifIhavetimeI’llsearchMrCochran’sstateroomand luggage again, now that I have a better idea what I’m looking for. Ifyou’llstandwatchonthepromenade…’‘Ishall,Lady.’Thevampirelistenedforamoment,thenledherupthesteps

totheshelteredwalkwayagain.‘Imisdoubt that timeshallvexyoutonight.Cochrangaveordersthismorning–andsleepthoughwemightinourcoffins,wetheUndeadcanhearwhatgoesonnearus–toKimballandhisattendantlubbers,thattheyshouldsufficientlyimpairtheenginesofthiscraft,soastoslowitsprogresstowardAmericaandpermithimmoretimeforhissearch.‘’Twill come to nothing,’ he added, as Lydia’s eyes flared in alarm. ‘He

catechizedthefiveof themonthebestwaytosetabout it.Astheownerofsteamshipsandrailroadshimself,hehasaniceunderstandingoftheworkingsofsuchmachines,andIdoubtnot that ’twashewhohad theMarconiroomdisabled.ButfromtheirconversationashisMerrieMendeparted’twascleartheyhavenomorenotionofwhathemeant thantheyhaveofhowtomakepastrycrust.Nor, I think,will they find itpossible toevengetat the ship’senginesunobserved.Yettheywillbeallthenightintrying.’Hestoppedwithher, justoutside thedoorofAuntLouise’ssuite. ‘Thank

you, Mistress.’ The voices of the princess and Lydia’s aunt came clearlythroughthepanels;theysoundedoccupiedforagoodwhileyet.‘Iknowyouwouldkillme,ereyouletmebecarriedashoreasCochran’sslave.Idaresay,ereyouwouldletmegoashoreinAmericaatall.’In the cool electric light his yelloweyes seemednearly colorless, gazing

intohers.Helplessly,shesaid,‘Yes.Yes,Iwould.’Shethoughtthatsayingthewords

wouldhurt,butitdidn’t,andafterwards,shefeltakindofpeace.Sheknewhe’dguessed,ofcourse,butfeltgladinawaythatitwasintheopenbetweenthem.

‘Ishouldratherthatpowerlayinyourhand,Lady,thaninhis.’Hetookherhandinbothofhis,andkissedherpalm.‘And I shall protect you, and your child, through the remainder of the

voyage,’hewenton,‘andasfarbeyonditasmaybeneedful.Weknownotyet what this American will do to protect my… counterpart … here onboard,norwhatstepshewillconsiderappropriateoncewereachland.’And seeing, perhaps, the tears in her eyes, as much of exhaustion and

uncertainty as grief, he added gently, ‘Where there is life, there is hope,Mistress. And though my life is done, yet the gates of Hell have not yetclangedshutbehindme.’Thenhewasgone.

TWENTY-TWO

Hands unsteadywith shock,Asher dug in his pockets for thematches andcandle-endshealwayscarried.Theflashoutsideseemedtohavebeenthelasthurrahforthebarrage.BythenoiseoftheVickersguns,andtheshoutingofthemen,theGermansweretryingtorushthetrench,perhapsahundredyardstotheeast.Had thePeugeot survived, hewondered?And if so,wouldhe be able to

retrieveitbeforeAugustinandJoëlcommandeeredittoheadbacktoParis?DamnAugustin, he thought.He’s a fool if he thinks he canmake a deal

withBarvellwithoutbeingenslavedhimself,soit’sjustaswellBarvell’soutofthecountry.HewonderedifthemanhadaconfederateinParis.ThecandleflareshowedAsherhiscoatfloatinginthethreeinchesofwater

that flooded thedugout floor.A rathad scrambleduponto it, thatbared itsteethathimandfledwhenAsherpokedtheflameatit.Hewasfreezingcold,buttheheavywoolwassoaked,andeventryingtocarryit,heguessed,wouldsoaktherestofhimandchillhimstillmore.Reluctantly,hesloshedtowardthedugoutentrance.Eyesflashedintheblacknessoutside.They could see in darkness and they knew he was there. He took two

stridesbacktothecorner,knowingitwoulddohimlittlegood.Threeofthem…ThenAugustincannonedintothedugoutasifshotfromacatapult,nearly

falling over the broken-down chair. He was clutching the side of his face,weltedandburnedfromthesilveronAsher’shand,andwiththepoisonofthemetal,andthestressofpain,hehadlosthispowersofillusion.Hisfacewasthefaceofademon,skinstretchedthinacrossbone.Hiseyes,whenhesawAsher,flashedwithanimalhatredandhestrodetowardhim,fangsgleaming.‘Bestill.’ThevoicefromtheentrywaystoppedAugustininhistracks.Stillholding

hischeek,hestoodhunched,tremblingwithagony,asatalloldmanduckedhiswayin.Joëltrailedmeeklybehind.

Vampires, Asher knew, look as they wish to look, save when they werehurt,asAugustinwashurt.Vampires taken into theworldof theUndead intheirprime,continuedtolook–asAugustinhadlooked–likeyoungmenandwomen, heedless of the centuries that might well have passed over theirheads. They looked, Asher sometimes thought, the way they looked tothemselves in their owndreams.Theway they existed in their ownminds:beautiful,strong,andyoung.Hehadonlyencountered twovampireswhose illusory imagewas thatof

age:facesseamedandwrinkled,hairgray,handsspotted.OneofthesehadbeentheMasterofPeking,theancientlordoftheChinese

vampires.Theotherstoodinthefloodeddugoutbeforehim,fromwhomeventherats

fledinterror.The Graf Szgedny Aloyïs Corvinus, the Master of Prague. Silver eyes,

silverhair,andafacelikeathousand-year-oldNordicgod.‘Anglus.’Hemadenomove.LikeYsidro,hehadsettledintothestillness

thatliesbeyondlife.Butabouthimhunganatmosphereofanimalbrutality,cold,calculating,andabsolutelyunconcernedwith the livingor thedead.Abrainthatlivedonafterthesoulwasgone.‘Ihopedtofindyou,ereyoufellvictimtotheintriguesoftheParisnest.

What is this rumor I hear, of aman in Pariswho has ameans to bend theUndeadtohiswill?’‘The man’s name is Barvell.’ Asher replied in the old-fashioned High

Germaninwhichhehadbeenaddressed.‘He’safakenervedoctor,oratleasthewasbeforetheWar.Astudent,asIunderstand,ofoccultlore.He’scomeup with some method – chemical, I think – to incapacitate and enslavevampires.Ihavereasontobelievehe’sdonesowithDonSimonYsidro,andis taking him toAmerica in the service of anAmericanmillionaire namedCochran.’Something altered in thedead eyes, a far-off steelyglint. ‘Cochran,’ said

theGraf.‘TheowneroftheRoterbergSteelmills.TheBerlinvampireswouldgo there during strikes, knowing they could kill workers without anyoneaskingquestions.’‘That’shim.’Asherhadthesensationoftalkingtoasentientcobra.‘AndthisBarvellishisservant?’‘Barvell may have presented the scheme to Cochran, and asked for

financialbacking.OrCochranmayhaveheardofhiswork,andsoughthimout.Eitherway,it’sCochranwhopaysthebillsandcallsthetunenow.’ThecoldeyeswenttoAugustin,andheswitchedtoanarchaic,eighteenth-

centuryFrench.‘IheardyousaythatyouwereacquaintedwiththisBarvell?’

‘We…We hadmet,my lord.’Augustin’s reply came out as a stammer.ElyséehadmadeAugustinvampire,andsupposedlyheldcommandoverherfledgling’swill andmind– thoughAsherwonderedwhat theoutcomeof acontestofwillswouldbe,betweenthem.ButfewvampiresinEuropewouldgoupagainsttheGraf.‘And did he,’ inquired Asher quietly, ‘offer to give you the means to

disposeofElyséedeMontadour,ifyouwouldmeethiminsomequietplace?’Thewoundedvampire looked sulkilyaroundhis fingers atAsher. ‘When

hecameback in1913,he saidhewouldmakemeMasterofParis. Ididn’tgo,’headded.‘Theman’soffersmelled,amileaway.I’mnotanidiot.’Szgednyneithermovednorspoke,butsomethinginhissilenceimpliedthat

hedisbelievedthislastassertion.‘And was it at that point,’ pursued Asher quietly, ‘that you burgled his

flat?’TheGraftiltedhisheadalittleinAugustin’sdirection.Thegoldenvampire

answeredthatmovementratherthanAsher’squestion.‘Onlytoseeifthemanborewatching.Therewasalaboratorythere,bloodandbonesandtheskullsof childrenandanimals.Clothing, in abox in a cupboard, the sortof thingyouseepoorchildrenwear,theoneswhosleepindoorwaysandintheMetrostations.Apileofnewspapers,likeanewsboywouldhavebeenselling.Aboxofcheapcandy,likeyou’dusetolureakid.’Heshrugged.‘Nasty.’TheGrafsaidnothing.‘Youdidn’thappentostealhisnotes,didyou?’Augustin’sheadsnappedaroundatAsher’squestion,andhisfangglinted

inasnarl.‘WhywouldIdothat?Itoldyoutheywerejustchemicalmuck.’‘Didyou?’inquiredtheGraf.‘Coursenot.’Augustin’seyesshifted.Asher didn’t even see the Grafmove. Neither, apparently, did Augustin,

becauseevenwithavampire’spreternatural senses,with theuncannyspeedof theUndead, the golden vampirewas still standing there,mouth open inshock,when theMasterofPraguewasbesidehim,onehugehandgrippinghis neck. With the other hand Szgedny had Asher’s right arm in anunbreakable grip, drawing him forward bodily, his silver-wrapped handextendedlikeaweapon:likeaburningpoker,aimedatAugustin’seyes.Augustin screamed, twisted, tried once to strike at the Graf and then

shriekedlouderandbuckledatthekneesastheoldervampire’ssingle-handedgriponhisspinetightened.‘Idid!Idid!Ihavethem!’TheGrafreleasedAugustin’sneck,andtossedAsherasidelikeadiscarded

stick.‘Atyourflat?’

Asher,guessingwhatwouldhappennext,caughttheGraf’ssleeve–withhislefthand,hisrightbeingnumbfromtheforceofthegripthathadcrushedhisarm.‘Dominus,’hesaidquickly.Eyeslikegrayballbearingsmethis.‘Letmeseethenotes.’The eyes shifted, dismissing the request. A wave of sleepiness crushed

Asher’smindliketheonsetofpoisongas.‘Mylord,youwillbeindangeraswell.’Theunbearableweightlifted,asif

ithadneverbeen.Breathless,Asherwenton,‘DonSimonisalreadyhisslave.DoyouthinkamanlikeCochranwillstopthere?DoyouthinkBarvell–orCochran himself –would stop at selling thismethod,whatever it is, if thepriceisright?’Szgedny made no reply, but Asher thought the shadow at the corner of

those immobile lipsdarkened, just slightly,asaviciousdog’s lipwillmovebeforeitlunges.‘MywifeisontheshipthatiscarryingthemtoAmerica.Ihave,literally,

no ideawhat conditions she faces there orwhat she can do to help him, ifanything.Butthere’sagoodchancethatshewillbeabletointerpretBarvell’snotes–extrapolatefromthem–eveniftheyarefromanearlierstageofhisresearch.DonSimonwillworkwithher,ifhecanbefreed,ifthisprocesscanbe stayedor reversed.Will you letmewire a copyof thesenotes toher inAmerica,tobethereforherwhenshearrives?’‘This from amanwho has sworn to kill vampires,whenever their paths

might cross?’ The Graf had taken his hand from Augustin’s neck, but theyoungervampirelayfacedowninthefilthywateronthedugoutfloor,likeadrownedman,unmovingandunregarded.In theflickerof thecandleflame,whichAsherhaddroppedononeofthedugout’sshelves,theeldervampire’sgazeseemedfixedandunmovingasthatofastatue.‘ThemanwhofouryearsagokilledallthevampiresoftheLondonnestas

theylayintheirsleep?Who,Iamtold,killedhalfadozenmaidenvampiresinStPetersburg,new-fledgedyounglingswhohaddrunknohumanblood–dragged them forth into sunlight andwatched their bodies burn?Whatwillthiswifeofyoursdowiththisgrimoirewhenshegets it?EnslaveSimoninherturn?Whatwillyoudowith thesespells,onceyouhaveread them,andsentthemacrossthesea?’‘ThatIdonotknow,’returnedAsher.‘Iknownotwhattheyare,norwhat

can be done with them. They won’t be in finished form. You havecommandedmen.’Itwasaguess,butsomethinginthewaytheoldmanheldhimself told Asher that this was true. ‘You know that more information isalwaysbetter than less information.Mywifemaynotbeable toevenreach

DonSimon until they are ashore inAmerica.Cochran almost certainly hasmenatarmsaboardship.Ihearhervoiceinthedarkness,’hesaid,desperatethat thevampireshouldunderstand.‘IfIcanthrowheraweaponacross thechasmwhichseparatesus,thisiswhatIwanttodo.Ihavenoideahowtousethisweaponmyself.’‘Doyounot?’ThewordsseemedtocometoAsherfromagreatdistanceaway.Hewasn’t

even sure they’d been spoken aloud. For an instant a part of his mindwonderedif–ashehadfearedSzgednywould–theoldvampirehadcoveredhisperceptionswithamistofsleepinessandhaddeparted,unseen.Yethewascloudily aware, through dreamlike haze, that theGraf stood directly beforehim,clawedhandsframingAsher’sface–as thoseofSergehad twonightsago–ashelookedintohiseyes.Andastheveryoldvampirescoulddo,AsherwasawarethattheGrafwas

lookingthroughhisthought,throughhisrecollectionsandmemories,andoninto Lydia’s mind, Lydia’s thought. Aware of her and her surroundings,thoughshewasyetwaking.Faroff,Asherthoughthecouldglimpseher,atadressingtableina luxuriousroomsquintingshort-sightedlyatherreflectioninamirrorassheappliedmascaroandkohltohereyeswithouttheaidofherglasses,redhairshiningfrombrushinginthecheerfulglowofelectriclights.Butawareofherthoughtsandmemoriesandfearsaswell…Shelookedaroundherquickly,thenpassedahandoverherbrow.I’mjust

tired…Hecouldalmosthearhersayingit.Knowingsomething,notknowingwhat.ForamomentAsherstruggledagainstsuffocation,asifheweredrowning

indeepwater.Voicesseemedtocometotheedgesofhishearing,cryingfar-off.Atasteofsomething,intenseheatlikeadrinkofbrandy,deepinhisheart.Heunderstood,withafathom’s-deepgrief,thattheGraf’spowertodothis

–toseeintoLydia’smindthroughAsher’s–dranklikearootfromtheliveshe’d taken.Thevoicesheheardwere theirs.Hundreds– thousands–killedacrosstheyears.Thenthegriefwasgoneandeventhememoryofitevaporated,leaving–as

theoldwizardsaysinTheTempest,–notawrackbehind.ButAsherdidn’t fully regainconsciousnessuntilhewas in themotorcar,

wrappedinadecrepitGermangreatcoatandachingwithcold,withtheGrafbesidehimandAugustinatthewheel,roaringthroughutterdarknesstowardsParis.

TWENTY-THREE

Returningtotheirsuite,LydiapausedinthedoorwaytoassureherauntthatshehadnodesiretolearnwhatMadameIzora’s‘terriblerevelation’hadbeen,andthatshewouldfarrathersimplygotobed.‘Ishouldthinkthat,placedasweare,inperilofGermansubmarines,you

shouldbedesperatetoknowthetruth,foryourdaughter’ssake.’Lydiablinkedather,wide-eyedthroughherthickglasses.‘Ithoughtthere

wasnodangerofsubmarines,Aunt!’‘Thereisn’t,’retortedtheolderlady,withtheflatfirmnessofonewhohas

onlyheldupthedangerasabugbeartothrusthernieceintojoiningthegroup–not thatLydiahadneededanyproofof this. ‘Yet as amother,mydear, Ifind you sadlywanting in concern for how these terrible eventsmay affectyourchild!’‘Now, LadyMountjoy, I will not have my poor Lydia chided.’ Princess

Nataliarustledbackfromherowndoor toputanarmaroundLydia’swaist.Hergentlepurrbanishedanyhintofadmonitionfromherwords.‘Poorchild,shedoesnotlookwellatall.Doyounotseehowpalesheis?LikemypoorEvgenia,whoafterfourdaysisstillseasick.Andshetouchednothingofherdinner.’Infact,Lydiahadmadeherusualsparingforaysintothefantasiasofveal

croquettes, poached salmon, Cincinnati ham and banana fritters, but AuntLouise–whohadhadnoattention foranythingbutherownplateandMrsCochran’sphilippicsonthesubjectofthestill-silentwireless–easilybelievedhertohaveconsumednothing,anddeclaredheartily,‘Nonsense!Maldemerisnomorethananillusionofthemind,andcaneasilybeovercomewiththepropermentalattitude.Yourmaidismalingering…’WithrealheroismNataliaprofessedawillingness tohearmore,engaging

the dowager’s attention while Lydia slipped into the suite, and across theparlortoherownroom.Thereshechangedquicklyintohersimpleskirtandshirtwaist, andopenedherdressing-tabledrawer.Ellenhadoutdoneherself.Caviar jars filched from the kitchen, a containerwhich had once held facecream,anotherbearingtheremainsofthelabel‘RestorativePectoralDrops’,

hadallbeenthoroughlyrinsedwithboilingwater.Stripsofadhesivetapehadevenbeenhelpfullystuckontothelids,forlabelingpurposes.Ishouldn’tbedoingthis.Lydiaswiftlytransferredtheseobjectstothesmall

leather satchel she’d carried at the Front. But there was no question, now,aboutwhethersheshouldturnallhereffortstobreakingthemillionaire’sholdonSimon–oratleasttransferringthatpowertoherself.Andthenwhat?Firstthingsfirst,shetoldherselfdesperately.Onethingatatime.Youdon’t

knowwhat’sgoingtohappen,orwhatyou’llneed.She heard Natalia and her aunt leave the suite, discoursing with great

intensityonthelocationof theentranceto therealmsandcitieswhichexistwithin thehollowearth: ‘If there is in fact a cavernat theNorthPole,howdoesoneaccountfortheteachingofLadyPaget’sspiritguide,thatthepeopleofAtlantisjourneyedthere?’Slinging the satchel round her shoulder, Lydia ghosted back across the

parlor,andoutontothePromenade.Sheglancedatheraunt’sgiltcamelbackclockasshepassedthepiano.Tenthirty.‘Timeenow,’DonSimonmurmured,fromtheshadowsatthecornerofthe

Promenade. ‘Cochran and Barvell have passed here and gone on into theprincess’ssuiteminutesago.Theyhave,asyousee, lockedthedoorbehindthem.’‘Goodheavens!’exclaimedLydiainawhisper,astheyroundedthecorner

of theprivatePromenadeandshesawthehugesilverpadlockglisteningonCochran’sdoor.‘Whereonearthdidtheyfindsuchathing?Silverhasps,too…’‘Isuspect’twasfurbishedupinmyhonor,’returnedthevampire.‘’Tisnota

newmodeloflock.’Thiswastrue.Lydiaturneditoverinherfingers,identifyingitasanold-

stylerailroadpadlockwhichhadbeenelectro-plated.‘Iwonderwhatthedeckstewards–nottospeakofMrCochran’snephewandservants–thinkofit?’‘Like all ofmy own servants over the years – and every tradesman and

tailor and bootmaker with whom I have met in the hours of night to getproperlyfittingcoats–whattheythinkisthatmoneyisaverygoodthingtohaveinthisunsympatheticworld.Andlikemytailorandbootmaker,’addedthevampirethoughtfully,‘Idaresaythedeckstewardsandtheservants–andperhapsMrCochran’snephewaswell–haveseenstrangerthings.’He stepped back, as Lydia’s picklocks made short work of the simple

innardsof the elderlyYale–whichhadprobablybeen selected for the job,Lydiareflected,becauseitssizemadeitsimplertoplate.

‘I must say,’ Don Simon went on as she worked, ‘that I feel myselfinsulted, if they counted beforehand upon breakingmywill ere the voyagewasover.’‘If they counted on it,’ said Lydia thoughtfully, ‘they clearly didn’t trust

you.Youdidn’thappentooverhearhowtheyplantodamagetheengines,didyou?’‘I did, but I am nomechanic, Lady. ’Twas a long explanation involving

briberyandreciprocatingturbinehousings,andImadenomoreofitthanthedogsbodies did.Cochran cursed them roundly for imbeciles, until at lengththey said they understood, in toneswhich sounded tome as if they did nosuchthing.Myself,Idoubtoftheirbeingevenabletogetnearthemachines,yetIdaresay’twoulddonoharmtoinformCaptainWinstanleythatGermanspiesmaybetryingtosabotagetheengines.’‘He’llbelieve thatsooner thanhe’dbelievesucha thingofMrCochran.’

Lydia pushed the door open cautiously, and ducked inside, Don SimonretreatingtotheendofthePromenadetokeepwatch.In Barvell’s silver-locked case, the ampoules of antivenin serum had, as

Lydiahadsuspected,beenneatlyre-filled.Onlyoneflaskinthelowersectionof thecaseshowedasignificant reductionof itscontents–constant theftatthecasualtyclearingstation’spharmacyhadgivenheraveryexacteyeastothe levels of any substance in containers. She took as much from eachampoule as she dared, but altogether this didn’t even fill one of the littlephials that she’d begged fromDr Liggatt – howmuch is the least amountneededtokeepthepoisonatbay?Howlongcanhesurviveonahalf-dose,oraquarter-dose?Andinhowmuchpain?Shelikewisetookasmallquantityfromtheflask(whichmightbeanything,

even the poison itself), and tiny amounts of the contents of all other jars,carefully copying the meaningless symbols on their labels. If Jamie candecodetheselater…ButthatbroughtupagainthesubjectofallowingDonSimontogoashore

inNewYork,andagainsheturnedhermindfromit.Thesymbolslookedarbitrarytoher–aninsect,acow,afrog,themoon–

butonceinNewYork,shereflected,she’datleastbeabletofigureoutwhatthey were. The moon was, by the smell of it, and the way it stained herfingertip,almostcertainlysilvernitrate.After that, with heart pounding and ear cocked for the scratch of Don

Simon’s claws on the outer door, she combed first Barvell’s room, thenCochran’s, the parlor, and the dressing room, searching for anything thatresemblednotesorinformationonhowmuchofwhattomix,andwhethertoheatitordiluteitordistillitorwhat.Anythingthatshemighthavemissedor

overlookedbefore.AndwhatamIgoingtodowithallthis?sheaskedherself,asshemovedmethodicallythroughthedrawersandclosets.MixupmoretogivetoSimonsohecangoonkillingpeopleinNewYork?Sheblinkedback tearsof frustrationandanger.Whatwas itherNanna–

andJamie–alwayssaid?Bettertohaveitandnotneedit–orneverdareuseit–thantoreally,reallyneeditandnothaveit…Andtheywouldneedit,ifthesecondvampiregotashore.In any case, thewretchedMr Barvell seemed to be like Jamie, carrying

everything in his head. Or, like Jamie, he’d done something clever, likemailing all his notes to himself at General Delivery in NewYork,Left TilCalledFor.‘Something’samiss.’DonSimonwas listening,headcocked,whenLydia

camequicklyupthePromenade.‘’Tisdifficulttodiscernatthisdistance,andwithwaterallaboutus,butthereisuneasinessinthedeepsoftheship.Toomanypeoplehurryingaboutforthishourofthenight.’‘Someone’s disappeared.’ Her stomach seemed to turn over with dread.

‘Anotherchild…’‘’Tis not yet midnight.’ A pin scratch frown appeared between the

vampire’s brows. ‘How could a vampire lure any child now?Three peoplehave died, and every child on the ship must be seeing El Cuco in everyshadow.Onlyatmidnightcouldavampireworkuponachild’smind.’Lydiacouldn’tkeepherselffromthinking,Asyou’regoingtoworkonpoor

CaptainPalfrey’sinthree-quartersofanhour…‘Twoofthechildrenwereluredwithcandy—’‘Theyareniños,’ retorted thevampire, ‘they’renotstupid.With thingsas

they are,wouldyourdaughter gowith a strangerwhoofferedher candy? Ididn’tthinkso…’Heturnedhisheadagain,andseemedtofadeinto theshadowasstealthy

feetmounted the stair from the SecondClass promenade below. ‘Is it you,ComradeDoctor?’breathedHeller.‘Madame, Madame,’ whispered a young girl’s voice in halting German,

‘pleaseyoumusthelp—’Stepping forward tomeet them,Lydia saw under the electric gleamof a

lampthedark-hairedgirlRivkahGoldhirsch.‘Whatisit?’ShelookedquicklyatHeller.‘Andhowonearthdidyouget

pastthegates?Ifanyonecatchesyouuphereyou’llprobablybelockedupasathief.’‘Iwill begyou then to speak forme,’ said theGerman. ‘I onlyhope the

gateswillyetbeopen,whenwereturn.’‘Who’smissing?’

‘ArianeZirdar.I’vebeentothechainlocker,there’snoonethere,nosign.’‘Please,’ said the girl again. ‘My grandpa.’ She said something else in

Slovenian.Hellertranslated,‘Shesays,Heismeanandhesaysbadthingsbutwemust

help him.Shemeans that there is enough anger nowbelowdecks, that shefears–asIfear–thatifthisgirlturnsupdead,astheothersturnedup,theymaywellmoboldGoldhirschbefore thequartermasters canmuster enoughstewardsandporterstokeephimfrombeinglynched.’Heturnedback,listening,asRivkahpleaded.‘Shesaysyouhaveshowedyourselfkind,Comrade.Sheasks,wouldyou

hide him, for tonight, somewhere up here?Or speak to the captain…’Hepausedagain,thegirlturningtoLydia,darkeyeswidewithdesperation.‘Hehas money, she says, in his bag. He can pay. He gathered in all his debtsbeforeleavingtheirvillage.Shesaysoncebefore,theyhadtohidehim,whenthe Christians back in their village said he kidnapped babies and the Jewsdranktheirbloodin thesynagogue,onlybecause theyallowedhimmoney.Butitwashismoneythatgotthevillageseedwheatwhen—’Lydiaheldupherhandasher ear snaggeda familiarword. ‘Did she say

Malareka?’Heller nodded,with a slight frown. ‘Malareka, yes. It is thenameof her

village.’‘That’sthevillageVodusekcomesfrom.AndhisfriendSlavik.I’veheard

themadozentimes,sayingHerrGoldhirschisthevampire.Dotheyowehimmoney?’Sheturneddirectlytothegirl.‘Vodusek,Slavik–dotheyoweyourgrandfathermoney?’She knew the answer before the girl nodded, before Rivkah poured out

anotherstreamofSlovenianandbeforeHellertranslated:‘Shesays,yes.Hergrandfather got all that he could fromVodusekbefore leaving their village.GospodVodusekclaimeditwasallthathehad,butitwasn’ttrueifhecouldget his ticket. Herr Goldhirsch had to pay half of it to the Russiancommandantof thevillagetocollect it,andthen,shesays,Vodusektriedtorobthemofitataninnontheway.’Lydia felt, in that first instant,merely stunned, as if she’dwalked into a

shutdoorinthedark.Thenheatswepther,blazing,burningfury.Heretic…Gypsytrash…Mohammedanbrat…Hewasashipyardmechanic…‘He has her in the locker beside the stairs next to his cabin,’ she said

quietly.‘Wherewefoundtheliquor.It’snot…It’snotarealvampireatall.

That’swherehekeepsthem…’TheGermanstaredatherforamoment,blankly,notunderstanding.Then

his eyes widened as he understood. He whispered, ‘Motherless sons of awhore—’Hecaughtherwrist,startedtowardthegangwaybackdowntoCDeck,and

Lydiabracedherfeet.‘TellRivkahtogoalongtothatcabin,there–’shedrewthemalongthePromenadetothestarboardcorner,pointedtothedooroftheprincess’ssuite–‘tellhertoaskforTania.TellhertotellthemalltherethatIsenther,thatI’llexplainlater—’And, as Heller explained, in his rough Slovenian, to the girl, Lydia

whispered,‘Simon,Ihavetogowithhim.Themanhasthegirl inalocker,besidethestairwayonFDeck,neartheforwardhatch.Ithastobethere,it’snearwherethegypsygirlwasfound.’Hellercaughtherwristandtheyranforthegangway.Sheglancedbehind

herat thePromenade,butsawnooneintheshadows.Sheknewhe’dheardher;he’llhave toget throughhis interviewwithPalfreywithoutme tokeepwatch.Butforthemostparthermindwasaclinicalswordbladeoficyrage.

On FDeck, peoplewere just starting to panic. Theywere still looking forAriane,stillaskingoneanother,Whosawher last?Wherewasthat?Maybeshewent…?Lydiacouldalmostreadtheirwordsintheirgestures,intheirfacesasthey

spoke. It was quarter to midnight. Early, still … The others were foundbetween two and three, she thought.Little Luzia within a few yards of thelocker. When the search had widened, away from the sleeping quarters?Whentherhythmsofthevessel’sworkshiftsleftgapsoftimeinwhichitwassafe to smuggle the victim down to the chain locker, and then, later, up tosomepublicplacewherelate-roamingsearcherswouldfindthebody?Gypsybrat…Whodoyoucallheretic…?Bastard,shethought.Bastard.In her mind she heard Don Simon’s soft voice: For years I only killed

Protestants,becausetheywerealreadydamned.In the corridor she saw themanSlavik at theheadof a sizeablegangof

menandboys, leading them in thedirectionofoneof thegangways to thecoalbunkers.HeardhimshoutsomethingbacktothemandrecognizedagainthewordforJew.‘Slavik’s told people that bag Goldhirsch brought on board was full of

gold,’ saidHeller, stridingalongaheadofher. ‘Somebody– I forgetwho–

said that’s why he stays in his cabin all the time. And I’ve heard that hetransferredallofittoamoneybeltaroundhisbody.’‘If he stays locked in his cabin all the time,’ returned Lydia grimly, ‘I

expect it’sbecause–whateverhisother sins–he’safraid forhis life.He’dknowit theminutehesawVodusekandSlavik in thepassenger list.Butofcourse it also means nobody will be able to say they’d seen him, whensomebodyiskilled.Andwhenthatpoorgirl’sbodyisfinallyfoundIcanjustbetyouthere’llbesomethingofGoldhirsch’snearby,orclutchedinherhand,orsomething…Vodusekwillyellsomethingabout thisbeingproof, they’llbreakdownthecabindoor,andoneofhisfriendswill“find”somethingofthegirl’sinthecabinitself.’‘Andit’llbeallover,’concludedHeller,‘beforethemaster-at-armscanget

downherewith a couple of stewards – if he can find any stewards, at thispoint,who’llwanttoriskgoingupagainstamob.Wait—’Heopened thedoorofhisowncabin,ducked inside,andcameoutagain

with a pry bar in one hand, and his German Army pistol in the other. ItflashedthroughLydia’smind,astheyclatteredalongthecorridorthatranpastthe engines amidships, that somebody had probably better tellMrCochranthat therewasn’tasecondvampireaboardtheCityofGold, sohe’dcalloffhismenfromtheirsillyattempttosabotagetheship’sengines.And this, she realized– thisattempt tocommitmurderbypogrom–was

beingdonetonightfortheprecisereasonthatCochranhadgiveninstructionto his myrmidons about the engines: because they were approaching NewYork. In twodays, the enclosed circle of the ship’sworldwould splitwideopen. The vampire, if there had been one, would have gone ashore andvanished into the nameless masses of the city’s poor. The moneylender,anotherdrinkerofblood,presentinghisproofsofsolvency,wouldslipbeyondVodusek’sreachuponlanding,withallthehugecountrytohidein.There was no one in the well of the crew gangway on F Deck. Voices

echoeddown thecorridors in thedirectionof theboiler rooms.Thebulbofthe electric light immediately beside the stair was out. Searchers, Lydiaguessed,couldeasilymissthelockerentirely.Keepinghisbodycarefullytoonesideofthedooritself,Hellershovedtheprybarintothecrackandheavedonit——andnearlyfelloverasthedoorwasflungopenfromwithinandVodusek

sprangthroughitlikeatiger.Hellerswungathimwith theprybar,buthewasoffbalanceandfar too

late.Vodusekhadaknife inhishandandonly theGerman’s reflexessavedhimfrombeingdisemboweled.Lydiaslitheredpastthemandduckedintothe

locker, trying to identify which of the shapeless tangles of rope, tarpaulin,canistersandcanvaswouldbetheboundandmuffledformofagirl.Before she could reach for the closest (andmost promising) bundle, she

heardabodyfallbehindher.Ahardarmgrabbedheraroundthewaistwhileahandclappedoverhermouth,dirtyandreekingoftobacco.Hehasaknife…Shestompedhardonwherehis footprobablywas– shewas right–and

droppedherweightdown,thewayJamiehadshowedher.Feltthebladeslashhershoulderasshetwistedloose,turnedasthemancursed…Andfoundherselfstandingfree in thedoorwayof the locker, facingDon

SimonoverthecollapsingbodyoftheSlovene.Thevampiresteppedpastherwithoutaword.Thecanvasbundleforwhich

LydiahadbeenreachingflinchedfromDonSimon’stouchwithacry.‘It’sallright,’whisperedLydia.‘Dirwirdes…es…’DonSimonpulled the canvas aside and thegirlAriane staredupat him,

facestreakedwithtearsofterror.Thevampireputahandonhershoulderandsaid something; Lydia didn’t hear what it was. But the tension vanishedimmediatelyfromAriane’sbody,andshebegantoweep.‘Gettheknife,’saidSimon, andLydia, looking aroundon the floor nearVodusek’s unmoving–butstillbreathing–body,foundthebloodstainedweapon.‘Heller…’shegasped,andSimonslidpastherwiththebonyagilityofa

ghost.LydiacutawaythecordsthatboundAriane’swrists,andthegirlsatup,tearsstreamingdownherface,andgrabbedLydiainadesperateclutch.Behindher,LydiaheardHellersay,‘Whoareyou?’AndinGerman,DonSimonreplied,‘AfriendofMistressAsher’s.’Turningherhead,LydiasawHellerinthelightofthegangwaywell,face

bruised and blood trickling from his slashed side. Don Simonwas helpinghimtohisfeet,calm,aloof,andabsolutelyhuman-looking,ashehadplannedtofaceCaptainPalfrey.Itmustbemidnight…Shoutinginthehall.Slavik’snasalvoice,andFatherKirn’s.Others,baying

likewolves–Heller turnedandyelledoverhisshoulder,‘She’shere!’Oratleast, Lydia guessed that’s what he yelled, in Slovenian, because in theconfusionofshoutsthatfollowed,astheinformationwasrelayed,shecaught‘Sie istda!’and‘Leiè li!’andpeoplecamecrammingandshoving into thespacearoundthestairs.Arianescrambledtoherfeet,flewtowardthem,somemengrabbingherin

adesperateembraceandothersgrippingVodusek,whohadstaggeredupandattemptedtoflee.Arianewassobbing,pointing…HellercriedoutsomethinganddoveintothelockerpastLydia,snatching

from one of the shelves a pair of gold pince-nez – Goldhirsch’s, Lydiarealized.Heheld themupandshouted,andVodusek,catchingaknife from

one of themen holding him, slashed at thatman – even in the heat of themoment Lydiawasn’t surewhat he thought he could accomplish by flight.She and Heller were thrust deeper into the locker by the sheer weight ofbodiespressingintothegangwaywell,shouting,furiousasArianepointedatVodusek,whileherweepingmotherheldhertight.‘Assassino!’ screamed awoman– poor littleLuzia’smother – and threw

herselfatVodusek,clawinghis faceas if she’dhave tornouthis remainingeye.‘Assassino—!’Then the deck beneath Lydia’s feet lurched, the walls shuddered like

shakentin,andfaroffaheavy,splinteringboomrockedtheshiptoitsbones.

TWENTY-FOUR

Oh,dearGod,we’vebeenhit!Screaming,shoving,swaying.Heller thrust Lydia deeper into the locker and pushed himself into the

doorway,yellingatthesametime–firstinGermanandtheninSlovenian–‘Standstill!Standstill!’Thenoiseoutsideinthemetal-walledgangwaywellwasdeafening.People

pushing,thrusting,trampling…Lydia’smindwasblankwithhorror.Torpedo–IhavetogettoMiranda!OhpleaseGoddon’tletthelightsgoout…She was suddenly aware of Don Simon in the locker beside her,

miraculously unruffled.DearGod, if it passesmidnight and everyone hereseeshimasheis…Then,louderthantheclamorofterrorandpanic,sheheardamanscreamin

themidstofthecrowd,andaspeoplestartedtopourupthestairs,andawayin the direction of the deck well and the wider stair beyond, she saw thetrampledbodies,notonlyofVodusek,butofSlavikaswell,crumpledonthefloorinawideningpoolofblood.She’d seen worse at the Front. The knowledge of what Vodusek had

consideredhewasentitled todo, inorder torecoverhismoneyfromaJew,killed whatever sympathy or shock she might have felt. Nevertheless, thesightmadeherill.ShehadnoideawhetherSlavikhadknownanythingabouthisfriend’sschemeornot.Therearetwoofthem,Izorahadsaid.HadshemeantDonSimonandVodusek?OrVodusekandSlavik?Light-headednessmadehersuddenlybreathlessandlookingatDonSimon

beside her, she saw that his right hand was covered with blood where itpressedhershoulder.Vodusek.Vodusekstabbedme…We’vebeenhit…She lookedup andmet thevampire’s eyes, over his drippinghand.With

quiet deliberation, he took a rag from the shelf behind him, andwiped theblood away. With another – clean and rough and smelling sourly of

disinfectant – he made a pad which he bound over the wound, his faceexpressionless.‘Theshipisn’t listing,’hepointedout inhissoftvoiceasheworked.His

glancewenttoHeller.‘Howlongdoesittake,onceashiphasbeenhit?’‘Minutes,’saidtheGerman,andputhishandontheknotofbandagesothe

vampirecoulddoubleit.‘Less.’HellerwaslookingatDonSimon,squintingasifhestruggledtoseesomethingthathecouldn’tquitemakeout.Heputoutahand,touchedthewall.‘Theengineshavestopped…’‘Miranda.’Lydiawasastonishedathowcalmshesounded.‘Ineedtogetto

Miranda.’‘I’ll take her,’ said Simon. ‘Find out what you can, if you would, Herr

Heller.Myself,Ithinkitsabotage,notenemyattack.’Hellerhesitated,strainingtolisten–but,Lydiareflected,probablyfeeling,

with the trained senses of a sailor,whether the deck beneath their feetwasstilllevel(anditcertainlyfeltleveltoher).‘Whydoyouthinkthat?’‘Rumor.IwastellingMadameofit,whenlaniñacameuptous.Willyou

dothat?’‘Hewas,’affirmedLydia.‘AndIwastellinghimitwasaridiculousidea,

becausewhoaboardwouldbethat…thatsilly…’‘You have been at the Front, Comrade.’Heller turned from hiswatchful

perusal of the now-empty gangwaywell tomeet her gaze, and saluted herironically. ‘I should think that any doubts you ever had about the depth ofhumanstupidityshouldbythistimehavebeenresolved.’HiseyesreturnedtoDonSimon,andLydiasawthemwidenwithshock.Midnightmustbepast…DonSimonaskedsoftly,‘Willyoubringusword?’Suddenly white under his tan, Heller replied, ‘I shall.’First things first,

reflectedLydia,butshesawtheGermanlookoverhisshouldertwice,ashestrode away across the gangway well toward the engine room, his bootstrackinginVodusek’sblood.LydiaandDonSimonjoinedthestreamsofThirdClasspassengerspouring

upthegangways,womenandchildrentoofrightenedtonoticeanyonearoundthem,evenawomanwithbloodonherdressandavampirewithafacelikeascarredskull.Thecorridorspickedupshouting,furiousnow,thehowlingofamobinfullcry–Don’ttellmethatwretchVodusekhasmanagedtoconvincethem poor Mr Goldhirsch caused this. The echoes went right through herhead.‘I thought you saidKimball and his idiotswere told to… to cripple the

engines,notblowuptheship!’

‘Ofacertaintytheywere,Mistress,’returnedthevampire.Bythetiltofhishead,shecouldseehewaslisteningtothedistantuproar.‘AndIamascertainthatwhentheycouldmakenothingoftheinstructionstheyweregiven,oneorthe other of themmanufactured a simple pipe bomb. Such things are easyenoughtomake,andGodknowstheywerecarryingsufficientammunitionintheir luggage. They could have sneaked it into some corner of the engineroomwhile theengineerswere,perhaps,helpingin thehuntfor themissingseñorita.Successfully,’headded,astheyapproachedthegatewaythatledtotheupperdecks.‘Thereisnolisttotheboat.’They were densely mashed into the moving stream of emigrants, as it

paused,thenproceeded,thenpausedonitswaytotheopengateway.Dizzinessswampedheragain.We’llneverbeabletogetclearifsomething

happens…‘NeitherdoIhearnorfeelthechangeintheairthatspeaksofwaterrushing

in.’Hissoftvoicecalmedher,andtotheeternalcreditofCaptainWinstanley,

thegrilles thatwereordinarily lockedacross thegangways toSecondClassstood open. Stewards had been posted beside them, reassuring those whopassed through that: ‘We have no reason to think we have been hit’ in anassortmentofmispronouncedEuropeanlanguages,anddirectingpeopletotheBoatDeckjustincase.Overtheheadsofthecrowd,Lydiacouldseethetall,stooped form of Mr Goldhirsch, holding his grandson in his arms andclutchingaheavyportmanteau.Lydiagrittedthroughherteeth,‘IshouldthinkMrCochran’sgoingtokill

them—’Butshewaswrongaboutthat.BarelyhadsheandhercompanionreachedtheprivatePromenade,whena

thunderous roar of voices burst from the deck well over which it looked.Turning back, Lydia saw a man thrust his way past the grille, and run,stumbling, toward the gangway, the stewards half-heartedly trying to catchhim,thenmakingafutileattempttostopthemobthatspurtedlikepoisonedlavafromthegatewayandpouredathisheels.SherecognizedMrKimballashescrambled,slippingandstumbling,upthegangwaytowardthePromenade.Hisjackethadbeentornoffhimandtherewasbloodandenginegreaseonhisfaceandshirt.Shewastoofartoseehiseyes,orhearhisbreath,butitwasasifshewerenexttohim:sheknewhiseyeswereblankwithterrorforhislife,knewhisbreathwasahoarsegaspofdespair.Hewasfastforsobigaman,butthemobwasfaster.Hehurledasidethe

steward who’d been assigned to keep unauthorized people off the privatePromenade,andifthemanhadhadanynotionoftryingtostopthepursuers,

he gave it up at once. Simon drew Lydia back out of the way as Kimballbolted up onto the Promenade. The American’s screams of: ‘Boss! Boss!’weredrownedbythehowlingofthemob:Swabo!Shpion!Saboter!Austrian!Spy!Saboteur…ThecornerofthePromenadehidCochran’sdoorfromLydia,butsheheard

Kimballpoundingonit,thenasthemobsurgednearerjerkingthehandleandkickingthepanels,screamingCochran’sname.Thenjustscreaming.Aftertheykilledhim,andbrokedownthedoor,Lydiaheardshotsfired,so

sheknewCochranhadbeen inhissuite. ‘They’ll findyourcoffin in there,’shesaidsoftly.DonSimonmurmured,‘Yes.’Shecouldimaginewhatthey’dmakeofthat.Sheslippedthesatchelfrom

hershoulder,handedDonSimon thesyringe,and theampouleofantivenin.‘I’llseewhatIcansalvage,later.’Withlipslikeicedmarblehekissedherhand,andfadedintothedarkness.By the time thequartermasterscameup to thePromenade–with rifles–

themobhadscatteredandgone.

SomewhereintheStygianbowelsoftheoldgypsumminesthatlaybeneathParis,therewasacellwhosebarswereplatedwithsilver.Asherrecognizedit,fromthedayshehadspent thereafterbeingalmostkilledbytheParisnest.HeassumeditlaysomewhereneartheHotelMontadour,andguessedithadbeeninstalledbyoneoftheearlierMastersofParis–theMastersofParis,hehad gathered, had for three hundred years had trouble controlling theirfledglings.‘I regret–’SzgednydumpedAugustin’s limpbody inside and locked the

door, carefullywrappinghishands in amangycarriage rug–brought fromthe Peugeot – against the touch of the bars – ‘that there are not two suchcages.Youshouldbesafeenough.FewofElysée’sgetremaininthecity.’Thecellwasindeedasortofcage,setwithinalargercavern:cold,damp,

pitch-black and smelling of the sewers and the river. They had left thePeugeot in the Place Denfert-Rochereau and descended through theCatacombs,turningasidefromthoseendlesstunnelswalledinbonesintooneof the side corridors nominally blocked off with sawhorses. The walls, asAsherhadobservedonpreviousoccasions,weremarkedwithchalksignsofvarious ages. Communards had hidden in these tunnels, in the days of thesiegeof’71;quitepossiblyrefugeesfromtheTerroreightyyearsbeforethat.TheMaster of Prague had brought a bullseye lantern from themotorcar as

wellasthecarriagerug.EvenwiththebloodstainedGermangreatcoat,Asherknewhewasinforamiserablycoldday.‘Sleepifthoucanst,Anglus.’TheGrafsetdownthelantern.‘Idonotknow

this city well enough, to send someone here to you with water and food.Don’ttrytosearchforawayoutyourself.’Hestraightened,andwithafragmentofchalkfromhispocketmadeasign

on the wet stone of the wall. ‘There are three hundred miles of tunnels,perhapsmore, and I have no desire to spend the first three-quarters of thenightsearchingthemforyou.’Asher said, ‘I’m grateful,’ though he wondered how many of Elysée’s

beautifulfledglingsactuallywerehidingdownthere,andwhethertheywereearlierrisersthantheGraf.Healsowonderedwherethenoblemanmeanttosleep.When Augustin had stopped, halfway along the narrow seam in therock,leanedagainstthewallandthensuddenlycollapsedintotheunwakeablesleeptowhichtheUndeadwerepreyindaytime,hehadfearedthatSzgednywould likewise drop unconscious. He knew it must be almost light, aboveground.But theGrafhad lifted theyoungervampirewith effortless strengthonto

hisshoulder,andcontinuedtothisplacedeepinthebellyofthedarkness.Inaddition to the mines, and the vast silent boneyard of the Catacombsthemselves,Asher knew that therewere a hundred hidden doorwayswherecellars, churchcrypts, forgottenvaults andcommunication tunnels from thesewersgaveingresstotheblackrockseams.ThoughtheGrafmightnothaveliving servants inParis, threehundredyearswaspresumablyplentyof timeeven for a stranger to thecity to learn themazewell.A similarnetworkofunderground passageways and rooms – though not nearly so extensive –existedinPrague,thoughthePraguevampiresavoidedsuchplacesbecauseoftheotherthingswhichhauntedthem.Ashelaydown,AsherwonderedwhetherJoëlhadfollowedthemback.Or

hadthelittlefledglingfoundrefugesomewhereneartheFront,inacaved-inwine-cellar or the sub-crypt of someoldmonastery, before goingout againtonightwhenitgrewdark,tofeastonmendyinginshellholes.MenslainnotbytheUndead,butbytheirlivingbrothers.HefeltlittlefearofJoël,evenifhehadreturnedtoParis.Astowhatelse

mightbedownhere…Elysée had said nothing of such matters. But then, the Master of Paris

herselfmightnotknow.Asher slept lightly, exhausted though he was. His memories of Paris

underground were foul, and he woke, half a dozen times, always in totaldarkness,dreamingsometimesthathewasbackinoneofthedugoutsonthe

Western Front – terrified that the trench had been undermined by enemysappers,orthattherehadbeenanear-directhitbyashell,andthathe’dbeenburied alive,with themaggots and the rats. Sometimes he dreamed that hewasonboardtheCityofGold,thatshe’dbeentorpedoed.Theelectricalplanthadfloodedasshebegantogodownandhewasslipping,fightingforbalanceonslanteddecksthroughutterdarkness,searchingforLydia.Feelingtheice-coldwateraroundhiskneesandknowingthatinminutestheshipwasgoingtobeginitslongfalltothebottom,carryinghimtrappedindarknesswithit.Oncehejerkedfromsleepconvincedtherewassomeone–something–in

thedankrock-cutroomwithhim.Hehaddreamedofher–heknewitwasaher…Elysée?Someonewhostoodbesidehimforalongtime,lookingdownathim.Whenhewokeandgropedfor the lanternhefound that ithadbeenmoved, and it seemed tohim that in thedarknesshe could smell, faint andelusive,thewhiffofexpensiveperfumemixedwithblood.Itwasalongtimebeforehedaredgropeabouthimforthelantern–itwas

not,infact,veryfaroff.Longerstill,beforehelaydownagain.

TWENTY-FIVE

‘Howdare CaptainWinstanley confine us to our cabins?’ demandedAuntLouise, her face blotched red with outrage at the steward who had beenstationedonthePromenadeandwhohadfirmlyescortedherbackwhenshe’dattemptedto‘learnwhatonearthwasgoingon.’‘Howdarehe?’Lydia,emergingfromherbedroomwhereMirandalaysleeping–finally–

crossedtothetablewhereMrsFlaskethadlaidouttea.Theleveloftheamberliquid,whenshepoureditoutsteaming,wasperfectlyalignedwiththerimoftheWedgwoodcup–thesamecupthatAuntLouisehadservedherfromlessthan a week previously at Mountjoy House in London. Dimly, from thePromenadeoutside, sheheard the stewardposted there–ostensibly tokeepintruders from the elite suites – saying, ‘I’ve seenLadyMountjoy andMrsAsher myself, Your Majesty, and they’re fine. But please, the captain hasaskedthateveryonestayindoorsuntilwe’vesecuredtheship.’‘Wecouldbesinkingforallheknows!’declaredAuntLouise.‘Wemight

allbeindangerofourlives!’Lydiawalkedtothewindow,lookedoutat theblackseahorizonoutlined

bythesilverlineofthewesteringmoon.‘Wedon’tseemtobeanylowerinthewater thanwewere twentyminutesago,’ shepointedout.Thatwas thefirstthingshe’dshowedMiranda,whenMrsFrushhadcarriedthechilddownfrom the boat deck and Lydia, who’d been watching the gangway, hadintercepted themandbrought themto thesuite: ‘See,darling,’shehadsaid,‘thehorizonisjustthesameplace–rightbelowthedeck-rail–thatitwasafewminutesago.Thatmeanswe’renotgoingdown.’‘We didn’t get torpedoed?’ had asked the little girl in visible

disappointment.‘It doesn’t look like it,’ she had replied, at which Mrs Frush had

pronouncedalittlehomilyabouttheirescapefromdanger.Not,reflectedLydia,thattheywereoutofdangeryet,oranywherenearit.Theyhavetoknowwe’rehere.Theyhavetobeontheirway.MrsFrush,HonoriaFlasket,Ellen,Malkin,oldMrMortlingandevenlittle

MissPrebble,wereinthesuite’skitchennow,drinkingtheirowncupsoftea(second-classAmericanLine’schina,notWedgwood)andspeculatingabout

whatcouldhavecausedfirsttheexplosionbelowdecks,andthentheirruptionofashouting,cursingmobintothemosteliteportionoftheship.WhenLydiahad passed the door of the kitchen she had heardMrs Frush’s deep Scotsvoicepredicting that theywouldallbemurdered in theirbeds,and that shewouldnevertravelonanAmericanvesselagain.WhileinthebedroomwithMiranda,Lydiahaddiscreetlyre-bandagedher

shoulder,withthelittlegirl’sawedassistance(‘Iwon’ttell,crossmyheartan’hope todiean’stickaneedle inmyeye.DidyougetstabbedbyaGermanspy,Mummy?’).Mirandawasclearlyandutterlythrilled.She had also changed into a tobacco-coloredWorthwalking suit – again

with her daughter’s help – and demonstrated to the little girl how towashbloodstainsoutofacottonshirtwaist(honestly,whatkindofanupbringingisthe poor child getting?). As she put on the jewelry which she customarilyworewiththeWorthensemble,shepaused,fingeringthesautoirnecklaceofpearlsandrawemeraldswithapendantofanenameledmermaid.Simonhadgivenittoher.Even had she believed in prayer, she was fairly certain that one wasn’t

supposedtoprayforthesafetyofpeoplewho’dkilledapproximately27,600people(shehadoncecalculated,attherateoftwoperweekoverthecourseof362years)inordertoprolonghisownexistence.It would be dawn in an hour. She hoped he’d found somewhere safe to

sleep.She hoped there had been enough serum in the hypodermic to allay the

growingfireofthepoisoninhisveins.ShehopedAuntLouisewouldputhertearsdowntoexhaustionandworry

aboutMiranda.ShortlyafterfirstlightMrTravis,theircabinsteward,rappedgentlyatthe

doorofthesuite,withtheinformationthatorderhadbeenrestoredtotheship.‘Asfaraswecantell,M’am,’theyoungmansaid,bowingalittlewarilytothe still-fuming Aunt Louise, ‘the men who were killed were Germansaboteurs.Someof the emigrants saw them running from the engine roomsaftertheexplosion.SeemsthatthreeofthemwereworkingforMrCochranasdetectives. One fellow ran all the way up here, hoping, I think, Cochranwouldprotecthim,thoughofcoursepoorMrCochranhadnothingwhatevertodowithanyofit.Likehisnephewsays,evenifhewasn’taloyalAmerican,whywouldamanthatrichwanttotakemoneyfromtheGermans?’‘I trust that the men who perpetrated that dreadful outrage,’ proclaimed

Louise, ‘have been placed under lock and key?’ She looked at the stout,freckledyoungmanasifhewerepersonallyresponsibleforseeingthisdone.MrTravislookedevasive.‘Theywillbe,ofcourse,M’am.’

Meaning,Lydiaguessed,asshefollowedherauntfromthesuite,thattherewas absolutely no way of telling which members of the mob had actuallybeaten Mr Kimball unconscious and thrown him from the rail of thePromenade, into the freezing black ocean eighty feet below.OrwhichmenhadclubbedCochranandBarvelltodeath.ShehadwonderedhowshewastoslipawayfromAuntLouisetohavea

lookatCochran’ssuite.Shewaswellawarethattheredoubtabledowagerhadeyesinthebackofherheadandwouldseizeherbeforeshehadsteppedbacktwo feet.But in the event, itwasAuntLouisewho led theway, not to thegangway down to the dining room and an unwontedly early breakfast, butaround the corner to the Promenade onto which the rooms of the twoAmerican parties opened, only to find another steward posted outside theCochransuite’sdoor.‘Well, really!’ Aunt Louise sounded as indignant as if she’d had some

legitimatebusinessthere.Withthehaughtyairofonewhohasbeeninsultedby the merest suspicion that she’d try to view the scene of last night’sviolence, she turned on her heel – ‘Come along, Lydia… and take thosefrightful spectaclesoff your face!’ and stalked to the stairway.Lydia trailedmeeklyatherheels.ThoughbreakfastservicebeganinFirstClassatseven,thewhite-and-gold

dining room was generally deserted until almost nine. Not this morning,however. Nobody in First Class had slept anyway – Lydia noted severalpeopleclothedintheirdinnercostumesoflastnight–andatthefirstmomentof their liberation fromtheir staterooms, theyhadswarmed to thesourceofcoffee,muffins,andmincedchickenontoast.Andnot,Lydiareflecteduneasily,simplytodiscussthemurderoftwoFirst

Class passengers and three of Cochran’s detectives (whom nobody in FirstClasshadliked).Thoughtherewasfarmoreconversationgoingonthanshehadeverheardinthatroomonthevoyage,itwashushed,likethegrowlingoftheseaonrocks.‘Subs,’sheheardasshepassedamongthetablesinLouise’swake.‘Spies…deadinthewater…’Deadindeed…Shewaited for the inevitablemomentwhenAuntLouisewas stoppedby

MrsTilcott,murmured,‘Excusemeamoment’andwasgonebeforeherauntcouldturnaroundandtellhernottoberidiculous.Sheputonherglassesasshewent.‘MrsAsher!’ JohnPalfrey sprang tohis feet as sheapproachedhis table.

Hisfacewaspaleandhaggard,hiseyeswideashecaughtherhands.‘ThankGodyou’rewell!Youdidn’tgetcaughtupinanyofthatruckuslastnight,didyou?’

Lydiashookherhead,notfeelinguptotheinventionofastoryshewould,she suspected, be hard put to remember once she’d had some sleep. ‘But IsawColonelSimonontheboatdeck,’shefibbed,andtheyoungman’swideshouldersrelaxed.‘Thankgoodness.’Hedrewherdowntoavacantseatathistable,gripped

herhandandloweredhisvoice.‘Iwasafraid–Idon’tknowwhatIfeared.Whenhedidn’tshowup…Andthen therewas thatexplosion,and theriotbelowdecks.Whathappened? Ican’tbelieveMrCochranwasmixedup insabotagefortheGermans!’‘Doyouknow—’Lydiabegan,andherwordswerecutoffbythesilvery

chimeofawaterglassbeing tappedat thecaptain’s table.Turning,shesawfirst,toherastonishment,MrsCochran,clothedinblackandveiledasbecameawidow(shemusthavegottentheweedsfromMrsTilcottoroneoftheotherwidowsinFirst),sittingatthecaptain’sside(withyoungMrOliverCochranonherotherside,holdingherhand).Second,shenoticedAuntLouiselookingsharplyall around forher; and third,CaptainWinstanley standingupathisplace and signaling for attention. He looked absolutely exhausted but hissmile was as charming, and his voice as firm, as ever. Part of thequalificationsforCaptain,Isuppose…‘Ladiesandgentlemen,’hesaid. ‘Firstandforemost, Iwant to thankyou

allforyourpatience,goodsense,andcooperationintheeventsoflastnight.’According to Ellen, Mr Bowdoin and a number of other First Class

passengershadshownnoneoftheseattributes,butLydiaforboretosayso.‘AsIsupposeallofyouknow,therewasanactofsabotageperpetratedon

board last night. A small bombwas set off byGerman agents in the shafttunnelaftoftheship’sengineroomatshortlyaftermidnight.Thehullwasnotdamaged–Irepeat,therewasnodamagetothehulloftheship.Weareinnodangerofsinking.’‘UnlesstheJerriescomealongandtorpedous,’mutteredtheindustrialist,

Tyler,onPalfrey’sotherside.‘We’resittingducks…’‘The rioting below decks,’ the captain continued, ‘was triggered by the

saboteurs being sighted fleeing from the sceneof the crime.Threeof thesemenwerekilled—’‘Serve ’emright,’ saidMrAllen, across the table, andMrsAllennudged

himsharply.‘—buttragically,oneofthem–whose“cover”wasbeingintheemployof

MrSpenserCochran,ofChicago–fledbacktoMrCochran’ssuite,hopingtohidethere.Therioterspursuedhim,killedhim,andinanactofoutrageandhysteria,also,tragically,killedbothMrCochranandhispersonalphysician,DrLouisBarvell.’

‘Whatthehelldidheexpect,’grousedMrTyler,momentarilydrowningoutthecaptain’sgracefulwordstoMrsCochran,‘ifhegoesaroundhiringkrautspies?’Someone at oneof the tables closer to the captain askedhimaquestion,

andCaptainWinstanleysaid,asifthematterwerewellinhand,‘Everyeffortis being made to repair the ship’s wireless and to summon assistance asquicklyaspossible.TheS.S.NorthumbriaandtheHMSRuritaniawere lastrecorded as being only a few days behind us. Flares will be launchedbeginningatduskthisevening—’‘What, so the Jerry subscan findusquicker?’ calledout someone, anda

femalevoicechimedsharply,‘Carlton,hush!’Someonehadaskedanotherquestion:‘Sofarasweknow,thefailureofthe

ship’s wireless was entirely coincidental and had nothing to do with thesabotage,thoughthat,too,isunderinvestigation.AndtoaddresstheconcernsthatI’msureallofyouarefeeling—’The captain raised his voice slightly, and the growlingmurmur of every

sentimentfrom‘lettingmurderersgetaway’to‘whatifthere’smoreof’em?’simmeredtostillnessagain.‘Watchers areonduty fore andaft,’Winstanleycontinued, ‘with thebest

visual equipment on board the ship. Lifeboats are prepared and ready, andthoughthedangerisslim,youareallurgedtokeepyourlifejacketsonhand.Shouldanemergencyoccurinthenextforty-eighthours–beforereliefshipscanarrive–obeyallordersgivenyoubyofficersandcrew,immediatelyandwithout question. They are given for your protection. If an incident doesoccur’ – he couldn’t seem to bring himself to say, If we get torpedoed –‘report to theboatdeckatonce.Donotattempt toreturntoyourcabinsforanyreason.Theofficersandcrewaretrainedprofessionals.Ifeveryonekeepstheir heads and does as they’re told, all should be well no matter whathappens.’Nor,apparently,couldhesayinsomanywords,Weshouldallsurvive.Or,

Mostofusshouldsurvive.Or,Veryfewofyouwilldrown…‘I won’t be quiet,’ sobbed Mrs Bowdoin at the next table, echoing

everyone’s thoughts. ‘Allwell for him to go on about all beingwell, but atorpedocouldbeheadingforus,rightthisverysecond…’Miranda. Lydia’s stomach lurched at the thought of the child she’d left

sleeping – deeply content – on her bed, small hands curled possessivelyaroundMrsMarigold’sstoutsilkwaist.AmIreallygoingtogotothebottomwithouteverseeingJamieagain?She realized she was trembling all over, but shook her head at Captain

Palfrey’s offers of coffee or tea. ‘Take me back to my stateroom, if you

would,’shesaid,tighteningherhandoverhis.Shereallyshould,sheknew,gospeaktoMrsCochran(andsaywhat?CanIgoinandsearchyourhusband’seffects?),or try to sortout thechemicals she’dpinched fromBarvell, orgobelowdecksinsearchofMrHeller…Butall shewanted,now,was tobebesideherdaughter.Because, asMrs

Bowdoin had said, a torpedo could be heading for them, right that verysecond…Sheknewshewasso tired that thingsseemeddistorted,and thatshewas

incapable of thinking clearly. But as Palfrey led her up the steps of thegangway to the private Promenade, she could see the watchmen standing,backtoback,inthelittlewhitecrow’s-nest,andsheshudderedatthethoughtstheirvigilbroughttoher.Thesealayvastallaroundthem,underaskynowroofedwithgraycloud.Nothing–noland–nottheslightestpossibilitythatanyonewouldknowwhathappenedtothem.She couldn’t imagine how so slender a thing as a periscope would be

visibleinit,evenfromupthere.Oneofthemenmoved,scanningthesurfaceofthechurningocean,andthe

daylightwinkedpalelyinthelensesofhisglass.

TWENTY-SIX

Lydiadreamed,anddreaming,withMirandainherarms,itwasasifshesatin some dark place that stank of rats and wet filth. A place that shivered,rhythmically, with the soft repeated clinking of monstrous chains. Waterlappedbelow,andshecouldseeSimon,lyingincongruouslyinahammock,slungafewfeetabovetheunseensurfaceofblackdeeps,profoundlyasleep.He looked like a dyingman, aman long dead; a scarred skull face half

concealedbythespiderwebtangleofhiscolorlesshair.Heshudderedinhissleep,andcriedout,asthepoisonatehisbones.Onceshethoughthesaidhername.Inherdreamshesawtheship’smakeshiftmorgue,bodieslaidoutnownot

onlyonthetables,butonthefloorbetweenthem,theirfacescoveredwitharimeoffrost.LovelyPavlinaJancu.LittleLuziaPescariu.Sturdydark-hairedKemalAdamic, with a folded packet ofKoranic verse lying on his breast.Pilgrimswhowouldneverreachthepromisedland.They’dallbeenmovedtothesametable,sothatMrCochranandMrBarvellcouldeachhaveaprivateresting place. I should go in and search their pockets, she thought in herdream,incaseBarvellcarriedhisnotesaroundwithhim.Iftheshipistorpedoed,noneofthiswillmatteratall.Vodusek,Slavik,andtwoofMrCochran’sdetectiveslayontheflooralong

onewall.Evenintheabsolutedarknessoftherefrigeratorroom,shecouldseethehorriblewoundsontheirbodies,faces,heads.Vodusek’sthroathadbeencutandhisskullcrushed.ShewonderedifPanMarekhaddonethat.For a fleetingmoment, she found herself in a tiny stateroom, stuffy and

eerilysilentwiththestillnessoftheengines.MrGoldhirschlayonhisbunk,Yakov,Rivkah,andhisportmanteaufullofgoldandcreditpapersallwrappedinhislongarms.Hisfacewasabsolutelyexpressionlessbuthislipsmovedinhis longgraybeard, repeating the nameofGod, over andover,while tearsstreamed fromhis open eyes.Weirdly,Lydia had a blinking glimpse of theboy–nineteenyearsoldandalmosthisgrandfather’stall,gawkydouble,butwith a gentler mouth – climbing the front steps of an ivy-covered collegebuilding somewhere in America. Somewhere in the future. Then a lovely,bespectacled youngwomanwhohad to beRivkah, studying something – a

chemistrytext?–insomewell-furnishedlibrary.Thesightofthem,safeandprotectedinthatnewland,thatnewtime,madeherwanttocry.She saw Jamie, unshaven, shockingly thin, haggard with fatigue and

sleeplessness, lying on the floor in some dark place. He was in uniform,covered with a coarse blanket and a German officer’s coat. A quenchedlantern stood close to his hand, his hand wrapped, round and round, withsilverchain;shewonderedwherehewas.Shetriedtocallouttohim,totellhimshewasallright,Mirandawasallright–totellhimthatshelovedhim–butcouldnotwakeherselftodoso.I’msorry.Jamie,I’msorry…Buthehadwiredher.Thereisnothingtoforgive.Then shewas below the sea. Like amermaid in green-gray dimness she

could see the submarine, the froth of bubbles around its lean flanks andstreamingbackwhereitsperiscopecleavedthesurfaceoverherhead.Thewatercarriedthevoicesofthementoher,muffledbutstrangelyclear.

She could smell the stale, filthy air inside the vessel, exactly asHeller haddescribed it to her. Dirty clothes, piss in the bilges, the stink of men’sunwashedbodies.LiketheFront.Forthem–asithadbeenforHeller–thatis the Front. The place where the War is fought. For a moment, too, shesmelled–feltthroughherskin,itchedinherbones–theotherthingsHellerhad toldher,aboutbeingunderwater,all thoseweeks.Livingon topofoneanother likepigs inasty.Constantfear.Mentalcloudiness,whenthefumesthat leaked from the engines grew too thick. Hatred and disgust with thetiniestmannerismsofone’s shipmates, and thevigilance thatgroundone toexhaustion. Dreams of home shredded away by the relentless demands ofsimplygettingthrougheachday.She heard the captain’s voice saying something about tonnage. About

Americans.AboutStadtausGold.HeuteAbend.Tonight.

The voices of Ellen, Mrs Frush, and Aunt Louise arguing woke her. ‘Thechildneedstogooutontothedeckforsomefreshair,andthenbackdowntohernurseryforsomelunch.Thisisnoplaceforalittlegirl.’Miranda, rumpled and still in her nightdress, looked upwarily from her

paperdolls,spreadoutoverthefootofthebed.Lydiasatupandsaid,‘You’requiteright,MrsFrush.’Shegropedforherglassesonthesmalltablebesideher.‘WouldyoupleasegodowntothenurseryandfetchupcleanclothesforMiranda?AndEllen,couldyoudrawherabathuphere?Inviewof the…

situation… I think I’d ratherhavemydaughteruphere, closer to theboatdeck,untilwe’rerescued.’‘If by situation you mean torpedoes,’ declared Aunt Louise – Miranda

turnedherhead sharply at theword– ‘it’s a ridiculousnotion, andCaptainWinstanley is an idiot for getting the passengers riled upwith his constantharpingonthesubject.Ishouldn’twonderifthehysteriaamongthepeasantsinThirdClasscouldbetracedbacktohisunfoundedterrors.’‘Bethatasitmay–’Lydiasuspectedthatwhatherauntreallywantedwas

an argument, and kept her voice cheerfully level, pretending she wasaddressing some infuriated supply sergeant on the subject of bandages – ‘Ishould like tokeepMirandauphereuntilwe’re relieved.’She repeated thisstatementtwicemore,intheidenticalwords,inreplytoheraunt’scontentionthatMirandawouldactuallybemuchhappierinhernurseryonCDeckwithMrsFrush,andthatthePromenadeSuitewasnoplaceforachild.Nottrustingherauntasfarasshecouldthrowtheparlorpiano,Lydiathen

assisted Ellen to batheMiranda and dress her in the neat white frockMrsFrushfetchedup,andtookheralong–withEllenintow–totheinfirmary,tocallonDrLiggatt.‘Lord God, woman, what happened down there?’ The Virginian turned

haggard eyes on Lydia as she slipped to the front of the line outside theinfirmarydoorandpeekedaroundthedoorframe.‘AndwhatinGod’snamewereyoudoingdownonFDeckinthefirstplace–whichiswhereat leastthree of the people I’ve seen this morning say you were. Thank you,MrsRoberts,’headded, toa stoutyoungwomanwithanapronpinnedoverherfashionablepinkwalkingsuit,‘ifyoucouldputadressingonthisone–’he’djust finished stitching up a swarthy little man’s split forehead – ‘and—Lordy!’ThiswhenLydiaslippedherblousedownfromhershouldertoshowthemakeshiftdressing. ‘Youbeen to thewars,M’am,andnomistake!Youshouldhavecomeinearlierwiththat!Letmehavealook…‘They’resaying–’hewentonashethreadedupaneedle,oncehe’dmade

certainthewoundwasclean–‘nearasIcanmakeout,thatoneoftheThirdClasscasualtieswasthemurdererallalong.’‘He was,’ affirmed Lydia. She had turned down the surgeon’s offer of

morphine (‘I appreciate that,M’am, if it’s really all right with you.We’reshortonitnowandGodknowshowmuchwemayneedofitlater’)buthadacceptedafewswallowsofbrandy,andasshespoke,kepthereyesresolutelyonthecornerofthewalljustbeyondhisshoulder.‘That’swhatIwasdoingdownthere.I’dfoundoutthatoneofthemenhad

been stealing candy, and remembered the smell of chocolate on LuziaPescariu’shands,andofpeppermintonKemalAdamic’slips.ItoldMrHeller

thisandheandIrushedtotheman’sroom,andfoundagirltiedupinalockernearbyit,wherewe’dseenhimFriday.It’salongstory.IpromiseI’lltellyouallaboutit—’‘You better report it to the captain, if you haven’t,M’am.’He applied a

freshdressing,andrubbedhiseyes.Hehad,Lydiaguessed,notbeentobedatall.Themenandwomenstillwaitingtobeseenwerethecuts-and-bruisesendofthenight’scasualties.EverybodyreallybadlyhurtwouldhavebeenseentowhilesheherselfhadbeentrappedinAuntLouise’ssuiteinthesmallhours.‘I’lldothat.’Lydiawasawarethatsheshouldalreadyhavedoneso.‘Were

manybadlyhurt?’‘Howbadly isbadly?Sevenmendead…fourconcussions,eightbroken

armsandtwobrokencollarbones–nottospeakofyourself.No,yousitbackforaminute…’Hepressedanothersmallglassofwateredbrandy–partofhisprivatestock–intoherhand.‘Thoughwhatanyofithadtodowiththosemenplantingapipebombintheshafttunnel—’‘Nothing, I shouldn’t think.’ Lydia sipped cautiously. ‘Did anyone go

throughtheirpockets?The…thedeadmen,Imean.Orthroughthequartersof Mr Kimball and the other detectives? What happened to the otherdetectives,bytheway?MrCochranhadfive…’‘BolandandJukesarelockedintheship’sbrig.’Liggattturnedaway,and

rinsed his hands in a small basin of permanganate of potash. ‘CaptainWinstanley’sgoing to turn themover to theauthorities theminutewereachport.Thecaptaininventoriedthepossessionsofthedeceased–MrsCochranandthatsecretaryofCochran’sarethreateningalawsuitagainsttheAmericanLine,fornothandingCochran’swatchandhankieovertothem–andsecuredtheminthesafeinhisownquarters.’Dratit!‘NothingconnectedwithsabotageorGermans,Itrust?’Shemade

hervoicedryandalittleexasperatedattheturnofevents,andhopeditdidn’tsoundflippant.To her relief, Liggatt grinned tiredly and shook his head. ‘String and

matchesandabouttwenty-fivecents–whichI’llswearwaschangehefoundlyingonthedeck!Nottospeakillofthedead,youunderstand.Barvellhadaflaskofwhiskey, and some suitcase keys.But itwas strange: both of themworecrucifixesaroundtheirnecks–Catholicrosaries.’Lydiamurmured,‘Howverystrange.’‘Ireckonyou’veheard–weallhave!–Cochrangoonaboutpapists,asif

theywereSouthSeacannibalsorsomething.AndCochranwastransportingsomethinginthishugetrunk–ithadtriplelocksonit,andthey’dputanotherpadlockonthesuitedoor.Butthetrunkitselfwasempty,asfaraswecantell–themobliterallytoreittobits.Itwastoobigtoaccountforthatlaboratory

set-up Barvell had in his stateroom, and besides, that trunk was also inBarvell’sroom.It’safishyset-up,’heconcluded,helpingLydiatoherfeet.‘Afishyset-upwhicheverwayyoulookatit.Somethingwassuregoingon,butI’mblessedifIcanthinkofwhat.Yousureyou’reallright?’Lydianodded,andsteppedasideasthestoutMrsRobertsescortedahalf-

grownboyin,gingerlyclutchingaswollenhand.‘AndofcoursepoorMrsCochranknowsnothingaboutit.Igathersheand

herhusbandhadn’tlivedasmanandwifeinyears,forallthosediamondshegaveher.There’llbeaninquestwhenwereachport.Ifwereachport.’Ifindeed,thoughtLydia,returningtothecorridorwhereEllenwaitedwith

Miranda(andMrsMarigold–‘MrsMarigoldwantedtocomebecauseshe’safraidMrsFrushisgoingtotakeandlockherupinthenursery.’).On their way back to the Promenade deck they encountered, to Lydia’s

surprise, Heller, discreetly escorted by young Mr Travis. ‘They’ve hadeverybodyonboardwhoknowsanythingaboutwirelessupintotheMarconiroom this morning,’ the German explained, when Lydia fell into step withthem.‘Iwasassistanttothewirelessman,onthe…’Hevisiblybitbacktheword, ‘submarine’. ‘Once the regular Marconi operator tried to repair theapparatus,itbecameclearthatnotonlyhadthewiresbeendisconnected,theequipment itself hadbeendamaged, and the storeof spareparts rifled.TheMarconiroomitselfisnotconstantlymanned,youknow–astupidthing,intime of war. Anyone could have broken in, if they had a decent set ofpicklocks.Inviewofthesabotagetothepropellershafts—’‘HavetheysearchedMrCochran’srooms?’Heller’spalebrowsdovedown.‘Cochran?’Mr Travis gasped – he evidently knew enough German to follow the

conversation.‘MrsAsher,surelyyouaren’tsuggesting—’‘I’msuggesting,’saidLydiaslowly,‘thatifMrKimballwasbeingpaidto

sabotagetheengines–’andwe’renotgoingtogointowhowaspayinghim–‘hemaywellhavehiddenthesparepartssomewhereinMrCochran’ssuite,whilehisemployerwasatdinnersomeevening. Imean–’shewidenedhereyesinnocently–‘whowoulddaresearchMrCochran’ssuite?’Hellershotherasidelonglook,butthestewardappearedthunderstruck.In

English,heexclaimed,‘ByGod,MrsAsher,youmayberight!M.Heller–’switchingtoGerman–‘ifIcantrustyoutogetyourselfbacktoThirdClass…Thecaptainneedstobetoldthisrightaway.MrsAsher—’Heller bowed to the steward. ‘You can indeed trustme,’ he said, a little

sardonically,‘toretiretoThirdClasswhereIbelong.’‘Er–thankyou.’Thestewardlookedawkward,asifawareofhowgauche

thathadsounded.Lydiadidn’tblamehim–hedidn’tlookasifhe’dhadany

sleep either, and dealing with Aunt Louise certainly couldn’t have helped.‘Yourhelphasbeenenormouslyappreciated.MrsAsher,ifyou’llcomewithme…’CaptainWinstanley–whodidn’tlookasifhe’dhadanysleepeither–sent

at once for the chief radioman and the quartermaster. Lydia accompaniedthem toCochran’s suite.But even as the captain unlocked the door,OliverCochran–whohadbeennextdoorinconferencewithMrTilcott–strodeupanddemandedtoknowa)whohadmadesuchanaccusationagainsthisuncleandb)whyhe,orhisaunt,ashisuncle’sco-heirs,hadnotbeenconsulted.‘Iwasn’tawarethatpassengershadanythingtosayconcerningthesceneof

a crime on board a vessel in international waters,’ said the captain drily.Despite the bruises of sleeplessness under his eyes, he had changed into afreshuniform(howmanyofthemdoeshehave?Whendidhetakethetimetodothat?)andhadtrimmedandlaunderedhissnowybeard.(Doeshehaveavalet?)Young Mr Cochran, as if aware of the moral advantage of looking

completelypoint-de-vice,hadclearlydonethesame:cleanshirt,tietied,andnot an atom of stubble on his freshly-barbered chin. ‘Asmy uncle’s heir Ihave the right tomake sure that his name isn’t slanderedby accusationsofcomplicityintreason—’HowdidyouknowtherewasaquestionabouthiscomplicityinKimball’s

sabotage? Lydia had the good sense not to say – there being no point inthrowing oil on what promised to be a roaring blaze. The captain havingalready unlocked the door (the silver padlock and its hasps had alldisappeared),sheslipped insideevenasOliverCochrandispatchedTilcott’sbutlertosearchforMrHipray,theCochranlawyer.Shemight,Lydiareflectedbitterlyassheflickedonthelightsoftheinner

rooms,havesavedherselfthetrouble.Barvell’slaboratoryhadbeenwellandtrulysacked.NotonlyhadDonSimon’scoffinbeenreducedtomatchwood,but every phial and beaker in the laboratory had been smashed, thehypodermic case and all its ampoules trampled deliberately under heavyboots.Thestinkofbloodandspilledchemicalstookherbythethroat,andthefouled carpet crunched underfoot with broken glass as she searched everydrawerandcabinetfornotes,formulae,anythingthatmighthelpher.Withaglanceoverher shoulder at thedoor, sheproduceda foldingpenknife fromher pocket and quickly slit the lining of the luggage in the closet. (Who’llnotice, at this point?) Nothing. Nothing under themattresses, or inside thepillowslips,ofthebed.(‘—requireyoutosignanaffidavittothateffect,’sheheardaman’svoice

sayingoutside,andWinstanley’sdeepertonesretorting,‘Youcangotohell!

AscaptainofthisvesselIhaveabsoluteauthority—’)Nothing in Cochran’s room – or luggage – or the pockets of any of his

clothing–orunderthecarpet.Asshesearchedsherememberedtheoldman’sseamed,foxyface,andrecalledwhatHellerhadtoldheraboutthemenhe’dcasuallyorderedshotbyhisstrikebreakers.Yetshefoundherselfwonderingwhichofthosesplotchesofbloodonthe

carpetwerehis,andhowlongithadtakenfortheenragedmenofThirdClassto club him to death. There was blood spattered on the walls, too, andsomething white stuck in the blood on the floor that turned out to be twobrokenteeth.HewouldhaveenslavedSimonandusedhimasasupernaturalassassin.Shestillcouldn’tlookattheteeth.His sabotage – purely to give himself time to find another vampire to

enslave–hasimmobilizedeverypersononthisshipdirectlyinthepathofaGermansubmarine.Herdreamreturnedtoher,thegray-greendimnessunderwater,thewaythe

bubblescurledalongthesubmarine’ssides.Thevoicesofthecaptainandhisofficers,thestinkoftheairwithin…HeuteAbend.Tonight.Wheredidthatvisioncomefrom?Hellertoldme…Whensheslippedoutofthesuiteagain,thegrouponthePromenadehad

been augmented byMr Hipray, stout and slightly greasy-looking with hairthat curled thickly around a bald spot the size of a pancake, and two deckstewards. ‘—putting yourself and your company severely in the wrong,’youngMr Cochran was saying. ‘I assure you, I will have no hesitation inbringing suit against both the American Shipping Line and against you,personally,forwrongfulsequestrationofapassenger’sgoods—’‘There isnoproofasyet that thoseareyourgoods,’Winstanleyretorted,

‘unlessyouhaveacopyofyouruncle’swillandproofthatitwasinfacthismostrecenttestament.Untilthereading,andprobate,ofsuchawill,youareputting yourself in danger of prosecution for impeding the conduct of amurderinvestigation,and,dependingonwhatwefind,asaccessoryafterthefacttosabotageandquitepossiblytotreasonaswell—’Quietly, Lydia crossed the Promenade to where Ellen andMiranda (and

MrsMarigold)waitedforherattheheadofthesteps.Shetookherdaughter’shand,saidquietly,‘Thankyou,Ellen.I’llletyougonow–wouldyouliketogodowntothelowerpromenade,sweetheart?Whereit’salittlequieter?’Miranda nodded. She looked pale and a bit overwhelmed. Together they

descendedthesteps.Astheydidso,Mirandaglancedbackandabovethem,

towheretwowatchersstillstoodonthelookout,scanningtheuneasysea.Lydia’s heart pounded hard. Those first seconds after the explosion

returnedtoher,herownsickenedterroratbeingcaughtfivedecksdownandknowingtherewasnowayshecouldhavemadeit toagangway,hadwaterbeguntopourinthroughatorpedoholeinthehull.Tonight,shethought.Sheknewthedreamhadn’tbeenadream.‘WillSimonbeallright?’Mirandaasked.Lydiastoppedinhertracks.Aroundthemonthesilent–butoddlycrowded

–FirstClassPromenade,menandwomenwerelookingouttosea,orsitting,someofthemwearingcork-and-canvaslifejackets,bundledinblanketsorfurcoats,ontheirdeckchairs,unwillingtobecaughtindoorsevenintheseuppercabinsthathadeasyaccesstotheboatdeck.Afewchildrenplayed,andtheirmothers watched them anxiously. She heard Mrs Bowdoin call out, ‘No,sugar,stayherewhereMamacanseeyou…’Carefully,Lydiaasked,‘WherehaveyoumetSimon?’Mirandathoughtaboutit.Thenshesaid,‘He’syourfriend.’‘Yes,’saidLydia.‘Yes,heis.’Shefeltacuriousstillnessinside,hearingher

daughterspeakhisname.Themanwhohadsavedherlife, themanshehadalwayshopedshecouldkeepawayfromher.HowcanItellherwhatheis?What he does?Howcan Imakeher understandhow I can care for suchaman?Thelittlegirl’sfrowndeepened.‘Imethiminthegarden,’shesaidslowly.

‘ButIknewwhohewas.’She’donlybeentwoandahalfwhenSimonhadgottenherawayfromthe

vampireDamienZahorec.2Surelyshedoesn’tremember.Yetsheknew, too,how theveryoldvampires could reach into themindsof thosewhose eyesthey met. Could, in many cases, whisper to their dreams, as she had seenSimon feed and manipulate the dreams of those he wished to dominate –sometimes,apparently,withoutevenmeetingthem.Onlyfromknowingsomethingaboutthem.Fromhavingsomelink.Jamie’s face came back to her, visible even in the pitch-black of… of

where?Prison?Hideout?Tomb?Was the gardenMiranda spoke of really the garden behind the house on

Holywell Street?Or some bower in her dreams,where beesmade bargainswithsnailsaboutwhichflowersbelongedtowhom,andmicelearnedFrenchfrommoles?‘Didhespeaktoyou?’askedLydia.‘One time.Whenyouwent away to be in thewar, he came and toldme

he’dtakecareofyouandmakesureyoudidn’tgethurt.’

Lydia’s throatclosedandshehad to lookaway.Thewindhadpickedup,throwingcoldwhitespumefromthecrestsofthewaves.Besideher,Mirandawenton,‘Itoldhimyoucouldtakecareofyourself,

andhesaid,eventheQueenoftheAmazonsneededsomebodytoguardherback. Ellen read me about the Queen of the Amazons,’ she added. ‘MrsMarigoldwasscared,butIwasn’t.’Andthen,morequietly,‘IsSimonsick?’‘He is,’ saidLydia.Shewonderedwherehewasnow.Ahammock in the

chainlocker?Acornerofacoalbunker?Whathappenswhentheytorpedotheship?She could feel they were coming. Plowing through the gray water, long

curlsofbubblesstreamingbackfromthoseleangraysteelsides.‘Ishegoingtodie?’He isdeadalready, she thought,her eyes still on the freezingblue-black

ocean.Hehasbeendeadforthreehundredyears.Andiftheshipistorpedoedandgoesdown,hewillbetrappedinherbowels,conscious,freezing,andinagonyatthebottomofthesea,untilthepoisondestroyshim…Heller, she thought.Helooked intoHeller’seyes lastnight, in the locker.

What I saw beneath the sea was part of Heller’s thoughts. The smell, thevoices,thefear…SimonknowswhatHellerknows…Hereyeswidened,shocked,shakentohermarrow,andshesteppedtothe

rail,tolookatthegraychurningofthesky.Impatientattheuncommunicativeclouds,sheconsultedherwatch.Four o’clock.No wonder I have a headache, I didn’t have breakfast or

lunch.Shelookedoutattheseaagain.Threehourstildarkness.Eightuntilmidnight.Ifwelivetilthen.

TWENTY-SEVEN

‘Wait here forme.’ Lydia glanced up the fore gangway,where the grilleddoorshadbeenclosedwiththeapproachoftwilight.Adeckstewardhadbeenassigned to stand watch, given the imminent peril of torpedoing – moreterrible,withthecomingofdarkness.DownhereintheThirdClassareas,thesilencewasevenmoreeeriethanithadbeenupontheFirstClassPromenade,forinhercomingsandgoingsintheselowerquartersLydiahadgrownusedtothethroboftheengines,thevibrationofthedeckingunderfoot.Withouttheship’sheartbeat,itbecamehideouslyobviouswhattheCityof

Goldhadbecome.Ametalcoffin,danglingaboveanabyss.Fourhours…‘Idon’tknowhowlongI’llbe. I–Ihavetofindsomeone,someoneyou

needtospeakto…’Heller frowned into her eyes, his own pale in the electric gloom. She’d

foundhim–afterahastymealofteaandbiscuitsintheWillowGrove,sinceshesuspectedshemightnotgetanydinnereither–inthemidstofameetingintheThirdClassdiningroom,afrightenedconferenceamongtheemigrantsas towhat could be expected of the policewhen – if – they reachedNewYork.The German had been preoccupied, patient as he’d helped organize and

frame everybody’s stories to make the riot appear as if it had entirelyconcerned outrage at an act of sabotage. Mention of a vampire was to beentirelyavoided.Onemightperhapsobtainclemency–oratleastadegreeofsympathy–forkillingsaboteursinGermanpay.‘Ifanymansays“vampire”,’he had said – and had waited for this to be translated into six differentlanguages,‘thepigswillsay,“Hah!Superstitiousimmigrantswhodomurderfromstupidity!Sendthembackwheretheycomefrom!”’Butalonenowinthefrightfulsilencenearthestairway,Lydiasawhiseyes

shift.‘Isitthemanwhowaswithyoulastnight?’heaskedquietly.‘Themanin

eveningdress?’Shesaid,‘Yes.’

Hetookadeepbreath.‘Whoishe?Whatishe?’And,whenLydiadidnotanswer,hewenton,almostdesperately,‘Thereis

no such thing as a vampire. You know this, Comrade. Only those humanghoulswhodonotcareaboutthemenwhodieofblacklungintheirmines,thechildrenwholosetheirfingersandhandsin theirfactorymachines.Thewomenwhoburnupintheirsweatshopfiresbecausetheylockallthedoorsto prevent them from sneaking out for some air. Those are the vampires.Thosearetheblooddrinkers.’Lydiasaidsoftly,‘Yes.’‘Those who declare war because they want each other’s colonies, each

other’soilwells,eachother’scoalminesandfarmlandandtrade.Thosewholie topoormen,untaughtmen,and tell themthepooranduntaughtmenonthe other side are the true enemy and must be killed. Those who hold uppicturesofsaints,orpicturesofmonsters,tokeepthepoorandtheuntaughtfromlookingabouttheworldforthemselves.’Shesaidagain,‘Yes.’Hellerwasstill lookingather.Tryingtoconvincehimself,sheknew,that

hehadnotseenwhathesaw.Shesaid,‘YouwereintheGermannavy.Onasubmarine.’‘Iwas,yes.’‘He’s going to ask you about it,’ she went on, hesitant. ‘He is a … a

mesmerist.Ahypnotist.Hehaspsychicalpowers—’Hisfaceflinchedandwavedtheideaawaylikeacobweb.‘What,likethat

imbecileRussianwomankeeps talkingabout?Doyouactuallybelieve that,Comrade?’‘I’ve seen him do things,’ said Lydia, ‘that can be explained in no other

fashion.Ihaveknownhimforyears—’Hellershookhishead,asiftryingtorecoverfromablow.‘ThisIdidnot

expectofyou,Comrade.Youareascientist,youareawomanofstrengthandsense.LeavethatkindofdriveltoidiotslikeTania–yes,she’sagood,kindwomanbutsoaked insuperstitionasasponge inbrandy.Shesayspreciselythat, about that charlatan Izora – because it’s what she’s been taught tobelieve.That’showshe’sbeentaughttheworldworks.Butyou…’‘Thenifyoudon’tbelieve,’saidLydia,‘whyareyouafraidofhim?’‘I’mnotafraidofhim.’Shesawthelieinhiseyes.Hearditinthepause–

toolong–beforehecameoutwiththewords.‘Ifyou’renotafraidofhim,’saidLydia,‘willyouatleastwaithere?And

speakwithhim,answerwhateverheasks,whenIbringhim?’Anotherpause,alsoslightlytoolong.‘Idon’tliketoseehimmakeafool

ofyou.’

Inhisvoicesheheardthatitwasn’tthat.‘Asa freewoman,Comrade,’ smiledLydia, ‘it is Iwhohave the right to

makeafoolofmyself.Willyouwaithere?’Hefoldedhisarms,andturnedgrudginglyaway.‘Yes.’

Asher heardAugustin stir in the darkness.Thewhisper of his clothing, thefaintsqueakoftheleatherofhisboots.Anotherindication,hereflected,oftheman’syouthamong theUndead.As theyaged, they learnedsilence,orelsehow to turn theminds of the living away fromwhatever sound theymightmake:hewassometimesnotentirelysure.Heheardthefaint,thinclatterofthesilvercell’sbarreddoor(hemusthavepushedatitwithhisfoot),andthen,sullenly,‘Comeandletmeout,Anglais,oritwillbetheworseforyou.’‘Idon’thavethekey,’saidAsher.The young vampire muttered an obscenity. Asher had observed, in the

entirelongdayofdozingintheblackness,thattherehadneverbeensomuchasthewhisperofrats.Heknewthevampires feared them.Buteven therats, itappeared, feared

themarkSzgednyhadmadeonthewall.‘Ihopethebitchdrinksyourbloodforaweekbeforeshekillsyou.She’ll

behere,youknow,’Augustinadded.‘She’llhaveguessedwemetsomehow,or those idiots Roger and Baptiste will blab it all to her when she catchesthem…andfatlotofgooditwilldothem.She’llbreaktheirnecksandleavethemlyinginashellholeforthesunlighttofind.Bitch.Awhoremadeforthedevil.’‘I can seewhy the thought of getting a few fledglings of your own and

emigratingtoBordeauxsoundedlikeagoodplan.’Augustincursedathim.‘Orbreaking intoBarvell’s apartment andgettingwhatevernoteshehad,

onhowtosubdueevenamastervampiretoone’swill.Howwasitdone,bytheway?Drugs?Somethingthatweakensthepowersofthemind?’‘If only. Tchah! It is pain,’ said Augustin. ‘Simple pain. That’s what I

wouldhavelovedtosee–thatwhoreElyséespasmingandscreamingonthefloorinfrontofme,whileIheldthesyretteofantidoteinmyhand.’Asher lit the lantern, flashed it briefly around the chamber,wondering if

thiswas,infact,thesameplacetowhichYsidrohadbroughthimtokeephimsafefromtheParisnest.Orweretheremorethanonesuchcell,hiddeninthetunnelsoftheancientmines?Augustinsatintheverycenterofthesilvercage–whichindeedhadacotinit,asAsherremembered–andthevampirekeptshiftingabout,as ifeventheclosenessof thesilverbars itchedhisskinandmadehismusclestwitch.

‘Some of the others – Serge, and Hyacinthe, and later a couple of theVenice vampires I met at the Front – talked about books they’d heard of.Books that toldofpotions,philtres, thatvampirescanuse, todo things likekeepawakeintothedaylighthours.Abraham–oneoftheVenicevampires–toldmerecently,thesethingsallworkbecausetheyusethingswecan’ttouch,thingsthateatatourflesh,silverorgarlicoraconite.Withoutthosethings,nomedicineorchemicalorwhatevercanharmus.’Thevampire shrugged. ‘It allmadeno sense tome.Agentleman studies

literatureandthearts,notchemistrylikeanapothecary.IclearedoutBarvell’snotesbutlikeIsaid,Icouldn’tmakeheadsortailsofthem.Thenthefightingstarted, and Ihadother things to thinkabout. Iwasn’tgoing toputmy lifeinto thehandsofanychemistordoctor,whocoulduse thestuffagainstme…’He stood up, and rubbed his hands, like a man who’s had some caustic

solutionsprayedonhisskin,sometraceofwhichremainsevenafterwashing.Thewholeleftsideofhisfacewasamassofblisters,puffedandswollen.Therest,thetight-stretchedskinofacorpse.‘He’sgoingtokillyou,youknow,’headded.Andhesmiled,pleasedatthe

thought.

Shewalked in the corridors along the coal bunkers, and through the silentdimnessoftheuntenantedenginerooms.Withthelongpropellershaftsbent–andaccording toDrLiggatt, theyhadn’tbeenbentverymuchbyKimball’spipebomb–therewasnoquestionofrunningtheengines.Onlyafewofthefurnaceswereinoperation,poweringthegeneratorstokeeptheship’slightson. The ‘black gang’ took turns doing the work, and she had seen them,loiteringamongtheThirdClasspassengers,intheThirdClassdiningroomorthedeckwells,ashighupintheshipastheywerepermittedtogo.Nobody,Lydiasuspected,wasgoingtosleepbelowdeckstonight.Simon,shethought,crushedbythestillness,bythewaitingforthetorpedo

tohit.Oh,Simon,pleasecome…Pleasebewellenoughtocome.Willhedie?Mirandahadasked.Whenhesaid,‘Mistress,’behindher,intheshadowsofthecorridorwhich

ledtothebulkcargohold,sheturned,andforamomenthadthesensationofseeinghiminsometerribledream.Helookednotonlyemaciated;painwasstampedoneverylineofhisface,ageingthoseterribleyelloweyes,drawingat the scars that crossed his cheek and throat. He had acquired fromsomewhere the clothing of an emigrant, a coarse tweed jacket and patchedcorduroy trousers, and they hung on his bones like rags on a picket fence.

Overthesehe’ddrapedaplaidshawl,andinspiteofthat,andtheglovesthatcoveredhishands–andhisclaws–heshivered,likeamandyingofcold.She took his hands, icywithin the gloves, and then put her arms around

him.Areyouallright?wouldhavebeenstupid.Wherehaveyoubeenhiding?Irrelevant.I’vebeenworriedsick,obvious.‘Have they repaired the wireless?’ he asked in his whispery voice, and

Lydiashookherhead.‘Cochran – and I’m certain it was Cochran who disabled it, or had it

disabled–damagedorstoleallthesparepartsnecessaryforitsrepair.Tossedthemoverside, I should think, lest theybe tracedback tohim. It’swhat I’dhave done. Jamie, too, probably. I had a look throughhis rooms,while thecaptain was arguing with Oliver Cochran’s lawyers. Captain Winstanley’shavingdistressflaresfiredoff, thoughhalf thepassengersaresaying they’llbring suit against the American Shipping Line for showing a submarineexactlywhereweare.’‘Icanscarce,’remarkedthevampire,‘arguewiththemonthathead.AndI

trustyoufoundnothingofuse?’Sheshookherhead.‘Barvell’sroomwassmashedtoatoms.’Shethoughta

corner of his mouth moved at that. Only pain, she reflected, would havewrung any expression of anything, from his habitually expressionless,devastatedface.‘Itrustalso,’hewenton,‘thatthereisnoneedformetotellyouthatwhen

weare torpedoed–as I thinkwemustbe,andsoon–youare to takeyourdaughter and get onto the first lifeboat that offers,without thewaste of somuchasonemomenthunting forme? If ithappens indarkness,daylight isbound to come ere a rescuing vessel does, and Imust perforce slip off thelifeboatandintothelightlessdeep.Icannotdrown,’headded,seeingthetearsthatfilledhereyes.‘AndIexpectthepoisonwillkillmeinfairlyshortorder.’Twillbewelcome,’headdedquietly,‘toendthedreams.’His hand trembled, very slightly, in hers, a sort of steady vibration that

beliedthecalmofhisvoice.‘Dreams?’‘Ofeverysoul,’hesaid,‘thatIhavekilled.Allofthem.Eachofthem.Of

everylifetaken,overtheyears.Everyday,sincethepoisonhasbeeninme.Those energies that I absorbed, to feed my own powers of illusion andmastery – each of those lives comes back to me, individually and whole.Names,memories,thefacesofthosetheylovedorhated,andwhatmadetheloveorthehate.Wives,children,sweethearts.Whorestheykilled,formostof

my victims were human swine who well deserved their deaths. Children,sometimes,theyrapedandthenhangedfromtheraftersoftheirdeadparents’houses in the wars. All those memories. All those deeds. An army of thedead.’He held out his hand, turning it as if he saw it once more clotted with

blood.‘Eachbyeach.Asifeachlifeweremylife.Eachdeedtheworkofmyhand.AsifIjourneyedthroughHellkissingthelipsofeverysoulImet.’Lydia’s eyesmet his, sickened with pity and stabbed by the involuntary

thought, It is nomore thanwhat you deserve. And she knew that he knewthat,too.Shewondered ifherownactivities,herown love forhim,wouldgether

condemnedonJudgmentDayasAccessoryAftertheFact.Theredidn’tseemtobeanythingtosay.‘Listen,’shewhisperedatlast.‘Atmidnight–alwayssupposingwearen’t

torpedoed before then – will you have your powers of thought again? Ofillusion?’Heputtherecollectionofthedreamsaside,withaslightmovementofhis

fingers,and thoughtforamoment. ‘I thinkso,’herepliedaftera time. ‘If Iweretotakethewholeoftheantivenin–aboutthree-quartersofasingledoseremains–I thinkso. I injectedmyselfwithaboutadrachmof thestuff lastnight,ereIhid,andIfeelthepainreturning,evennow.IknownothowlongIwilllast,when’tisgone.’Whenshedidnotspeakhestoodforatime,lookingacrossintohereyes.

‘Whydoyouaskmethis,Mistress?’‘Ifyoutookafulldose,ornearlyafulldose,’saidLydia,stumblingalittle

inherwords,‘asmuchasyouhave,whenmidnightcomes,couldyousee–couldyoufeel–theapproachofasubmarine?’‘IthinkIscarceneedtodoso.’Hishandstightenedslightlyoverhers.‘We

allofusknowtheyareontheirway.’‘Couldyouenterthedreamsofitscrew?’Hestartedtoreply,thenstopped.Somethingflickeredbehindthedespairin

thosebruise-circledyelloweyes.Somethinglikelife.Healmostsmiled.‘Ifyou…ifyouwereabletolookintothemind,lookintothethoughts,of

amanwhohasbeenonsuchavessel,’shesaid.‘It’swhatyoudid,afterall,withpoorCaptainPalfrey–whoisfranticwithworryaboutyou,bytheway.But you’ve convinced him that he’s been places, and received orders, andseen things, and talked to people that in fact didn’t take place at all. Andyou’vedone itwithothers– I’ve seenyou.Otherswhomyou’dnevermet,never seen,whose dreams you’ve read at a distance,whose eyes and steps

you’ve turnedaside.Whomyouwere able to call toyou,deceive, anduse,throughtheirdreams.’Stillhesaidnothing,butshesawinhisfacetherunofhisthought.‘Ifyouknewaboutwhat’sonasubmarine–whatitlookedlike–couldyou

tell thesemen,thesesubmariners,’shewenton,‘whilethey’resleeping–intheirdreams–torisefromtheirbunks,andsmashuptheirownengines?Orfireofftheirowntorpedoesatnothing?‘I don’t think,’ she continued, ‘that it would take much. The men are

exhausted.’Her voice sank. ‘You’ve seen themen at the Front.Even thosewho aren’t wounded, after six weeks in the trenches they’ll fall asleepstanding up on guard duty. And in a submarine it’s worse, because of theenginefumes.You’veseentheireyes.Theycanbarelytellsleepfromwakingasitis.Theyaren’treallythereatall.’Hesaid,verysoftly,‘Ah.’Andagainsheknewhisthought.Thatifhesucceeded,theywerestilltwodaysfromport.Wouldhebedeadintwodays?Deadinagony,ordrivenmadbypaintothe

extent that hewould either hunt – and lay himself open to lynchingby thepassengers – or throw himself out into the sunlight, to end his anguish incleansingfire.Aprelude–shesaw thisshadowinhis impassive face– to theunending

firesofHell.Shedidn’tknow.Shewonderedifheknewhowlongitwouldtake.Ifeven

Barvellhadknown.Wouldyoudielikethat,formeandmychild?Shecouldn’tsayit.Foreveryoneonthisship–AuntLouiseandPrincessNataliaandHeller

andWilliam the waiter andMr Goldhirsch and Ariane and Yakov and allthosegrubbymenintheenginecrew.‘Wouldyouhavethestrengthtodothat?’Heclosedhiseyes.Thetremblinginhishandshadworsened,andshesaw

thecornerofhismouthtwitchwiththestabofgrowingpain.Thenhelookedatheragain,andpressedherhandwithcoldlips.‘Godhelpme,’hesaid,asifhemeantthewords.‘Iknownot,Mistress.’Andhe smiled again, thebrief, sweet smileof a livingman. ‘But I shall

certainlyenjoytrying.’

TWENTY-EIGHT

Bellswere ringingevensongalloverPariswhenAsher,GrafSzgedny,andAugustinMaletteemergedfromthecryptofwhathadbeenamonasteryintheRue St-Jacques, three blocks from Augustin’s small townhouse inMontparnasse. Asher bought a newspaper at an estaminet on the nearestcorner–thewomanbehindthecounter,afteronelookfromtheGraf,didn’tseem to notice that Asher was wearing a blood-crusted German Armygreatcoat.TherewasnoreportofanAmericanlinerhavingbeentorpedoed.Yet…Ifthey’reprintingthetruth.Inwartime,whocouldtell?He folded the slender sheets–with the rationingofpaperhewasa little

surprised he’d been able to find a paper at all – and stowed them in hispocket.It’sSunday.TheyshouldreachNewYorkwithinhours.Heshuthiseyesforamoment,insilentprayer.Whatever the Master of Prague had said to the golden-haired vampire,

Augustinmadenoattempttolosehimselfastheywalkedthedankandsmellyflagway, and with scarcely a word he let them into the tall, narrow,eighteenth-centuryhouse,andledthemupthestairs.Thefurnishingswerecheapwithinthosegracefulrooms;likesluttishhand-

me-downs worn by some aristocrat impoverished by time. The place hadclearly been set up – as vampires often set up the living quarters of theirhouses–simplytoallaythesuspicionsoftheliving.Ashercouldseethatthefew books in the single bookshelf had never been read, the garishchromolithographs on the walls chosen at random. The upholstery of thechairswasfadedanddusty.AugustinhadstowedBarvell’snotesunderthetilesofasmallhearthinthe

bedroom.Thereweretwonotebooks,andathicksheafofpurchaseordersandinvoices fromchemical firms inFrance,Germany, and theUnitedStates. Ittookmostof thenight forAsher togo through them, siftingoutdataaboutquantities,mixtures,processes,distillations:‘Someofthisisn’tchemistry,’he

remarkedatonepoint,andSzgednycametolookoverhisshoulderinthedimglowofanoillamp.Augustinhadbeendismissed,presumablytohunt.The vampire’s long, crooked finger traced the diagrams written in the

notebook’smargins.‘ThisistheSealofSolomon.Andthere,theSealofAir.WearebeingsofAirandEarth,Anglus:thismanBarvellseemstohavetakenthematterintoaccount.YouwillsendthistoyourladyinAmerica?’AsherwasdeeplyconsciousoftheGraf’sotherhandwhereitrestedonthe

backofhisneck.Thefleshwaswarm,heatedbythelifeofsomevictimhe’dencounteredonhisway to theoldmineshafts. Inwartime, soldiers came toParis,andiftheyneverreturnedtothetrencheswhentheirleavewasup,noonewouldaskwhy.ThetunnelsinParisrandeep.Ashersaid,‘Yes.’‘Hathsheknowledgeofthedeeperways?’‘Shedoesn’tbelieveawordof it,but shewill followwhat I sendher. In

truthIknowmoreaboutalchemythanaboutchemistry.’The old vampire’s fangs gleamed in a smile. ‘Good, then.’ There was a

mirrortuckedinconspicuouslyinacorneroftheroom–eveninavampire’ssittingroom,therehadtobesomewayforAugustintoascertainthathistiewasstraightandhishairproperlycombed.Init,Ashercouldseehimself,andtheshadowyfigurebehindhim.Thething’sface,withintheleonineframeofgrayhair,wasnothinghuman.‘AretherevampiresintheUnitedStates?’heasked.‘Pah.’ The Graf dismissed the Western hemisphere and all who dwelt

therein.‘Whatwillyourladydo,whenshereceives…allofthis?’Hisclawsbrushed thegrowing stackofpages atAsher’s elbow. ‘EnslavepoorSimonherself?’‘No.Thatmuch I doknow. Itmaynot evenwork, youknow,’he added.

‘Thesenoteswerestolenfiveyearsago.Sincethattime,Barvellkilledatleasttwo fledglings that Iknowabout–maybemore–experimenting…maybewith dosage,maybewith concentration,maybewith the rates at which theefficacyoftheformuladecaysovertime.Augustinsaidhefeltthemdie,andthatittookdays.LydiamaykillYsidrowiththefirstinjectionshegiveshim.Orcripplehim,ordrivehimmad.’‘Buthergoalistosavehim?’‘HergoalistobreakCochran’sholdonhim,’saidAsherquietly.‘Andhis

holdonanyothervampirehemayacquire,throughwhatevermeans.Idon’tknow what she’ll need this for.’ He straightened his aching shoulder, hisaching neck. ‘But some information is better than no information, whenyou’redealingwiththosewhoplacepersonalpowerovertherightsandlivesoftheinnocent.’

For the first time, the Graf chuckled. ‘Ah, Anglus, who among us isinnocent?’Asherwassilentafter that,correlatingdatesand invoices,quantitiesused

andmethodsnoted.HewonderediftheSealofEarth,theSealofAir,wouldbethesameinwhateverreferencebookLydiawouldbeabletofindinNewYork, as the one that Barvell used. In over thirty years of studying thefrontierswherefolkloretouchedthefringesofalchemy,he’dencounteredatleastfourdifferentversionsofeach.Hewonderedifitmattered.WouldLydiahavetopursueCochranfromNewYorkbacktohishomein

Chicago?OnceinAmerica,wouldshebeabletokeeptheunscrupulousmillionaire

ignorantofherpursuitofhim?Alwaysprovidedhewasstillignorantofheraims,afterfivedaysonshipboard?Through the closed shutters, the thick curtains over the bedroom’s

windows, the chimes of St-Jacques de Haut Pas struck midnight.Mondaymorning.TheCityofGoldmightalreadybeinport.Before night came again, hewould be on a train back toVenice.On his

waytoslipacrossthemountains,changehisuniformandhisidentitypapers,and start the long trek to the Polish forests. The five days that in somealternateworldhewouldhave spent lying inLydia’s arms,memorizing theshapeofherbodyandthesoundofhervoiceandthepeacefuldelightofherlove,wereovernow.Thetwoworldsmerged…Heglancedupatthemirroragain.Atthethingthatstoodbehindhim.IfIseemorning.‘The telegraphy office at the embassy should bemanned.’He riffled the

stack of yellow foolscap with one hand. Even drastically condensed, theencoded notes covered twelve closely written pages. ‘I could send it fromheadquarters…’‘Those at the Post Office will also be working,’ returned the graf. And,

whenAsher looked across at him, he had gone to thewindow, peering outthrough the louvers at the lightless street. ‘I preferwheneverpossible tobeanonymous.Menwouldrememberamessageofthislength,attheembassy,and– I shouldhope–at theheadquartersofyourArmy. Ihave,’headded,letting the curtain fall back over the shutter, ‘themoney to pay for such avolume.ToGeneralDelivery,inNewYork?’‘Sheshouldbetheretoday.Afterwards,’Asheradded,‘youcanwatchme

burnit.This–’helaidhishandonthemuchlarger,unrulypileofnotebooksandinvoices–‘aswell.’

‘Afterwards,’saidtheGraf,‘Iwilltakeit.All.’Byconcentrating,Ashercouldseehimmove,crossingfromthewindowto

stand behind his chair once more. Asher still wore three chains of silveraroundhisthroatandseveralmorearoundeachwrist,butknewtheywouldn’tdohimaparticleofgood.NotagainsttheMasterofPrague.‘You’llneedtofindatamechemistorpharmacist,likeBarvell,’hepointed

outatlength,‘orsomeonewho’sdoneresearchinorganicchemistry,tomakesenseofthem.Youmaynotfindthateasy,thesedays.’‘Thesedays,’repeatedtheGraf.‘Timeislong,Anglus.Andmenforget.’

HellerwasstillbesidethestepswhenLydiaandDonSimonturnedthecornerof the corridor.Hewas talking tooldMrGoldhirsch, the tall Jewnodding.‘And it is true,goodsir,’ sheheard theoldmansay inhis thicklyaccentedGerman,‘thatthemenofMalareka,VodusekandSlavik,wereintheGermanArmy.MalarekaliesontheGermansideofthelines.Foryourhelptome,IwillbegladtosaytotheAmericansthattheMareks,andtheAdamicfamily,fledwithmetoLemberg,tocomehere.Forsurelytherewillbeinvestigationwhenweland.’‘We’llgetthroughit,sir.’Hellerclappedhimonthearm.‘Themainthing

isforeveryonetosticktogetherandtellthesametale.’When the old man had left, Lydia stepped around the corner, and saw

Heller’s eyes widen with shock, even at that distance, at the sight of DonSimon.Oh,dear,hemustreallylookprettybad…Sheglanced sidelong at him, and had to admit that now, even after he’d

givenhimselfaninjectionofantiveninandstoppedshivering,hedidnotlooklikealivingman.Helookedlikesomethingthathadn’tbeenaliveforaverylongtime.Simon held out his hand to Heller, and said, in slightly old-fashioned

German, ‘Herr Heller? I am Don Simon Ysidro. Madame—’ he noddedinfinitesimally towardsLydia–‘tellsmethatyouarewillingtobeofhelp.’His eyes, like abysses of sulfur and salt,met theGerman’s blue ones, andHeller–suddenlypaleunderhistan–didnotspeak.Couldnotsay,Lydiaguessed,It’sridiculous.Orask,Whatareyou?OnlyafterDonSimonhadgone–bythenitwasnearlyteno’clock–did

HellerwhispertoLydia,‘Hewasnotoneoftheemigrants.’‘No.’‘Theysaid—’Hestopped,notabletosay,Theysaidtherewasavampire,

andwasithim?Shefelta littlesorryforhim,understanding–fromallshe

hadseenontheship,ofignoranceandprejudiceandthetwistedliestoldbythe power hungry – why he insisted with such doctrinaire rigor on thematerialistic view of the world. Jamie had never done so. And Jamie, sheknew, had had enough trouble, coming to completely believe that thecreaturesthathadexistedinthelegendshestudiedwere,infact,real.She said, gently, ‘You were right, Herr Heller. It was Vodusek who

inventedthevampirekills,togetridofamanwhosedemandsforthemoneyheowedhimhadruinedhim.Maybe–probably– toget intohiscabinandhelphimself to themoney in that suitcase, inall theconfusion.DonSimonhadnothingtodowiththat.’Shebrieflyclaspedhishand.‘ButtherearemorethingsinHeavenandEarththanaredreamtofinyourphilosophy,Comrade.Ormine.’Andquicklysheclimbedthestair,hershoulderthrobbing,herwholeframe

shiveringatthethoughtofhowlongshe’dbeenbelowdecks.Waitingeverysecond to feel the jarring explosion of a torpedo gutting theCity ofGold’sbowels,condemningthemalltodeath.And I have the right to goup toBDeckwhenever Iwant, she reminded

herself.What about all these women down here who have to wait for theimpact,beforetheycanflee?ItfeltlikethelongestnightofLydia’slife.She spent it on the Promenade, dressed in her warmest clothing, with

Mirandaathersidewrappedupinablanket.Ifweendupinalifeboattherewon’tberoomforanything.MrsMarigold,clutchedinMiranda’sarms,was tuckedinsidearabbit-fur

muffthatMrsAllenhadgivenher‘tokeepherwarm’.Icywindlashedacrossthelightlessocean;cloudshidthesmallestglimmerofmoonorstars.Theyweren’t alone.AuntLouise, firm in her conviction that noGerman

submarinewoulddaretorpedoanAmericanliner,slept–presumablysoundly,andinherflannelnightgown–inherstateroom,aftergivingLydiaalectureaboutthedangersofthecoldnightaironherchild(andtellinghertotakeherglassesoff).ButMrsTilcottwas there, swaddled insableandfrothingwithindignationatPresidentWilsonforpermittingAmericanstofindthemselvesin such a predicament. Likewise swathed in fur, her son poodled back andforthbetweenhismotherandLydiawithoffersofhotcocoa(providedgratisbytheWillowGrove)andextrablankets.Princess Gromyko appeared, bundled in chinchilla and equipped with a

deck of cards. ‘There is absolutely no reason not to amuse ourselveswhilewaiting for Armageddon, darling.’ Her entire suite accompanied her,Ossolinska carrying Monsieur and Madame snugly arrayed in warm littleknitted coats. At least five people – with varying degrees of subtlety and

discretion–cameupfromCDeck toPrincessGromyko’scardparty toaskMadame Izora if they would, in fact, be torpedoed in the night. Lydia,watchingovertherailasthedistressflaresburstinlongtrailsofredorgreeninthesullendarkness,wasnevercloseenoughtohearwhattheseerreplied.OtherFirstClasspassengerscameupfromthelowertierofthePromenade

also, includingpoorMrHipray,who spent anuncomfortablenight standingguardoverthelockedandsealeddoorofhisdeceasedemployer’ssuite.WhenLydia tookhimacupofcocoa,heunbentenough to tellher thatyoungMrCochran was staying with his widowed aunt in her stateroom on the deckbelow, playing two-handed pinochle and discussing the provisions of herhusband’swill.Sometime aftermidnight, Lydia renderedMiranda over into Ellen’s care

(MrsFrushandPrebbleweredownonthelowerFirstClassPromenade)andwentintoherstateroom.Deliberatelyclosinghermindtowhatshewasdoing,she unlocked her big steamer trunk and removed everything from it,distributing dresses, nightgowns, toiletries, medical journals, gloves, coats,and stockings among her other luggage, and concealing what couldn’t becrammedintotheotherbags,underthebedandinthecupboard.Thephialsshe’dtakenfromBarvell’sworkroomshewrappedinashawlandtuckedinonecornerofthetrunk,andleftthetrunkitselfstandinghalf-open,itskeyonthenearbynightstand.ReturningtothePromenade,sheleftnotonlythedoorofherbedroom,but

thedoorofthesuiteunlocked.EverysoulIhavekilled,Simonhadsaid,eachlifetaken,overtheyears…HowmanyotherswillhekillinAmerica?IfhemakesittoAmerica.Ifanyofusmakeit…

WhentheBritish linerFreedoniaappearedon thehorizonshortlyafterninethefollowingmorning,Lydia returned toherstateroomandfound the trunkclosedand locked.Shesecured its twooutside locks,andpocketed thekey.As she had suspected would be the case, First Class passengers werepermitted tobringone trunkaboard theFreedonia.Reliefvessels–CaptainWinstanleyreassuredtheassembledFirstClasspassengersinthediningroomas theFreedonia neared them – would be dispatched from New York themoment First Officer Theale stepped aboard the rescuing vessel and couldwireless the American Shipping Line’s offices. They should all have theremainderoftheirluggage(andtheirservants)withintheweek.Monsieur and Madame were included in the rescues taken aboard the

Freedonia.

TheFreedonia, it transpired, had been delayed for several hours in hermissionofassistanceto thestrandedCityofGoldbyadetour, to rescue thecrewof a surfaced and disabledGerman submarine,whose captain, secondofficer, and three able seamen had inexplicably taken a fire axe to theirvessel’sgenerator.Forty-eighthourslater,theovercrowdedlinerputinatNewYork.

TWENTY-NINE

IttookLydiamostofWednesdaynight,thetwenty-firstofMarch,todecodeJamie’sthreelongtelegrams,afteradayofargumentswithAuntLouisethatleftherexhaustedandclosetotearsofnervousdread.FromtheFreedoniashehadexchangedwirelessmessageswiththehouseagentrecommendedtoherbyMrTilcott,andBarclay’sBankinNewYork.WithTilcott’shelpshehadmadearrangementstolease–andoccupyimmediately–aslightlyrundowntownhouseonCharlesStreetintheGreenwichVillagedistrictofthecity,andhad wired instructions back to Mr Mortling on the City of Gold that herluggagebesentdirectlytherewhenthegreatlinerfinallylanded.AuntLouise,whohadtakenanapartmentattheOsborne(furnished)before

leavingEngland,wasbothscandalizedandfuriousatbeingdeserted. ItwasallLydiacoulddotogetfreeofher,andtakeacab–accompaniedbyCaptainPalfrey,Miranda,Ellen,andhertrunk–firsttoGeneralDelivery,thento13CharlesStreet.During the first night she’d spent on theFreedonia – at thecost of a hundred-dollar go-away bribe to the two friendly young ladies inSecondClasswho’dagreedtosharetheirstateroomwithherandMiranda–shehadobtained fromDonSimon thenameofa lawyer inNewYorkwhocouldbetrustedtohirereliableservants.Thesightofhim,whenshe’dhelpedhimsitupinhertrunk,nearlymade

herweep, fromgrief and shockandanguish. Itwashewhobroughtup thenameofthelawyer,inavoicenearlyinaudiblewithexhaustionandpain.‘Thisisn’tthetimetobetalkingofhiringservants!’she’dexclaimed,and

he’dmadeasmallgesturewithfingerslikeadeadbird’sclaws.‘Youwillneedthem,Lady.’Hecouldbarelygetthewordsout.‘IdoubtI

shalllastuntilthen—’Hewasdying,shethought,andthen,hediedlongago.Shecouldonlygrip

hishand.‘Ofcourseyou’lllast…’He shook his head, and she thought, he chose this. With small doses of

antivenin,hemighthavemadeit.Shemadeherself soundcheerful. ‘Youdon’tmean thereare vampires in

NewYork?’whichbrought the smallest touchof a smile tohismouth.She

hadlongsuspectedthatanetworkexistedoflivingmenandwomenwillingtohireouttheirservices–noquestionsasked–tothosewhohuntedthenight.‘Iknownot.’Hisscarsstoodoutlividonafaceghastlywithagony.Where

thesleevesofhisshabbyshirtwerepushedback,shesawthathishandsandwrists were bleeding where his claws had torn at his own flesh. ‘ThisMadameQuarterpace…recommendedtome…MasterofVenice.Wespoke…uponatime…ofAmerica.’Anotherwaveofagonymadehimshudder,clingingtoherhands.‘…made arrangements,’ hewhispered, in a voice barely louder than the

scratch ofmice feet on tile, ‘… transfer funds… to you.’And his fingersfumbledwiththesignetringthatlayloose,now,aroundthebone.This was the first Lydia had heard, that Don Simon’s intricate net of

financialtrustsandcorporationsextendedtotheNewWorld.‘I’lltakecareofit,’shepromised,andgrippedhishands.Hereturnedher

clasp,andshehadtowearglovesthefollowingday,tohidethefingermarkswherehisclutchnearlybrokeherbones.When,on thenightof the twenty-second, shedescended to thedarksub-

cellaroftheCharlesStreethouse,shefeltnearlyillwithdreadthatshewouldopenthetrunktofindonlydustandbones.Andwouldthatbemoremerciful?Sheunlockedthedoorwayof thecrypt

(whatonearthdidanyonestoredownhere?)andstoodforatime,lookingatthelockedtrunkinitscenter,andfingeringthesignetringonherhand.Itwas,infact,whatsheknewsheshoulddo.Everyway–anyway–that

shelookedatit,DonSimonwasavampire.HehadnothuntedontheCityofGold,notonlybecausehecouldnotconcealhowhelooked,butbecausehewaswellawarethatevenThirdClasspassengersweretalliedandaccountedfor.OntheFreedonia,hehadbeentoofargoneeventogetabout.Hereonland,inacityofthreemillionpeople–manyofthemsopoorthat

nobody would bother to investigate their deaths – to restore him to healthwouldbeas irresponsible,as reprehensible,as to turn looseapackof rabiddogsinthestreets.WhydoIeventhinkofit?PaniMarek’stearsseemedtostaintheshoulder

ofherdress.ThecriesofpoorMrsAdamic,andMrsPescariu,toringinherears.Ican’tdoit.Ishouldn’twantto.The fact that he was charming – the fact that she loved him – did not

changewhathewas.Norwhathewoulddo,whenhewasableonceagaintodeceivetheeyesandthemindsofhisvictims.In her hand she held the hypodermic syringe of the fluid on whose

manufactureshehadworkedthroughouttheafternoon.

It had taken her all the morning, to visit chemical supply houses andpurveyorsofscientificinstruments,andtolookupalchemicalsymbolsintheNewYork Public Library.Her head buzzed from lack of sleep and from adozencupsofcafénoir;everyboneinherbodyseemedtohurt.ShefeltlikeHenry Jekyll, likeDrMoreau orVictor Frankenstein, pottering over secretformulaewith the certain knowledge that herworkwould bring evil to theworld.If itworks, she thought,with a queer sense of detachment from her true

self.Itmightnot.Shedidn’tknowwhethershewouldbeglad,orsorry,ifitdidn’t.Theserumhadbeenperfectlystraightforward–giventherequirementsofthealchemicalvesselsandformulae–butinhisverybriefnote,Jamiehadwarned her that the notes had been sourced from an early phase of DrBarvell’swork.Andthiscoldlittlecylinderofsteelandglass,thatseemedsoheavyinher

hand,containedonlyherfirstattemptattheserum.It’sbeenfourdayssincehislastdoseoftheantivenin.Sincehe saved the livesof everyoneon that ship…over three thousand

people.Evenif–asshesuspected–heonlydidittosaveMiranda’slife,andmine

…I should go back upstairs. She pressed the worn gold of Don Simon’s

signetringtoherlips.Hershadow,bythewaveryglowofthegaslightinthestair, stretched into the little crypt and lay over the trunk, then disappearedbeyond into the blackness.Lock this door, have one of the servants – MrsQuarterpace had provided butler, housekeeper, cook and maid – make mesomesupper,gotobedinthatlovelyroomonthesecondfloor.Arrangetohavethisdoor,thisroom,brickedshuttomorrow.Andafteranotherdayor two,getMirandafromPrincessGromyko–she

had not dared consign her daughter to Aunt Louise’s care, knowing howdeterminedherauntwastobringher,Lydia,toheel–and…Andwhat?Forget?UponthearrivaloftheFreedonia,wordhadsweptthevesselthattheTsar

had abdicated, that Russia had become a republic. The Princess NataliaNikolaievnahadshakenherhead,asifinexasperation;Lydiahadaskedher,‘Willyougoback?’‘Back?’Her IllustriousHighness had seemed startled at the thought. ‘To

what?ToberuledbythosepeasantsintheDuma?’Andforthefirsttime,truesadnesshadfilledhereyes.

‘Warornowar, republicorno republic,’ she said softly, ‘it is gone.TheRussiaIgrewupin.TheworldthatIknew.Thatmyhusbandknew,andmychildren–thatmymotherknew.Thingsastheywere–thingsasIknewthem–lovedthem…theywillneverbethesame.Theywillnevercomeback.Theonlywayformetowalkisforward.’Stroll in theparkwith theprincess?Accept invitations fromMrsTilcott?

HelppoorCaptainPalfreysearchNewYorkforColonelSimon?WaittohearfromJamie.IfIeverhear.Sheclosedhereyes,rememberinghisvoice,thetouchofhishand.Thefirst

timetheireyeshadmet,andhe’dsmiledather.Thelasttimethey’dkissed.Themanshehad lovedsincehergirlhood, themanwhose loveforherwassteadyasrock.NotapaleelusivechimerawithonefootalreadyinHell.At the conclusionof the long transcripts of noteshadbeen a single final

communication:

Leavingtoday.Willseeyounextyear.Forever–J.

Destroythelaboratoryupstairs,shethought.Burnthenotes.AlongwiththeantidotehadbeenwhatwassupposedtobetheformulaforthepoisonBarvellandCochranhadgivenDonSimonaftertrappinghim–givenitspercentageof silver chloride and aconite, it probablywould kill a vampire (or prettymuchanyoneelse,shereflected)–andthetemporaryantivenin,thechemicalleashthathadmadehimCochran’sslave.Butwhat,shethought,wastheuseofthat?Tokeephimasmyslave?No.Just…No.Sheclosed thedoor, locked it–double locked it–andwentbackup the

stair.Halfwayupitsheturnedaround,unlockedthedoor,andenteredthevault.Heshouldhavebeenawakewhensheopenedthetrunk,butthewax-white,

twistedbodydidn’tmove.Only,whenshetouchedhisarm,shecouldfeelhismuscles rigidandshuddering,as ifhewerebeingeatenup fromthe inside,nerve-threadbynerve-thread, cell bycell.Ashehadbeen transformed, shethought,threeandahalfcenturiesago,bytheinitialcontaminationwhichhadalteredhim–nerve-threadbynerve-thread,cellbycell–intovampirefleshtobeginwith.Hadithurtlikethis,then?Therewasnorealneedtoseekavein,sincehisheartdidnotbeat,butshe

neverthelessinjectedthefluidintothecarotidarteryinhisthroat.She satbesidehim fornearlyanhour,duringwhichevenhis eyelidsdid

notmove.Then,slowly,hewentlimp,histremblingstopped.

After another hour she got up from the damp stone of the floor, left thevault,andlockedthedoorbehindher.

Shegavehimanother injectionon thesecondnight.By thehardnessof theflesharoundthefirstpuncturemark,shecouldtellthattheserumhadn’tevendispersedintothetissue.Whatthatmeant,shehadnoidea.She barely knew how she’d spent the day. She had slept like a dead

woman,eatenalittlelunch(MrsQuarterpacehadfoundheranexcellentcook–ifthewomanworksforvampires,whydotheycarewhatfoodtasteslike?),and went uptown to the Belcourt, to take Miranda to play in the park.‘Darling,whatareyoudoing toyourself?’demandedtheprincess,whenthelittle girl dashed away to explore the cast-iron bandstand at the end of theMall.‘Youlookghastly–don’ttellmethathandsomeCaptainPalfreyisthatexigeant…’AndLydiahad shakenherhead. ‘I’ll beall right,’ she said. ‘But if I can

trustyoutolookafterMirandaforanotherdayortwo…’‘It will be my delight, my sweet! We have already been invited to the

birthdaypartyofElenyaTrubetskoy–cousinsofmine,dearest,andtheyhavetaken an apartment at the Apthorp – and that tedious M’sieu Tilcott hastelephonedIdon’tknowhowmanytimes,askinghowhemightreachyou.’He is dead, she thought now, looking down into the vampire’s still face.

Butshegavehimthesecondinjectioninanycase,andsatbesidehim.Twohourslaterhishandstirred,andwhenshetookit–coldasdeath–he

whispered,‘Mistress?’‘Idon’tknowifthiswillwork,’shesaid.Undertheblack-bruisedlids,hiseyesmovedalittle.‘Ionlywantitover,’

hemurmured. ‘I am inHell, and toHell Iwill go formy sins. To be thusforever.Butthankyou.’Andthen,afteratime,‘Leavingyouwillbehardestofall.’She had dreamed of him during the morning just passed – dreamed of

searching through a hedge maze, hearing him scream in the distance butunabletocometohim.Whenfinallyshereturnedtoherroomandlaydown,shedidnotsleepagainuntiltherewaslightinthesky.Thatmorningshedidnotdreamatall.On Friday, the damaged City of Gold had been towed into New York

Harbor,with its cargo of emigrants –ThirdClass passengers had not ratedtransporton theFreedonia, thoughLydia guessed they had at least had thebenefitoftheelegantrationsofsalmon,shrimpandlambthattheireconomicbetters had left behind in the pantries. In the morning, Lydia had CaptainPalfrey escort her to City Hall, where she gave her own testimony to the

police commissioner and the immigration officials regarding the deaths ofPavlina Jancu,LuziaPescariu, andKemalAdamic. ‘I think,’ sheexplained,‘that the young people involvedmust have seen something that could havebeenconnectedwith theGermansaboteurswhowereonboard:ThirdClasspassengerVodusek,andpossiblyMrSlavikaswell.’She gave further opinions concerning the connection of the Third Class

murderers with Kimball and his men, being careful to exonerate SpenserCochran from any suspicion of connection with either the murders or thesubsequentplantingofapipebombintheship’sengines:‘Believeme,yourHonor,IdinedwithMrCochranmanytimesonthevoyageandtheideathathewouldhavehadanythingtodowithsabotageisabsurd!’OliverCochranandhislawyer,alsointhecommissioner’sofficewithafile

of injunctions and affidavits the size of an unabridged dictionary, lookedmollified,andagreed,laterintheday,tosellLydiatheentirecontentsofhisuncle’s–andLouisBarvell’s–libraries.Butthewholeoftheday–forshewasalsocalledtogiveevidenceatthe

Immigration Offices on Ellis Island in the afternoon – Lydia felt as ifsomeone else were talking through her mouth. She was familiar with thefeeling. She’d mastered the arts of appearing interested, intelligent, andbusinesslikewhile ready to screamorweepduringherLondon season, andeventhespectacleof thePrincessGromyko’sreunionwithMadameIzora–whohadrefusedtoabandonherspiritcabinetandhadthusremainedontheCity ofGold – did not lighten hermood. ‘Andreas Paulsen’ – a.k.a.GeorgHeller–hadsimplyvanished,themomenttheshiphadreacheditsberth.When Captain Palfrey began to speak of Colonel Simon in the cab,

speculating desperately about where his mysterious employer might behiding, Lydia could only say in a small, calm voice, ‘Please. Can we talkaboutthistomorrow?’He’d taken one look at her face, offered to take her for sweets to

Delmonico’s, and then, at her carefully phrased request, told the motorcabdrivertoreturntoCharlesStreet.‘We’llfindhim,’hepromised,claspingherhandasheguidedher to thegreen-painteddoor. ‘Ipromiseyou.Youknowwhatheis–he’sinhiding,uptosomethingbrilliant.He’llgetintouchwithoneortheotherofuswhenhe’sready.’Lydiamanagedtoclosethedoorbetweenthembeforeshewept.Climbing quickly to her room, she lay down and cried, before falling

almostinstantlytosleep.Whenshedescendedtothecryptthatnight,thoughthedoorwaslockedas

shehadleftit,shefoundthetrunkopen,andempty.DonSimonYsidrowasgone.

THIRTY

The troop-train from Lemberg to Brest-Litovsk averaged an hour’s travelbeforeitwaspulledover,tolettrainsofsuppliesorammunition–ortravelinggenerals–ornothingatall–passby;sometimesitremainedonthesidingforthree hours or more. Then it chugged on, sometimes for another hour,sometimesforhalfthattime.ThecarswereunheatedandwhathadbeenFirstClasshadlongagobeentakenoverbyregimentsofLudendorff’sArmyandtheAustriansignalcorps,mensleepinginexhaustionontheseats,thefloors,in the corridors. Therewas no coal for the heaters,which,Asher reflected,wasjustaswell.Theoneinhisowncompartmentwassoseriouslydamagedthathedoubteditcouldbelitwithoutkillingeveryoneinthecrammedspacefromcarbonmonoxidegas.But the fug of crowded bodies, of suffocating cigarette smoke and dirty

uniforms,didlittletopiercethebone-breakingcoldandhewonderedif thiswouldbehis fate: to escapebeingmurderedbyavampire inParis, only tofreezetodeathinatrainonhiswaybacktotheEasternFront.Hewouldlaugh,hesupposed,ifhewasn’tsotired.‘Youareausefulman,’theGrafSzgednyhadsaidtohim,onthestepsof

the Central Telegraph Office at four thirty Monday morning. Cold drizzlesoaked throughAsher’s greatcoat – formerly one ofAugustin’s, since he’ddisposed of the German one in the alley behind the golden vampire’sapartmentblock–andchilledhimtothemarrow.‘Onedoesnotwastesuchservants.’‘Iwillneverbeaservantofyours.’Asherwasbone-tired,hisheadaching

afterhoursofwriting,concentration,andexplanation–againandagain–toasuccessionoftelegraphers.Onlythefactthatithadbeentheearlyhoursofthemorninghadpreventedhim,hewascertain,frombeinglynchedbyaqueueofirate customers,whowouldhavebeenbehindhimat anyother hourof theday.AtthatmomenthehadscarcelycaredwhethertheGrafkilledhimornot.‘Anglus…’Thevampiregrinned likeawolf. ‘I’mcertainyousworeyou

would never do Simon’s bidding either. Or that of that tedious monsterLionel,whorulesLondon.Andyouhaveservedbothinyourturn.’

Thesoul-strippedeyesheldhis,likeasteelbladecuttingintowhatwasleftofAsher’sownsoul.‘Yousworenomoretobeaservantofyourking.’TheGraf’shawk-nosedfacewasshadowedfromtheelectric lightsabove

thetelegraphofficedoorbythepeakedcapofaFrenchcolonel;thedispatchcaseathissidebulgedwithBarvell’snotes.Asherwondered,tiredly,whatusehewouldorcouldmakeofthese,inthedaysafterthewarended,ifthewareverended…Inthetelegraphofficehe’dglimpsedheadlinesabout thenewprovisional

government in Russia pledging to continue the fight against the CentralPowers, and he guessed that both British and American funds were at thebackofthatdecision.AttimesitseemedtohimthatallofcivilizationwouldbesuckeddownintotheblackmudoftheFront,todieoftyphus,poisongas,anddespair.SzgednyhadwalkedwithhimtotheGaredel’Est,throughthebitterdamp

ofthepre-dawnhours.‘IunderstandMadameElyséeisbackinParis,andifyou’regoingtobeofusetomeinthefutureitwon’tdotohaveherfindyou.’At the station canteen, over watery ersatz coffee and something that wassupposedtobesoup,Asherhadwonderedwhatthewar’sendwouldbringtotheUndead.WouldSzgedny’spowerextendfromPragueoverthepulpedruinof Eastern Europe?Would the other vampires – glutted likemaggots fromyearsoffeedingattheFront–havethepowertofighthim?WouldAugustinindeedtakeoverBordeauxorfindsomewaytooustElyséefromherruleinParis?WouldtheprovisionalgovernmentofRussiamanagetoholditselftogether

in the face of what sounded like some of the most horrendous factionalfightingAsherhadeverencountered?WouldGermanyinfactbringBritaintoitskneeswithstarvation?Andwhat

wouldshedemandatthepeacetable?OrwouldAmerica come charging in and prolong the fighting, then rule

overtheblood-soakedshamblesthatremained?AtquarterpastoneonMondayafternoonhe’dfinallygottenonthemilitary

trainforVenice,andhadbeentraveling–orsittingonsidings–eversince.Attimeshepretendedtohimself–incloudeddreamsofexhaustion–that

thedaysinParishadinfactbeenspentwithLydia.Thatthey’deatenatcheaprestaurants,drunkbadbeerinthecafésofMontparnasse,laintogetherattheHotelSt-SeurinlongintothoseicymorningslisteningtothechimesofNotreDame.Memoriespieceduplikeapatchedgarmentfromothertimes:thathe’dbeen with her, that he’d waked to see her face, relaxed with sleep, on thepillowbesidehim.Thatthey’dwalkedalongtheSeine,andseenonthebarrentreesthefirstdustingofthegreenofspring.

Itmade,hereflected–nowashetriedtofindamorecomfortablewaytodozesittingupbetweentwosmelly,exhaustedAustrianprivates–absolutelynodifference.HewasheadedbacktotheblackpinewoodsofPripetMarshes,to themenwhoknewhimasMajorvonRabewasser.To themenhewouldbetraytotheirdeathswhenhereceivedorderstodoso.Atleast,asfarashecouldtell,shehadarrivedinAmericasafe.OratleasttheCityofGoldhadn’tbeentorpedoed.Thatheknewabout…Heclosedhiseyes.Itwouldbeayearormorebeforehelearnedwhether

shewasdead.Whethershe’dbeenabletosaveYsidro.Whetherthetelegramshad reached her at all, and whether she’d outsmarted Spenser Cochran’sscheme.‘James.’He looked up. Don Simon Ysidro stood in the doorway of the

compartment.Hewasclothedasarailwayporter,thecompartmentwastidyandclean(andempty),andAsherknewthiswasadream.Heasked,‘IsLydiaallright?’Thevampiresmiled.‘Sheiswell,’hesaid.Helookedashealwaysdid:a

youngmaninhislatetwenties,longwispyhair,paleasivory,hangingtohisshoulders.Coldyelloweyeslikeawearydemon’s.Hemusthavesurvived.‘Andyourself?’‘I,also.’ItwasSaturday,herecalled.‘DidLydiagetmytelegrams?’‘Shedid.Iammoredeeplyindebttobothofyou,thanIcaneversay.’‘Itakeityou’refree?’Ysidro inclined his head. ‘As you say.Mr Cochran suffered an accident

aboardship.Notofmydoing,’headded,liftingawhite-glovedhand.‘Noryetof Mistress Asher’s. We are safe – all three of us, for her execrable auntbroughtMissMirandaonthevoyageaswell—’Asher started up from his seat with such violence that he almost woke

himselffromhisdream.‘Alliswell.’Ysidrosignedhimtositagain,andAsherfelthisrealself,his

waking-world self, slide back down into exhausted slumber again. ‘We aresafeinNewYork.IknownotifIwillbeabletospeaktoyoulikethisagain.’Aslight frown tuggedathisbrows,andheshookawaysome thought. ‘ButsinceIcanstilldosotonight,Iwishedtotellyouthis.’Hemovedasiftostepbackintothecorridor–asiftostepbackoutofthe

dream – and Asher saw around him a secondary image, of the sleepingsoldiers,thefilthycompartment,thebrokenheater,thecold.Thefuture…

Ashersaid,‘Watchoverher.’Thevampireinclinedhishead.‘Totheendofmydays.’

LydiawentwiththePrincessGromykotothepromisedchildren’spartyattheBelcourtonSaturdaynight,and–toMiranda’sgratefuldelight–afterwardsbroughtherdaughterhomewithhertoCharlesStreet.Homewashowshehadalready begun to think of the tall, rambling mansion among GreenwichVillage’snarrowstreets.Through theevening, ashadalsobeen thecaseonthedaybefore,theterriblefeelingofseparatenesshadpersisted,thesenseofoperating her body, her words, and even her thoughts at a distance, like apuppeteer.DonSimonisinNewYork.Thethoughtcamebacktoher,againandagain.Hehaskilled.Probably several times, as ill ashewas.Asneedfulof the

healingthatonlyanother’sdeathcanbringavampire.Ihavekilled.Thebloodofthosevictimsisonmyhands.Shefeltsickwithcontemptatherownweakness.I’llneedtotellJamiethat.And,oneday,Miranda.Whenshetuckedthelittlegirlintobed–inthenightnurserywhichwould,

tomorrow,begracedwithayoungnursemaidfromNewOrleanswhomMrsTilcotthadrecommendedin thehighest terms–Miranda tookherhandandsaidsoftly,‘IdreamedaboutSimon,Mummy.’Lydia’sthroatclosed.‘Didyou?’‘Iaskedhimifhewasstillsick,andhesaid,Iwillbewell.’

Therewasagardenbehindthehouseoverlookedbyasortofbalconyoutsidethe window of Lydia’s bedroom. Stepping out onto that balcony, lookingdownintothewellofblackfogfromwhichthewetscentsofitstangledandovergrownfoliageroselikeagreat,primevalsigh,sheheardonthatsightheghostmurmur:Mistress…And thoughtshesawsomethingpalemovedownbelow, in theblackness

andthefog.Shealmostdidn’tgodown.The thought that shehad loosedhim inNew

Yorksickenedher.Shedidn’twanttoknow.Butshedid,andhewaswaitingforherattheendofthegarden.He’dacquiredeveningdress fromsomeplace–which fithimas if ithad

beentailoredforhim.Hisfacewasasithadbeenwhenfirstshe’dseenhim,beforeitsfleshhadbeengashedbythetalonsoftheMasterofConstantinopleinprotectingherlife.Beforehehadbeenshreddedwithpain.Beforehehadwhisperedtoher,Ionlywantitover…Remote,andbeautiful,andyoung.

Heremovedhisglove,andheldouthishand.Lydiashookherhead,closedherfist,knowingthathistouchwouldbewarm,asvampires’are,whentheyhavefed.Knowingthewarmthhadbeentakenfromsomeotherperson’slife.Somepersonoflittleworth–likePavlinaJancu,orKemalAdamic,orall

thoseProtestantshe’dkilledinhisearlydays.Somebodythatnoonewouldtraceoravenge.Knowingtheirsoulstobedamnedinanycase…Isthatpartoftheillusionthatvampirescast,thatkeepsmefromhatinghim

outrightforwhatheis?Forwhathedoes?But when her hand drew away he reached deliberately and clasped her

fingers,andhis–longandthinandclawedliketheDevil’s–werecoldasice,astheDevil’saresaidtobe.Startled,shelookedacrossintohiseyes,andhisyellowgazereflectedthe

lights of the house next door. ‘I have not fed,’ he said quietly, and for amoment he let her see him as hewas, scarred and skeletalwithin the longframeofmist-palehair.Thentheillusionwasback,elegantasasinglewhiteorchid.‘InFourthStreetjustnowIpassedagirl,withabasketofmousetrapsthat

she had been selling. I smiled at her, and she returned the smile, seeingnothing amiss. Last night, when I walked about the city making myarrangementsforaplacetostay,nonepointedatmeorcriedout.Thehungerremains,’headded. ‘But it is remote,and tingedwith…distaste. Iseemtohavecomethroughmyillness…changed.’Nerve-threadbynerve-thread,shethought.Cellbycell.‘AndtheArmyoftheDead?’‘Theyarewithmestill.Buttheynolongertormentmeastheydid–thus

providing the definitive answer, as my confessor would have said, to thequestionofwhetherGodismercifulorjust.’Hisvoicewasflippant,buttherewasasomberstillnessinhiseyes.Shehadnoanswertothat,ortoanythingthathehadsaid.‘What…areyou,then?’sheaskedintime.‘I know not. Not what I was.’ He shook his head. ‘Our James and his

colleaguesspeakoftheUndeadasblood-drinkingghosts.Withoutthehunt–withoutthekill–whatamIthen?Merelyaghost,likethevoicesthatpipeinoldhouses,untiltimeandtheconvenienceofachangingworldsweepthoseruinsaway?Iamstillflesh.’Withafingertipheproddedhisarmexperimentally.‘Icantricktheminds–

theperceptions–ofstrangers,aseverIdid.Myfleshretainsitsweaknesstosilver –’ he took the glove fromhis left hand andheld up the two smallestfingers, to showwhere thecolorless fleshhadbeensavagelyburned– ‘as I

ascertained just now in your dining room, ere coming out to the garden. Ipresumetodaylightaswell.‘LastnightIspoketoJamesinhisdreams,butcouldnotdosotonight.Yet

IhadnotroubleenteringthemindofourCaptainPalfrey,andconvincinghimthathe’dglimpsedmeinacrowdonFifthAvenue.Iexpecthewillcometoyou tomorrow, effervescing with the news. Whether this is an effect ofdistance,orofthepoison,orofthenewmoonforthatmatter,Iknownot,norwhetherthiswillalterwithtime.NordoIknowhowlongthisgrace–ifgraceitbe–willlast,norwhatstatewillfollowit.NearlyeveryotherUndeadthatIhaveeverencounteredolderthanmyselfhasbeenmad.’He turned his hand over slowly, looking at the burned flesh, the demon

claws,theunhealedgasheswherehehadtornathisownwristsinagony.‘IntruthIknownotwhatIamnow,Mistress,norwhatisnativetome.’Hisvoicewasexpressionlessasever,awhisperlikethestirringofthenew-

leavedbranchesinthedarkgarden, likethefar-offoccasionalconversationsheardinthefoggydarkoftheunknowncityaroundthem.ButLydiaheardinthebarewordsthenote,notoffear,butoflonelinessincalculable;thedamnedsoul cut off not only fromGod, but from the other damned aswell.As if,reachingHell,hehadfounditsendlessbolgiasemptyanddark.Sheansweredhim,‘Youaremyfriend.’Hiscoldfingerstightenedonhers.‘Friendindeed,’hesaidsoftly,‘tohave

ledmetothisplace.’‘Was it the poison that did this?’ she asked. ‘Or the combination of the

poisonandtheantivenin?Orthelengthoftimethatitwasinyoursystem?IfitcanfreetheUndeadoftheneedtohunt…’‘Isuspect,rather,’twouldkillthemintheprocess.Andfewindeedwould

evendesire tobeother thanwhat theyare,notwere itgiven themfreeandwithoutpainorconsequence.‘Wetoughenasweage,Mistress.HadIbeenyoungeramongtheUndead,I

doubtIwouldhavesurvivedthesepastfivedays.BeassuredIwouldneverhaveundertakensuchaprocess,hadIhadanychoiceinthematter.’‘Doyoufeelallright?’SherecalledwhathehadsaidtoMiranda:Iwillbe

well.He thought about it. ‘Oddly, yes.Disconcerted. Butmuch the same.’He

drewonhisglovesagain.‘Awareofthechange,butnotcertainwhatitmeans.Itreaduntroddenground,Lady.IthinkIshallmissthe…theintensityofthekill, yet I amnot sure that Iwouldevenbecapableof feeling sucha thingnow.CertainlyIhavenodesiretoriskre-awakeningtheArmyoftheDead.ButastowhatIam…’‘Whatdoyouwanttobe?’

And he raised her hand, with its signet ring of gold, to his lips. ‘Yourfriend.’‘Haveyouahousehereinthecity?’‘Ido.Ishallshowit toyoupresently,whenIhavepurchasedfurbishings

forit,andteatoofferyou.WhenchanceoccursIshallsendformybooks–ghost or vampire, I remain a child of darkness in this new world, neitherlivingnordead,andthenightspromiselong.Willyouremain?’‘Ithinkso.Atleastuntilthewarisover–andiftheUnitedStatesplansto

joinin,thewayeveryonewassayingonthevoyagethattheywill,itwouldbeevenlesssafenowtotrytocrossback.Jamie—’Shebrokeoff.‘’TisalongwaytoRussia,Lady,’saidthevampire.‘Godonlyknowswhat

is coming to that unhappy land ere theWar is done.Yet I think,were truegrieftocometoJames,Iwouldknow…as,Isuspect,wouldyou.’‘I’d like to think so.’Lydiaheard the shakiness inhervoice, sighed, and

straightenedhershoulders,asshehadwhenshe’dboardedtheCityofGold.Likeawomanreadyingherselftocrossanarrowandraillessbridge.Fromtheold-fashioned cobblestones ofCharles Street amotorcar honked its horn inthefog.Awispofconversationpassedbytherearwallofthegarden,YiddishorRussian,accompaniedbytheclatterofapushcart’swheelsandthesmellofoysters and steam. Down the street at a cellar club, music drifted forth,Americanjazz,clearandwailingandsad.Lydiathought,forthefirsttime,I’minNewYork.I’minAmerica.For the past ten days she had been so preoccupied, sowretched, and so

frightenedforherchildthatshehadmovedfromoneactiontothenextalmostautomatically.Nowall thethingsshehadseenanddoneandsaid–thepalespring-green in Central Park, the variegated crowds around City Hall, thestartlinggrandeurofthattoweringdull-greencopperstatueintheharbor(onlyinAmerica!reflectedLydia,thoughMirandahadbeenenchantedatthesight)–alltheseseemedtofallintoplaceinhermind.I’minAmerica.Andthisismynewhome.WithMirandaasleepupstairs.Safe.She said, ‘We both tread untrodden ground, my friend. Jamie—’ She

stoppedherselfagain.Idon’tknow,nobodyknows…‘IthinkNataliawasright,’shewentonslowly,‘inthattheworldweknew

–theworldwegrewupin…Whateverhappens,intheWar,orafter…It’sgone. Itwillbeanewworld there, too.Things thewayweknewthemwillneverbethesame,andI’m…I’mnomoresurethanyouare,aboutwhatI’llbe,oryou’llbe,oranythingwillbe,inthetimethatliesahead.’

‘Whoamongusis?’Againheraisedherhandtohislips,pale-yelloweyesgleaminginthedarkness.‘Neverisalongtime,Mistress.Andeverstretchesaheadforusall.Weneedseenomorebeforeusthanwhateachday–eachnight–shallbring.Perhapsthetimehascome,formetowritemymemoirs.’Thenhemeltedintothefog,andwasgone.

FOOTNOTES

CHAPTERNINE

1SeeDarknessonhisBones

CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX

2SeeTheKindredofDarkness