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Something was wrong. Dracula was not afraid. Dracula was fear.
Von Stalhein stood beside him at the front observation port, the Graf surveying the battle below. For his part von Stalhein watched the drama unfolding thirty feet away at the controls, Strasser shouting in panic at Robur. The Kapitän’s voice grew increasingly shrill: “We must climb!”
Robur, enthroned in the command chair, ignored him. The Graf’s man, meanwhile, took notice, and went to intervene. Von Stalhein sensed the violence in him even before Hardt pulled his pistol, aimed it at Strasser, and shot the Kapitän in the leg.
“We shall keep to our course,” Hardt announced, as Strasser screamed and writhed on the floor. The Graf did not turn to look. “We are all brave men, are we not?”
Airmen closed around the Kapitän, helping him up. Vampire blood welled from his wound. The mouth-watering stench of it filled von Stalhein’s nose, and for a moment his attention was only on Strasser, the blood haze threatening to close in upon him.
Which was how he missed the approach of another young airman, right up until that airman spoke. He said, in English: “I’d take us higher, if I were you. I promise you every bullet in this pistol is silver.”
Von Stalhein wrenched around in shock.
Standing before him was the same British ace he’d sent plummeting to his death weeks before, whole and apparently well. James Bigglesworth, in the flesh.
Holding the Graf at gunpoint.
Bigglesworth had positioned himself so that the men at the controls couldn’t see the gun in his hand, and spoke low enough that only von Stalhein and Dracula heard him. “Order them to take the ship higher,” he repeated. “Fall back behind German lines. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but if you think I’ll let you bring this monstrosity down on top of the Tommies below . . .”
Behind him the chaos continued, growing in volume until von Stalhein was forced to split his attention. Robur roared for the crew to hold their course, and applied himself to the organ; Hardt spoke of bringing the Kaiser victory with their lives. No one paid any heed to the trio at the gondola’s bow.
Outside, another shapeshifter went down in a comet of flame. Von Stalhein knew it was von Emmelman from the size. The flier struck the ground and exploded, a flame-orange burst among black trees.
Dracula turned slowly from the fire-blotched darkness. His face was frozen into a staid white mask, but when his gaze fell on Bigglesworth’s pistol von Stalhein glimpsed the same tell-tale shiver he’d caught before. Impossible, as the earlier tremor had been; for the Graf von Dracula to be cowed by a newly-turned vampire was unthinkable, against all the laws of the unnatural.
The Graf spoke. “Leutnant von Stalhein.” The evenness of the words seemed to cost him. “Remove this man from my presence.”
“Don’t even think about it.” Bigglesworth twitched the gun up before von Stalhein could do more than tense. “Even a dying man can pull a trigger. Do as I say!” Then he did a double take, and looked again at von Stalhein. Recognition flickered across his face. “And the Leutnant and I are already acquainted, unless I’m much mistaken. He can tell you just what I’m capable of when I’m moments from death.”
Von Stalhein let out a hiss. Bigglesworth was correct, of course: no amount of vampiric swiftness would make him faster than a fired bullet. Even if he pounced now, it would take only a twitch for Bigglesworth to end the Graf.
Something large impacted the front observation port. All three of them flinched.
The Graf glanced back at the spiderweb cracks spreading through the window, then focused again on the gun. His lips moved, and for a moment he seemed on the verge of acquiescing to Bigglesworth’s demand.
The viewport exploded inward. Whatever the Graf might have said was lost in gunfire and breaking glass, a surge of cold air showering them with shards. Von Stalhein hunched against the sting, turning his head to the side; Bigglesworth threw a hand up to shield his face.
Around them the Attila shuddered, something slamming into it from above. Robur screamed, and the metal struts of the hull screamed with him, their tortured grinding joining the notes he wrung from the organ.
Bigglesworth’s demand had come too late: they were going down.
Back by the controls Hardt kicked in an observation port, saluted, and stepped out the hole. Several crew members followed, plunging towards the treetops five hundred feet below. Wind whipped through the gondola, and von Stalhein’s wings twitched partway open, instinct demanding that he free himself from the ship’s confines. Glass shook out of his fur.
And that was when Bigglesworth said: “Oh, damn. You’re not him at all.”
Everything seemed to crystalize in that moment. The Graf’s strange orders, his fear, his lack of a powerful aura . . . Von Stalhein had thought it strange that the man was so unprepossessing, after hearing so much said of the Graf’s powerful presence, but he’d taken this merely as a sign of exaggerated reputation; Dracula, after all, had the best propagandists in Europe.
The alternative—that the Graf with them was an impostor—had never even entered his mind.
Yet the moment Bigglesworth said it von Stalhein could see that it was true, countless minor oddities connecting violently into a single terrible whole. The Dracula before them was a ruse, and the Britisher had seen right through it, while JG1 had permitted themselves to be used.
The first of the big explosions came, discharging a foul smell through the gondola. The second followed. Outside the broken viewport von Stalhein saw half a dozen fliers vanish in a ball of flame, gone in an instant. Another, nearer explosion swallowed fleeing Camels and shapeshifters alike.
Below them the forest was bright as daylight, the Attila a burning meteor making its descent in slow motion. Onboard fires spread, running along walkways, climbing ropes, chasing airmen. Only Robur and Strasser remained at their posts, Robur still bashing away at the keyboard and Strasser gone stone-faced in preparation to go down with his ship.
Bigglesworth had backed off, and was looking frantically for some route of escape. It was evident he didn’t relish a repeat of how their last encounter had ended. He was wingless and flightless without his machine, powerless against the hand of fate.
Dracula—the impostor—drew himself up, as if readying to issue some great command. The man had great theatrical poise, if not the true Graf’s mantle of dread.
The gondola trembled like a dry leaf, shaking apart with each explosion.
Von Stalhein’s orders, impressed upon him at the Château de Malinbois, were to protect the Graf. In the unlikely event that circumstances should become dire aboard the Attila he was to evacuate the Graf to the ground—but, it had been made clear, only if there truly remained no other choice.
That time had plainly come. But the man before him was not the Graf, and enough of JG1 had already died for this monstrous pantomime.
Red-tinged fury surged within von Stalhein. He could not see whether any fliers remained in the sky. Surely the Baron, at least, still flew—and yet from where von Stalhein stood he might have been the last, the rest of Germany’s aces squandered on this single catastrophic assault. That Condor squadron was equally decimated offered him little solace, the crude annihilation of such skilled foes rousing only disgust.
Yet one of their British aces still lived. Twenty feet down the length of the gondola Bigglesworth clung to an open viewport, looking between the ground and and the encroaching flames.
Von Stalhein’s lone worthy opponent, his unfinished kill. The victory that had eluded him.
The thought of one who flew so ably dying a helpless death in the air felt like an insult, not to the man himself but to all who took to the sky.
In the time that a warm man’s heart took to beat, von Stalhein made his decision.
He lunged, seized Bigglesworth in his claws, and left the impostor to die.
*
He opened his wings as he burst free of the gondola, catching the swell of turbulence that swirled up around the Attila. Bigglesworth was shouting something, impossible to make out over the groaning and popping of the burning ship; von Stalhein ignored him, tightening his claws around the pilot’s shoulders. It took all of his focus just to stay aloft, leaning into the angle of his descent to pick up speed.
The great percussive boom that followed nearly deafened his sensitive ears. His brain rattled in his skull, and above them the dark hulk of the airship dissolved into a sky of fire. The organ, attacked in a final frenzy by Robur, produced insane music.
Von Stalhein’s wingspan grew, and Bigglesworth was less heavy. They flew straight, pursued by the unfurling blaze. The heat stole the lift from beneath von Stalhein’s wings, and he struggled to remain truly airborne, their descent taking on a precipitous character.
The Attila was lost, a string of burning balloons falling from the skies. The gondola crunched into the treetops behind them, wreathed in a great plume of fire.
He reached cooler air and put on speed, outracing the fingers of flame.
There appeared to still be some few fliers left. The dregs of the dog-fight, scattered by the fall of the Attila, regrouped. The last of both sides forgot the possibility of surviving the battle, and mixed in for death.
Von Stalhein looked for a place to set down. He would leave Bigglesworth somewhere the pilot stood a chance of survival, and rejoin his comrades in the fight.
An aeroplane was above them, closing. Though unarmed, in a skirmish von Stalhein would stand a chance. He could drop Bigglesworth, and rip off the attacking pilot’s head—but he hadn’t elected to save Bigglesworth only to kill him now. That the Britisher had survived one deadly fall was no guarantee that he would survive another.
Glancing back, von Stalhein found that he was spared. The aircraft overhead was German, a two-man Junkers J1 spotter. It would give him cover.
They passed the edge of the burning forest, gliding over a road that extended into the nearby fields. Glassy lakes reflected the fire. Von Stalhein tilted against the wind, letting it slow him rather than speed him on, and tried to settle towards the ground.
Landing without breaking Bigglesworth was a difficult proposition. Von Stalhein had to make his choice quickly: as they neared the ground he tucked in one wing in and extended the other, flipping himself upside down. Bigglesworth was flung forward against him, and von Stalhein enfolded him in his wings, shielding him as they fell.
They hit hard, and he lost his grip on Bigglesworth, sprawling in a mess of wings and limbs as he rolled across a field. Pain flared, and he felt the crunch of bone.
When at last he came to a stop he was on his side, one wing crumpled beneath him. He rolled, trying to get the horizon level—after the fulsome currents of the sky the ground felt unsteady, rising and falling like the deck of a ship in a storm.
Bigglesworth lay in a heap nearby, dazed by the impact of their landing. The Junkers was gone from above them.
Von Stalhein growled lowly in pain. Both of his wings were snapped; one leg was broken. More fractures bloomed in his torso.
In perhaps fifteen minutes he would heal, and be able to fly once again. It was unlikely he had that long. He was almost certain he was on the wrong side of the lines; British and French soldiers would have no mercy for a mangled monster found in a field.
From where he lay he could see a gouge of deeper darkness in the earth up ahead, an irrigation ditch or a sunk fence. With a great heave of effort he hauled himself towards it, mute with the agony of putting weight on his maimed wings.
It took as small eternity to reach it, but he did. When he was near enough he slumped onto his side, and rolled heavily down the bank, hitting the bottom with a grunt. There he lay very still, praying that no one had seen him and hoping that Bigglesworth had been too dazed to realize where he had gone. Let him think that von Stalhein had alighted again after dropping him, and gone on.
Saving Bigglesworth had been a stupid decision, of course. The man was his enemy—his clever, persistent, undefeated enemy, who had wounded and scarred him before, and escaped him again at Malinbois, managing to not only survive but worm his way into position to threaten the Graf. Who had realized the nature of their false master before any of JG1, even if the revelation had come too late.
They had been a sacrifice, von Stalhein saw now. A prop in this charade of an assault, sent to lend verisimilitude to their false commander. His own intended role had presumably been to get the false Graf behind enemy lines and perish there alongside him, the better to assure the Entente of the Graf’s death.
Instead he would perish having saved an enemy pilot, who had felled twenty-two German aces and would doubtless bring down many more.
A betrayal for a betrayal. That was justice, of a sort.
Von Stalhein lay in his ditch, and willed shattered bone and pulverized flesh to knit back together. Someone in the area must have seen him go down; they would come to investigate soon.
Something moved along the edge of the ditch, sending pebbles skittering down to where he lay. He looked up, surprised that he had not heard anyone approach. Perhaps the blast really had damaged his ears; the ringing in them had not altogether abated.
Bigglesworth peered at him over the edge.
For a moment they regarded each other in silence, Bigglesworth’s expression strangely intent. Then he leaned forward, and von Stalhein saw the glint of a weapon: grasped in Bigglesworth’s hand was the same pistol he’d pulled on the Graf, miraculously still in his possession. Now it was trained upon von Stalhein, approximating with fair accuracy were von Stalhein’s heart had to be.
A futile fury sputtered in von Stalhein’s breast. To die here—a fallen, broken thing, without the satisfaction of a single kill—was beneath his dignity. Unbefitting of a Prussian officer, of a hunter, of a creature of fang and sky and blessed moon. He ought to have died in battle, bound to his duty until the last. But for his foolish decision, he might have done so.
There was nothing he could do now, no last act of vengeance, nothing. He was unable even to rise, and at this distance there was no way for him to rip out Bigglesworth’s throat with his teeth before Bigglesworth could put a silver bullet into his heart. His anger went out as quickly as it had lit. He knew defeat, and in a wave of resignation he closed his eyes.
But the expected shot never came. No silver pierced his heart; no searing second death overcame him.
When he opened his eyes again Bigglesworth had swung himself over the edge, and was skidding down the side of the ditch, bracing himself with his free hand.
He came to a stop by von Stalhein’s feet, and picked his way nearer, always maintaining his aim. His gaze flicked curiously over von Stalhein’s bat-shape, lingering on the fangs and the ears and the thick fur, and longest of all on his mangled left wing, twisted half-open against the side of the ditch.
Finally Bigglesworth said, “I don’t quite know what to do with you,” keeping his pistol raised. “You gave me one hell of a thrashing at Malinbois—it took me two weeks to reform my limbs after that fall, and without a great deal of luck I don’t suppose I should have survived at all. In any other circumstance I should think it fair and square to return the intended favor.” He frowned. “But I’ve never been one for shooting a man when he’s down, and certainly not when he’s just saved my life. Why on earth did you do it?” On this bewildered note he paused, clearly expecting an actual answer.
Speech was difficult in the bat-shape, even without fractured ribs. Von Richthofen had never had trouble sounding like himself, but von Stalhein was not the Baron: his words came out as snarls, in a voice like rotten wood breaking. “You fly,” he managed, enunciating with difficulty around elongated teeth, “like one of us.” A twitch of his twisted wing suggested his absent squadron. “Even in a machine.” A rattling cough interrupted him, clearing the remnants of smoke and dust out of his throat. “You are a worthy opponent.”
Bigglesworth tilted his head. “Well, thanks. So are you. There wasn’t much left of my Snipe after our encounter. Probably no more than was left of me, though the latter may have been a stroke of good fortune, as otherwise your search parties would have found me at once.” Still his aim didn’t waver. “All the same, I’m not sure you’ve answered my question.”
Von Stalhein’s nostrils flared. He owed no answers to a Britisher, much less to one who’d given him so many scars.
But he was in no position to argue. Every word he spoke now prolonged his life. If he could only drag this out long enough, perhaps he might heal sufficiently to mount an attack—useless, most likely, but better than dying without having even made the attempt. If he was fast enough he might hope to at least maim Bigglesworth before the silver found him.
He could think of no lie that would serve, and the truth would do just as well. “We were betrayed,” von Stalhein grated, looking briefly to the darkened sky. The slice of it that was visible to him remained empty. How many of his brethren still lived? He had seen perhaps three darting amid the final dogfight. Many times that number had perished in the great blast, or been crippled by the flames. “You saw the ruse for what it was, and for that I thank you.”
Bigglesworth gave him a thoughtful look. “All right,” he said, and was obviously about to add something more when shots rang out nearby.
From the far end of the field came the sound of men’s voices, shouting to each other in English. Both Bigglesworth and von Stalhein flinched, looking up and then back at each other in unison. As expected, someone had come to investigate the crash landing. When they found von Stalhein here they would kill him, whether Bigglesworth held his fire or not.
Bigglesworth sprang to his feet. “All right,” he repeated, in a very different sort of tone. He caught von Stalhein’s gaze. “Listen here. I’ll divert the fellows up in the field to give you a chance to recover, and then you can leave—if you’ll give me your word that you won’t go after our men on the ground. You can do as you like in the sky, though judging by how things looked last I think you’ll find yourself soundly outnumbered. But I won’t let you tear apart infantrymen who’ve merely had the misfortune of finding you here. Do you agree?”
Von Stalhein stared at him. It was an impossible offer. To let him go, knowing that he would hunt whatever remained of Condor squadron—?
The voices were closer now, calling out as though expecting a reply. Stiffly, von Stalhein said, “I agree. I will not harm the ones on the ground.” He had no interest in easy prey.
“Very good,” said Bigglesworth seriously. And then, with an odd note of cheer in his voice, “In that case, until we meet again, Leutnant von Stalhein. Know that the next time we face off in the air I’ll treat this debt as repaid, and behave accordingly.”
Von Stalhein grunted assent. Bigglesworth’s fangs flashed in the dark, and then he turned and made a great standing leap out of the ditch, propelled by vampiric strength.
Surprised yelps met him overhead, and a few gunshots. Then Bigglesworth was speaking, placating, while the newcomers made terse inquiries. Von Stalhein supposed they were interrogating him as to how he had come to be there, or else about whether he’d seen the crash.
Focusing inward, von Stalhein found that the sinews in his twisted shoulder had knit back together, and his rib cage was whole. His leg responded when he tried to move it, though the bone was still broken. He shifted as quietly as he could, trying to straighten it out so it didn’t heal skewed.
That left his wings. He managed to carefully unfurl the left, and felt shards of bone shifting to where they belonged, joining back together. The right, which had been less damaged, was further along, and he found that he could fold and unfold it freely, though it wasn’t yet ready to bear his weight.
Minutes passed. Bigglesworth was still talking, answering the newcomers’ questions. The tone of the queries had grown friendlier, no longer so tense with mistrust. Von Stalhein found that his hearing had recovered as well: he could now make out not only the words but also the beating of hearts, informing him that the newcomers were five warm men.
Bloodlust stirred within him, but he mastered it. Bigglesworth had allowed him to live, was covering for him against his own, and von Stalhein would honor his word.
At last he was able to test his left wing, and found it sound. He could fly now, to seek out whoever remained in the sky above. His hunter’s heart hoped there were still foes. After everything that had taken place his need to kill was sharpened, and he hungered for the taste of blood, for recompense for what had been done to JG1.
He rose, and doing so shifted smaller, assuming the man-bat shape he had held aboard the Attila. Once he was up in the air he would shift larger again, the better to chase his prey, but until then he needed swiftness and stealth, and most of all to be a smaller target.
He gathered his wings around him, preparing to launch. Above him Bigglesworth was spinning a yarn about how his machine had gone down in the next field over, assuring his fellows that that was the crash they had seen. They’d just got the distance wrong in the dark, that was all; he’d been lucky, hadn’t they heard that surviving impossible scrapes was how you qualified for Condor squadron, and if they could just point him to the nearest command post . . .
Von Stalhein sprang.
Shocked cries greeted him from the side of the ditch, followed by bullets. One struck, lodging itself in his just-healed leg, but it was only lead; he ignored it. His wings snapped out to his sides, catching a gust of nighttime land breeze. He flew.
As he climbed out of range of the guns he looked back, and saw one figure standing apart from the rest. It raised a hand, and held it aloft for a moment, as though bidding farewell.
Von Stalhein made a twisting turn through the air, and made for the German lines.