The Castle

With Prussian insouciance, Oberst Kretschmar-Schuldorff dangled a Turkish cigarette from his lower lip. Smoke filled the car, wavering as they took the uphill road to the chateau. The officer sat opposite Poe and Ewers, sharp eyes glittering beneath his peaked cap, suggesting obscure amusement. None of the three cast a reflection in the dark windows. The driver knew his way by night, but the road was not of the best. Poe feared for Ewers's luggage, which was roped to the roof.

'We're not much used to visitors at Malinbois,' Kretschmar-Schuldorff admitted. 'So our facilities are primitive.'

Poe was prepared to be gracious. Any accommodation was likely to be an improvement on the ghetto. Ewers, irritability increasing by the hour, was less inclined to accept without complaint what life presented him.

'The chateau is ancient,' the officer said. 'There was a fortress on the site when Caesar divided Gaul. The current structure dates in part from the tenth century. It is of historical interest to vampirekind. It is named for the Sieur du Malinbois, an elder destroyed in the 1200s.'

'A sergeant at the station told us it was an evil place,' Poe said.

Kretschmar-Schuldorff shrugged without disturbing the smoke. A sardonic smile seemed always to underly his affectation of cool.

'Like your famous House of Usher, perhaps? Who is to say what is evil? In some, old feelings run deep.'

'He was not a true patriot,' Ewers said. 'He should be reported and demoted.'

'A man might be a patriot and not care for Malinbois,' Kretschmar-Schuldorff said. 'Who knows, Herr Ewers? You may not care yourself for our chateau.'

Through the windows, Poe saw the outlines of tall, broken trees pressing close on the road. The country here was dreary and uninviting. There was a centuried air of desolation, overlaid by the devastation of the last few years.

'There is a lake near the chateau,' said Kretschmar-Schuldorff, smiling more broadly, 'but it is not like the tarn of Usher. I think it unlikely that our quarters will crumble and pitch us all into stinking waters.'

'What an amusing thought,' Ewers said, trying to be cutting.

it is the duty of all intelligence officers to have only amusing thoughts. Our primary responsibility is morale.'

Ewers looked as if, at this moment, his morale was at its lowest. Strangely, Poe took heart. He wondered if his own comparative lightness of feeling was sparked by the warm girl's blood seeping through his undead body.

'When we round the next corner, Herr Poe, you'll be able to see the chateau.'

The car strained and made the turn. Poe saw the castle with the moon behind it: a black shape with towers and battlements. In the silhouette, only one light burned, high up in the highest tower.

'Is that for us?' he asked.

The Oberst shook his head, it is for the fliers.'

They drove along the shore of a placid lake. Beside it was a cleared space Poe took for the airfield.

'Don't they tend to crash their aeroplanes into the tower?'

Kretschmar-Schuldorff laughed, musically. 'Herr Poe, you will be greatly surprised by many things.'

He had the idea a great mystery was being kept from him, and a thirst was excited. It was like his red thirst, but for knowledge rather than blood. He had always loved wrestling with puzzles and ciphers and conundra. He was a journalist and a detective, but it was as a poet he most desired to solve mysteries. He sensed a fresh challenge to his ratiocinative powers.

A castle, a mystery, blood and glory. All the elements were here for a romance of the grotesque and arabesque.

'Look,' Ewers said, pointing.

There were darker shapes in the dark sky, flapping things faintly outlined by the moon.

'Bats?'

'No, Herr Poe. Not bats.'

The shapes moved in formation. Poe judged them much bigger than bats.

'Vampires?'

Kretschmar-Schuldorff nodded and lit a fresh cigarette. Match-fire reflections sparked in his amused eyes.

In a flash, Poe penetrated the mystery. He knew what these creatures were.

'Shape-shifters,' he said, delighted with himself. 'These are the Baron von Richthofen's fliers. They don't fly aeroplanes. They grow wings.'

'Exactly.'

Ewers was astounded, annoyed not to be let in on the secret. Poe's heart and mind soared.

it's a marvel,' he said. 'They have become angels.'

'Hell's angels, perhaps. Before the war is done, they might be fallen angels.'

The formation flew around the tower light. They must be huge, two or three times the height of a man. Their wings beat slowly, and they seemed to glide rather than fly. Poe would not have said it was possible, but here was the miracle itself.

'And all this is through the development of inherent vampire capabilities?'

Kretschmar-Schuldorff nodded. 'Tony Fokker has helped nature, designing contraptions they wear to increase airworthiness. And harnesses for the machine-guns. As yet, no vampire has been able to grow a set of Spandau teats and belch bullets at the enemy.'

'As yet?'

Kretschmar-Schuldorff shrugged. Obviously, that would come.

The first of the fliers turned in the air, wings spreading like sails as he slowed. He landed perfectly on the tower, wings cloaking around him. One by one, the fliers touched down. Smaller figures swarmed around them, confirming Poe's estimate of their height.

'Who would believe it? Even among those who have seen it, who would believe it?'

'Perhaps only a poet, Herr Poe. That is why a poet was required. You have seen it and you must convince the rest of the world.'

A straggling flier limped after the others. There was a great tear in the leather of one wing and he fought to stay aloft. Missing the landing site, this dark wounded angel slapped against the side of the tower and clung fast, barbs and claws gripping the ancient stonework. Tail dangling and wings folded, the injured flier climbed up to his fellows. Poe shared his pain, imagining what it must be like ...

'I must see more,' Poe said. 'Take me up there at once.'

Kretschmar-Schuldorff waved away eager guards and startled sentries, clearing their way through the castle. Salutes were snapped off and papers were presented.

They ascended inside the tower, Poe taking the lead. He rushed eagerly up the stone spiral. The quietly intolerant Ewers followed, like a nanny who disapproves of the latitude allowed her charge by indulgent parents. Poe wanted to see the marvellous creatures. All other concerns flew.

The stairs widened and emerged in the flagstone floor of a large chamber. Moonlight sliced in through arrow-slit windows. Torches burned in sconces. A curtain billowed slightly, cold air wafting through. There was a powerful zoo-like animal smell.

He skidded to a halt in the bat-shaped shadow of a giant. The flier was taller even than he had thought. Poe's eyes were level with the tops of a pair of colossal, polished boots.

Lifting his gaze, he saw a lightly furred body still human in its underlying shape. The wings were folded, like a floor-length coat of living velvet. Hanging on the chest was a surplice affair of canvas and leather that supported a pair of machine-guns. There were other additions: straps to stiffen spines and wires to connect wings. Muscular arms grew from the wingpits, functional but inelegant, with three-fingered hands that reached the gun-handles.

A tight leather helmet became a loose cowl as the head dwindled, then was removed by orderlies who stood on elevated platforms. Fiery eyes shrank, flaring ears contracted, rows of teeth slid back into sheaths. The gaping red mouth closed, forming human lips. Fur faded like a dissolving mask.

'Herr Poe,' Kretschmar-Schuldorff said, 'this is Manfred, the Baron von Richthofen.'

Poe could say nothing.

The Red Baron was resuming human form. Orderlies swarmed around like valets, relieving him of guns, boots and straps. As he shrank, his flying gear threatened to crush him and had to be removed with care. There were racks for the equipment.

The baron's two personal orderlies worked swiftly and expertly. Surprisingly, they were warm men.

'These men have been with the baron throughout the war,' Kretschmar-Schuldorff explained. 'Feldwebel Fritz Haartmann and Kaporal Peter Kurten. They are the squires of our knight of the sky.'

Haarmann and Kurten did not bicker as they carried out their duties. Poe assumed they must be in a state of perpetual awe. Richthofen's square, blue-eyed face emerged from the bat- mask. Poe recognised him from the Sahnke card likenesses sold at railway stations throughout Germany.

The other fliers crowded into the chamber, pointed heads and hunched backs scraping the stone ceiling. There were dozens of ground staff to attend their transformations. There was so much activity that only Poe had the time to wonder.

'That is Professor Ten Brincken, Director of Experimentation.'

Kretschmar-Schuldorff indicated a grey-faced, broad- shouldered man, hunched in a grubby white coat. The professor growled, checking measurements against a chart.

'And this is General Karnstein, commandant of the chateau.'

A distinguished elder, with grey hair and a jet-black beard, stood by with quiet pride. There was something of the eighteenth century in the cut of his uniform.

Richthofen's face was completely human now. He had shrunk to eight feet or so, half the size he had been. Muscles flowed into new configurations as the skeletal structure adjusted. Haarmann and Kurten produced large, soft-bristled brushes and swept away the hair shed as the Baron changed. In an instant redistribution of bone and tissue, the flier sucked his rudimentary arms back into his midriff. The shape-shifting was fluid and painless, apparently without effort.

It was wonderful magic. Wings stretched out and became arms, leather folding up like a Chinese fan, smoothing into fair skin. Richthofen's iron face betrayed no discomfort, though other fliers yelped and groaned as joints popped and bones reset. Ten Brincken, a stern but proud parent, observed with approval.

Medical men stepped in like the trainers of a pugilist, placing stethoscopes to chests, observing wounds as they healed, taking notes. Orderlies like Haartmann and Kurten provided robes for the fliers. They folded into themselves and grew down to their human heights, settling into their usual shapes.

They all looked human now. Vampires, obviously, but human. But these men, these fliers, were gods and demons and angels. Poe understood why he was needed here. Why the insignificant Hanns Heinz Ewers would not serve. Only Edgar Poe was genius enough to do justice to this subject.

In his own shape, Richthofen was a man of medium height, with a flat, handsome face and cold, inexpressive eyes. He settled into a fur-collared dressing gown. It was obvious he held within him great strength and a greater secret, but it would have been impossible to guess its extent.

'Manfred,' Kretschmar-Schuldorff said, 'this is Edgar Poe. He is to work with you on your book.'

Poe presented his hand. The Baron declined to shake it, less through arrogance than through awkwardness. There was a choirboyish prissiness to the hero. A man of action, he had Hotspur's distaste for the frills and comforts of life. He would have little use for poets.

Herr Baron,' Poe stammered, 'I did not dream ...'

'I do not dream either,' Richthofen said, turning away, if you will excuse me, I have a report to write. For some of us, words do not come easily.'