used both her hands. She worked the edge of her self-inflicted wound with with her nails and peeled back the skin of the right side of her chest. As she moved, exposed muscles bunched and smoothed. With her whole hand under her skin, she loosened the covering of her shoulder and slipped it off like a chemise.
The audience were rapt. Winthrop was disgusted, as much at the spectators as at the performer.
Beauregard was not watching the stage but watching him.
'We do not understand our limits,' Beauregard said. 'To become a vampire is to have the potential to stretch the human body out of its natural shape.'
As Isolde turned, skin ripped down her back. Red-lined folds hung loose. With only her nails and a few slices of the knife, she methodically flayed herself.
A group of Americans, misled as to the nature of Isolde's exposure, stormed out, protesting loudly. 'You're all gooney birds,' one shouted.
Isolde watched them go, easing the skin off her right arm as if it were a shoulder-length glove.
'Some vampires, Edwin, have no more power to shift their shape than you or I. Notably those of the bloodlines of Ruthven or Chandagnac. Others, including those of the Dracula line, have capabilities that have never been tested to their limits.'
Isolde tore at herself, face impassive but gestures savage. Her skin hung in scarecrow tatters. Winthrop's stomach queased but he kept nausea down. The theatre stank of blood. It was a mercy there were few vampires in the audience; they might have been maddened. The performer detached scraps of her white skin and tossed them to her crowd.
'She has her disciples,' Beauregard said. 'The poet, Des Esseintes, has written sonnets to her.'
'It's a shame de Sade never turned. He'd have relished this.'
'Maybe he saw her in his day. Isolde has been performing for a long time.'
Her torso was a glistening dissection, bones visible in wet meat. She held up her skinned right arm and licked from elbow to wrist, reddening her tongue. Arteries stood out, transparent tubes filled with rushing blood.
Many of the audience were on their feet, pressing close to the stage. At the Folies, they would be cheering and whooping, making a display of gay goodfellow abandon. Here, they were intent and silent, holding breath, eyes on the stage, shutting out their comrades. How many of these men would want it known that they were patrons of the Raoul Privache?
'When she was guillotined, did someone stick her head back on to her body?'
She bit into her own wrist, gnawing through the artery, and began sucking. Blood rushed through the collapsing tube and she swallowed, gulping steadily.
'No, they buried her,' Beauregard explained. 'Her body rotted but her head grew another. It took ten years.'
She paused for breath and sneered at the audience, blood speckling her chin, then redoubled her attack. As she sucked, her extended fingers twisted into a useless fist.
'Of course, some say she hasn't been the same woman since.'
'How far can she go?'
'Can she consume herself entirely so that there's nothing left? She hasn't yet.'
Isolde's raw flesh changed colour as she sucked the blood out of it, but her face flushed, bloated.
'I think we've seen enough,' Beauregard said, standing.
Winthrop was relieved. He did not want to be a part of Isolde's audience.
They stepped into the corridor. Dravot stood by the door, reading Comic Cuts. Beauregard and the sergeant were old comrades.
'Danny, are you looking after our young lieutenant?'
'I do my best, sir.'
Beauregard laughed. 'Glad to hear it. The fate of the Empire may rest on him.'
Winthrop could not shake Isolde from his mind.
'Shall we take the air, Edwin?'
They left the theatre. It was a relief to get out into clean cold. The snow did not settle, leaving slushy residue on the pavement. Winthrop and Beauregard strolled, Dravot following about twenty paces behind.
'When I was your age,' Beauregard said 'this was not the world in which I expected to grow
The audience were rapt. Winthrop was disgusted, as much at the spectators as at the performer.
Beauregard was not watching the stage but watching him.
'We do not understand our limits,' Beauregard said. 'To become a vampire is to have the potential to stretch the human body out of its natural shape.'
As Isolde turned, skin ripped down her back. Red-lined folds hung loose. With only her nails and a few slices of the knife, she methodically flayed herself.
A group of Americans, misled as to the nature of Isolde's exposure, stormed out, protesting loudly. 'You're all gooney birds,' one shouted.
Isolde watched them go, easing the skin off her right arm as if it were a shoulder-length glove.
'Some vampires, Edwin, have no more power to shift their shape than you or I. Notably those of the bloodlines of Ruthven or Chandagnac. Others, including those of the Dracula line, have capabilities that have never been tested to their limits.'
Isolde tore at herself, face impassive but gestures savage. Her skin hung in scarecrow tatters. Winthrop's stomach queased but he kept nausea down. The theatre stank of blood. It was a mercy there were few vampires in the audience; they might have been maddened. The performer detached scraps of her white skin and tossed them to her crowd.
'She has her disciples,' Beauregard said. 'The poet, Des Esseintes, has written sonnets to her.'
'It's a shame de Sade never turned. He'd have relished this.'
'Maybe he saw her in his day. Isolde has been performing for a long time.'
Her torso was a glistening dissection, bones visible in wet meat. She held up her skinned right arm and licked from elbow to wrist, reddening her tongue. Arteries stood out, transparent tubes filled with rushing blood.
Many of the audience were on their feet, pressing close to the stage. At the Folies, they would be cheering and whooping, making a display of gay goodfellow abandon. Here, they were intent and silent, holding breath, eyes on the stage, shutting out their comrades. How many of these men would want it known that they were patrons of the Raoul Privache?
'When she was guillotined, did someone stick her head back on to her body?'
She bit into her own wrist, gnawing through the artery, and began sucking. Blood rushed through the collapsing tube and she swallowed, gulping steadily.
'No, they buried her,' Beauregard explained. 'Her body rotted but her head grew another. It took ten years.'
She paused for breath and sneered at the audience, blood speckling her chin, then redoubled her attack. As she sucked, her extended fingers twisted into a useless fist.
'Of course, some say she hasn't been the same woman since.'
'How far can she go?'
'Can she consume herself entirely so that there's nothing left? She hasn't yet.'
Isolde's raw flesh changed colour as she sucked the blood out of it, but her face flushed, bloated.
'I think we've seen enough,' Beauregard said, standing.
Winthrop was relieved. He did not want to be a part of Isolde's audience.
They stepped into the corridor. Dravot stood by the door, reading Comic Cuts. Beauregard and the sergeant were old comrades.
'Danny, are you looking after our young lieutenant?'
'I do my best, sir.'
Beauregard laughed. 'Glad to hear it. The fate of the Empire may rest on him.'
Winthrop could not shake Isolde from his mind.
'Shall we take the air, Edwin?'
They left the theatre. It was a relief to get out into clean cold. The snow did not settle, leaving slushy residue on the pavement. Winthrop and Beauregard strolled, Dravot following about twenty paces behind.
'When I was your age,' Beauregard said 'this was not the world in which I expected to grow
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