by Will Hill
The ground shook with the impact.
The girl went instantly limp.
Dracula released his grip and stood up, a smile of dreadful satisfaction on his blood-smeared face.
Got you, he thought.
For a fleeting millisecond that he would never have acknowledged to anybody, a bright pillar of fear had burst into life in his stomach. The treacherous vampire was remarkably powerful, almost as quick and strong as Valeri had been, and Dracula was still reeling from the fate that had befallen his oldest servant when the odds against him had finally become too great. The eldest Rusmanov had fought with honour and courage, and with great dedication to the protection of his master, but he was gone. And if Valeri could be destroyed, then who was to say that same fate could not befall him?
But now the vampire girl lay broken at his feet, and he could turn his attention to Valentin, and to the boy who had wielded the killing stake. Once their spilled blood was added to that of their friends, the battle would finally be over, and the future would belong to him.
Jamie flew across the courtyard, Valentin Rusmanov at his side, his eyes gleaming in the lights of the transport helicopters and the glow of the full moon.
In the distance, he saw Dracula struggling with an Operator, holding the soldier at arm’s length, then grimaced with revulsion as the unfortunate soul was smashed to the ground, and lay still.
Nobody could have survived that, he thought. One more person who gave everything trying to save us all. One more victim to avenge.
Valentin pulled ahead of him as they approached their target, his damaged face curled into a smile of seemingly vast pleasure. The youngest Rusmanov crashed into Dracula’s knees, sending his former master spinning up into the air, a look of surprise on his narrow face. Jamie soared upwards, marvelling at how quickly flying had come to feel almost natural, and met the first vampire in the air, hammering both of his fists down on to the back of his head. Dracula plummeted to the ground like a stone, sending up a cloud of dust as he hit the gravel with an impact that would have killed a normal man. But he was on his feet again instantly, his face a red mask of rage, his eyes the colour of death.
“You dare?” he screamed. “You dare put your hands on me?”
Jamie dropped to the ground beside Valentin and faced him.
“Your time has passed,” said Valentin, his voice low and steady. “There is no place for you in this world.”
“This world?” bellowed Dracula. “This world is mine, to do with exactly as I please.”
“I beg to differ,” said Paul Turner, arriving at Jamie’s side with his T-Bone at his shoulder, his pale grey eyes as clear as ever.
Jamie felt a surge of pride rush through him. They had come through the fire, his colleagues and friends; they had overcome odds that most would have thought insurmountable, and now they would end what they had started, here and now.
He looked round, and frowned as he saw the Operator that had been slammed to the ground by Dracula peeling themselves up from the gravel. The black-clad figure got to its feet, staggered, then raised its head and looked directly at him.
Jamie gasped.
Larissa looked like she had been run over by a bulldozer.
Her face was a mask of blood, running from dozens of cuts and pooling against ridges of bruising and outcrops of displaced bone. But her eyes glowed fiercely as she flew slowly across the courtyard and stood between him and Valentin.
Jamie turned back to face Dracula, and saw something he had never expected to see on the ancient monster’s face.
Fear.
It was fleeting, gone almost as soon as it appeared, but it had been there.
He’s scared, thought Jamie. He saw what happened to Valeri and he doesn’t know if he can take us all.
Behind him, heavy footsteps crunched across the gravel, and when hot air blasted across the back of his neck, accompanied by a growl that, under normal circumstances, would have turned his insides to water, Jamie knew exactly who, or rather what, had joined them.
“You will pay for what you have done here today,” growled Dracula, his black eyes flitting back and forth along the line of Operators and vampires. “They will write stories about the horrors you will suffer. Your deaths will be legendary.”
Paul Turner was evidently in no mood to listen; without responding, he fired his T-Bone at the ancient vampire’s heart. Dracula leapt out of the way of the projectile, howling with a fury that seemed on the verge of outrage, then was hit from three sides by Jamie, Larissa and Valentin. They bore the screaming, thrashing monster to the ground, shouting for a stake, for someone to bring a stake. Turner rushed forward, drawing one from his belt, and elbowed Larissa aside.
For a glorious moment, Jamie saw Dracula’s chest exposed as he and Valentin clung to the first vampire and Turner drew back his arm.
Then the moment was gone.
With strength that, even to Jamie, seemed impossible, Dracula swung his arms together, crunching him against Valentin. His grip failed him as he tumbled to the ground, crying out in pain; it felt like his back had been broken. He rolled over in time to see Dracula leap into the air, narrowly avoiding the huge wolf form of Frankenstein as it lunged for his ankles, and hover above the courtyard, his arms outstretched.
“Loyal subjects!” he shouted, his voice echoing across the battlefield. “To me!”
Then he shot up into the night sky like a bullet, followed by the remainder of Valeri’s army, and was gone.
For a long moment, nobody moved, or spoke.
Silence descended over the courtyard, as the surviving Operators processed the reality that the battle was over. Larissa stared up at the sky, her ruined face momentarily forgotten, her heart pounding in her chest.
Missed him, she thought. One chance, and we missed it.
“No,” said Valentin, as though he could read her mind. “This ends now, one way or the other.” He shot into the sky and vanished in the direction his former master had fled.
“I have to go too,” she said. “I have to help him.”
“No,” said Paul Turner, regarding her with his usual cold expression. “It’s over, Larissa. We have men and women here who need our help.”
“To hell with them,” she said, far more callously than she intended. “If Dracula gets away, then every dead Operator gave their life for nothing. You have to see that!”
“It’s over,” repeated Turner.
Larissa looked desperately to Jamie for help, her eyes glowing crimson, her hands trembling; she felt as though she was on the verge of tears.
So close, she thought. Damn it, we were so close.
“Larissa’s right, sir,” said Jamie. “She could help. Between her and Valentin, it might be enough. There might still be a chance.”
“How many times must I repeat myself, Lieutenant?” asked Turner, his voice low and full of danger. “I’m telling you this is finished.”
“Where’s the Director?” asked Jamie. “Where’s Cal?”
“He’s gone,” said Turner, his face momentarily creasing with pain.
Jamie stared at the Security Officer. “What do you mean, gone?” he asked.
“I mean he’s dead, Jamie,” said Turner. “Which makes me Interim Director of Blacklight, and I am telling you, both of you, that we have wounded Operators who need our help. I want you to find the most seriously injured, fly them back to the Loop, then return here as quickly as you can. Is that clear?”
Larissa felt anger sweep up through her. “I can’t do that, sir,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
Turner turned the full weight of his icy stare on her. “You will follow my order, Lieutenant Kinley, or you will be court-martialled,” he said. “There are good men and women lying out there, men and women who are our friends, and who fought with everything they had. You will not abandon them now, when they need you the most.”
“Yes,” said a voice. “She will.”
Larissa turned towards it, and felt her heart break
in her chest.
Henry Seward was standing in front of her, holding tightly to Angela Darcy. He was horribly thin, his skin a ruin of scars and bruises, his hair white and lank, a black patch covering one of his eye sockets. But his visible eye was clear, and his mouth was set in a firm line of determination that she knew all too well.
“Henry,” said Turner, his eyes widening with obvious concern. “You should be—”
“I should be here, Paul,” said Seward, his voice a rasp of effort. “I am still the Director of our Department, as far as I am aware.”
Turner winced, and nodded.
“Lieutenant Carpenter,” he said. “Do as Major Turner ordered. Quickly now.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jamie, and raced away across the battlefield. Seward watched him go, then turned to Larissa, and smiled.
“Go after Dracula,” he said. “Now. While there is still time.”
Larissa smiled back at the Director, and hurled herself into the air.
Dracula flew south-east, burning with the shame of having been forced to retreat.
His mouth was full of fresh blood; as soon as he was clear of the château, he had taken hold of the nearest of Valeri’s followers, ripped out the man’s throat with his teeth, and drunk until he was sated. The new skin that had filled the hole in his chest fizzed and itched, and as he felt the blood revive him, felt his strength return, the shame grew hotter and sharper.
Part of his brain was whispering that he had nobody but himself to blame, that he had underestimated his enemy and been too confident, but he pushed the thought away with an audible snarl. If it had not been for Valentin’s sickening act of fratricide, the battle would surely now be won, and all of vampire-kind would be looking towards a future in which they were the dominant species on the planet, with him as their ruler. Instead, he had been undone by something that could not have been predicted: that Valeri would die at his brother’s hand, leaving his master to fight alone.
Dracula forced his mind towards happier thoughts, of the horrors he would inflict on Valentin and the vampire girl and boy when the time came. He plumbed the depths of his memory for the unholiest tortures of his youth, for the punishments that even he had considered too savage, too unnatural; for the three vampires who had cost him so dearly, he would revive them all.
Flying behind him in a ragged V were the remnants of Valeri’s followers. There were maybe twenty-five of them; the rest had sprayed their insides out across the courtyard of Château Dauncy, giving their lives in the service of their master. The ones who had survived were soaked with blood that wasn’t theirs, which pleased Dracula. It was never difficult to recruit new meat, desperate acolytes useful for little more than cannon fodder. But these men and women had fought a highly trained enemy and survived; perhaps he would be able to draw some servants who were actually useful from their ranks. The simple fact of their survival suggested either resourcefulness or an aptitude for violence, both qualities that he admired.
The cold night air whistled over his skin as he led the vampires away from the site of their defeat. He had no idea where they would go, not yet; there were places that Valeri had told him about that would be safe, but for now, he was thinking no further than somewhere to lay low, somewhere he could lick his wounds and plot his vengeance. He glanced back over his shoulder, and frowned.
There seemed to be fewer vampires following him.
Dracula rolled in the air, so that he was flying with his back to the ground, and counted.
Sixteen, he thought. Where the hell have the rest of them gone?
Then, by the light of the full moon, he saw.
Behind the ragged formation of men and women, two black shapes rose up from the darkness, as quick and silent as birds of prey. They grabbed the two vampires flying at the back, wrapped hands round their mouths and throats, and bore them away towards the distant ground in complete silence, the attacks unnoticed by the rest of the exhausted, defeated vampires.
Rage burst through Dracula. He opened his mouth to scream at his followers, to warn them that they were being picked off, but before the first word was formed, something crashed into him with such force that his first thought was that a meteor had hit him.
He spun through the air, the sky and ground revolving wildly as he fought to steady himself, cries of alarm and shrieks of terror ringing out above him. As he arrested his spin and slowed, he saw Valentin – cursed, treacherous Valentin – smile down at him before rocketing into the remnants of his brother’s army, scattering them in every direction. Dracula righted himself, and was about to pursue the vile traitor who had done so much to undo him when he was hit on the back of the neck by what could only have been a planet, such was the weight of the blow. His eyes spun in his head, his vision greying to nothing, and he dropped towards the distant ground like a dead weight.
Consciousness returned to Dracula as the dark ground rushed up to meet him, alarmingly close. His head was pounding, and his neck felt like it had swollen to twice its usual size; had he been anything less than he was, the blow would surely have broken it. He flailed his arms, engaging the strange, supernatural instinct that controlled his ability to fly, and managed to slow his descent. In the distance, he saw the yellow lights of a cluster of houses, but below him all was dark.
He hit the ground with a sickening crunch; he howled in pain, but rolled over and forced himself to his feet. Valentin and the vampire girl – it was her, he knew it was, it had to be – would be on him quickly, trying to finish him off before he recovered from the fall. He lifted the arm he had landed on and felt the bones grind agonisingly together as a terrible thought filled his head.
I should be stronger than this. Much stronger, and faster. My God, could they actually beat me? Is it truly possible?
The followers he had inherited from Valeri began to land beside him, their eyes wide and full of panic. There were eight of them now, only eight, and no sign of the two traitors who had wrought such chaos. Dracula looked up and searched the sky for them, trying to anticipate their next attack, then leapt out of the way as something fell towards him. He stared at it, his mind churning with revulsion and sudden, awful admiration.
Lying on the ground was a vampire torso. The limbs were all gone, the arms torn out at the shoulders, the legs at mid-thigh, and above the neck was nothing but a ragged, spouting stump.
Thud.
Dracula looked around, his supernaturally sharp eyes searching for the source of the noise.
Thud.
Thud thud.
One of the vampires cried out, her eyes flaring red, her hands scrabbling at her hair. Out of the brown curls flew a severed hand; it fell wetly to the ground, the fingers pale and curled like claws, a ruby ring gleaming brightly on one of them. Then the thuds of falling objects became a drumbeat, as pieces of the vampires they had been flying alongside only minutes earlier poured out of the sky like gruesome rain: legs, hands, faces, ears, fingers, kneecaps, eyeballs, noses, livers, lungs, long strings of intestines, still-beating hearts.
The vampires howled and hissed, rushing back and forth, trying to avoid the falling horror. Dracula merely stared, his eyes wide.
This is what I would have done, he marvelled. If I were them. Exactly what I would have done.
Valentin Rusmanov hurled the severed head of a vampire towards the field below and wiped his blood-soaked hands on his uniform. He looked over at Larissa Kinley, floating alongside him, and grinned.
“I think we have their attention,” he said. “What say we put an end to this?”
Larissa growled, her eyes blazing in the darkness.
It was all the answer Valentin needed.
His grin widened, then he rolled elegantly in the air and rocketed towards the ground; he landed in the centre of the wide meadow, barely a second later, and regarded his former master. Dracula was standing with his huge sword in his hands, a look of what almost appeared to be grudging respect on his face. The last of Valeri’s followers – he quickly counte
d eight of them – were huddled behind the first vampire, their faces contorted with fear. As Larissa touched down beside him, Valentin called to them.
“You vampires who followed my brother,” he said. “Leave now and your lives will be spared. This is your only chance to avoid destruction.”
Dracula growled, and glanced over his shoulder. None of the cowering group of men and women moved, although Valentin could see the desperate desire to do so on several of their faces.
“Fine,” he said, and shrugged. “Have it your way.”
He launched himself towards his former master, his mind pulsing with the pleasure of violence and a feeling he had experienced incredibly rarely over the course of his long life: the satisfaction of being on the side of good, of doing the right thing for once.
Dracula reared back, and swung his sword in a huge killing sweep. Valentin slid beneath it without slowing, and tore into his brother’s followers like a whirlwind. Behind him, he heard a heavy crunch, and a cry of pain from Larissa, but didn’t turn back; he had complete confidence in her ability to handle herself, even against Dracula.
The vampires tried to flee as he barrelled into them, but were far too slow. He decapitated one with a flick of his wrist, sending the man’s head spinning away across the field, leaving his body clutching at nothing. It took two faltering, headless steps before it crashed to the ground, pumping blood. Valentin spun to his left, and swung his fist in a rising backhand that caught a female vampire beneath her chin. She flew into the air as though she had been launched from a catapult, spinning over and over, and disappeared into the darkness.
Two of the vampires leapt into the air and flew for their lives. Valentin let them go; these men and women were a sideshow, and he had no intention of letting them distract him from his real target for a moment longer than necessary. The four remaining vampires fled towards Dracula, presumably hoping for his protection, but as Valentin turned to follow them, he saw that his former master didn’t afford them so much as a glance; he was concentrating wholly on his fight with Larissa.