by Will Hill
5
EVERYTHING HEALS, IN TIME
Kate Randall wiped her eyes and splashed water on her face. It was the first time she had cried in almost two and a half days, a new personal best since the night a month earlier when she had watched her boyfriend die.
She was standing in the small bathroom within the suite of rooms that had been commandeered by ISAT, the Internal Security Assessment Team. In the center was the interview room, containing a seat flanked by two metal cabinets of monitoring equipment, a desk, and two plastic chairs. Outside the entrance to the interview room was a small lobby, separated from the rest of the Intelligence Division by a heavy steel door, which was accessed by a nine-digit code known only to three people. To the left of the lobby stood a door leading into a small living room and kitchen. The thin plaster wall of the living room contained two further doors; one led into the small quarters that the ISAT director had taken to sleeping in, the other into the bathroom where Kate had just stopped crying.
There was a gentle knock on the door behind her.
“One minute,” she called.
“Are you all right?” asked a male voice, full of concern.
“I’m fine,” she replied. “Just . . . give me a minute, okay?”
“Okay,” replied the voice. “We’re ready when you are. Take your time.”
Kate wiped her eyes a final time.
Get it together, she told herself. He needs you.
She stared at herself for a long moment in the mirror above the sink; she took a deep breath, held it, let it out, then turned and opened the bathroom door. Major Paul Turner was standing in the small ISAT living room, his arms folded across his chest. He smiled at her, almost, but not quite, managing to hide an expression of concern.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready,” she replied.
Turner clapped her on the shoulder, his hand pausing momentarily before falling away, then led her out into the lobby and through the door to the interview room.
* * *
ISAT had been formed in the aftermath of Valeri Rusmanov’s attack on the Loop, in response to a claim made by his brother Valentin during the interrogation that had followed his defection to Blacklight.
Paul Turner had asked the ancient vampire whether he had any information regarding the existence of double agents inside the Department. The sad case of Thomas Morris, the former operator who had betrayed them to Valentin’s brother Alexandru and had been responsible for the death of Julian Carpenter, had been assumed to be an isolated incident. Valentin’s answer had immediately cast doubt over that assumption; he had claimed to know with absolute certainty that Valeri had maintained at least one agent inside the Department since its expansion in the 1920s.
Valentin had been able to offer no support for this claim, no names, no dates, no incriminating evidence, and the thought that it may have been intended to sow distrust within Blacklight had immediately occurred to everyone. But then the Loop had been attacked by a vampire army that had made its way undetected beneath the radar arrays and through the motion detectors and laser nets, and the double life of Professor Christopher Reynolds had been uncovered; he had been in the employ of Valeri Rusmanov his entire life. As Cal Holmwood tried to piece the wounded, reeling Department back together, Paul Turner had approached him and quietly explained that they needed to clean house, as a matter of urgency. Holmwood had agreed and instructed Turner, the Department’s security officer, to create a team to carry out the task.
“They’re going to hate you for this, Paul,” warned Holmwood. “But you’re right, it needs doing. When you’re ready to start interviewing, come and tell me. I’ll go first.”
Turner agreed, then set about the creation of ISAT, the first internal affairs team in the long, proud history of Blacklight.
Holmwood was right: They hated him for it. The knowledge that he was creating a team to investigate operators leaked quickly through the Loop, and proved incredibly unpopular; it seemed cruel to subject men and women who had just fought for their lives, who had watched friends and colleagues fall at their sides, to new suspicion. The survivors felt they had proved themselves, that their loyalty had been shown beyond question. Paul Turner understood their position, but didn’t care. And the whispered consensus within the Loop was that why he didn’t care was obvious: As far as Turner was concerned, ISAT was a personal crusade. One of the operators who died during the attack on the Loop was Shaun Turner, Paul’s twenty-one-year-old son, who had also been Kate Randall’s boyfriend.
As a result, the first dozen operators that Turner approached about joining ISAT turned him down flat. They were too scared of the security officer, whose glacial gray eyes could turn even the boldest operator’s insides to water, to tell him exactly what they thought of his project, but not too scared to reject his offer. Turner didn’t hold it against them; he merely moved on to the next person on his list. He needed only a single operator to share the ISAT burden, someone who could ensure his actions were above suspicion, and he would ask every single man and woman in the base, if necessary. If they all said no, he would go back to the top of his list and ask them all again. But in the end, this proved unnecessary.
* * *
Kate told Jamie she was going to volunteer for ISAT before she did so. She wasn’t asking his permission, but she didn’t want him to find out from someone else. His response had been entirely as she expected.
“You’re kidding,” he said. “Why the hell would you do that?”
“I have my reasons,” she replied, looking him directly in the eye. “I’m sure you can work out what they are.”
“Of course I can,” he snapped. “Obviously I can. But have you thought this through, Kate? Like, really thought it through? Everyone’s going to hate you if you do this. Everyone.”
“I don’t care,” she said. “Let them hate me.”
He had tried to talk her out of it for a further half hour, but once it became clear that she was not going to be persuaded to change her mind, he had done the second thing she had expected: told her that he would stick up for her, no matter what anyone else said or thought. She had thanked him, and given him a long hug that had brought tears to her eyes and a lump to her throat.
Larissa and Matt had both been amazing in the aftermath of Shaun’s death, and they could empathize with her, up to a point: Both were living without the people they loved—in Matt’s case voluntarily, in Larissa’s as a result of what had been done to her by Grey, the ancient vampire who had turned her. They understood loneliness, and what it meant to miss someone, but they couldn’t fully appreciate what she was going through. Jamie was the only one who could, having watched his father die less than three years earlier.
Kate would never have dreamed of suggesting that her loss in any way compared to his. She had only been with Shaun for a couple of months, barely any time at all, even given the hyperreality of life inside Blacklight. She knew the loss of her boyfriend didn’t come close to the loss of his father, and she never tried to claim otherwise. But what it did mean was that Jamie understood the thing that she was struggling to find a way past, the same thing that had tormented him in the months that followed Julian Carpenter’s death: The fact that Shaun was gone, that everything he had ever been, everything he might one day have become, had disappeared into nothing. She was never going to see him again, and neither was anyone else. He wasn’t somewhere else, separated from her by distance or protocol or orders.
He was dead and he was never coming back.
* * *
Paul Turner’s eyes had lit up when Kate entered his office and volunteered for ISAT.
She had spent a lot of time with the security officer since Shaun had died, a mutual support system that had been observed with utter bewilderment by the operators of Blacklight, many of whom had never genuinely allowed for the possibility that Paul Turner might have
human emotions. And, in all honesty, Kate had answered his request to see her the day after Shaun’s death with a significant amount of trepidation; unlike Jamie, she had never spoken privately with the security officer and was not afraid to admit that she was scared of him. But he had welcomed her into his office that dark, terrible day with a warmth that she could never have expected or prepared for. He made her tea and asked her about his son; she told him about her boyfriend, and felt unsteady common ground form beneath them.
Kate had, in fact, become immensely fond of Major Turner, and she was increasingly sure the feeling was mutual. The last time she had gone to visit him, he had mentioned the prospect of her coming to meet Shaun’s mother once all this horror was over. Caroline Turner, who was Henry Seward’s sister as well as Paul’s wife, and who therefore must be going through a hell that Kate couldn’t even begin to imagine, with her son dead and her brother in the hands of the enemy, had apparently asked repeatedly to meet her. She had accepted gladly, and Turner told her they would arrange it when the time was right. As a result, her appearance at his door on the day she volunteered for ISAT was not a surprise. He had welcomed her in and listened as she explained why she was there.
“Are you sure?” he asked, when she had finished.
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” he said, and hugged her. The sensation was so strange that for a long moment she stood stiffly in his arms, before gradually bringing her own up and wrapping them around his broad shoulders.
With Kate onboard, ISAT was ready to go in less than a week. The rooms were equipped, the Intelligence Division briefed, and preliminary interviews carried out on the men and women who would be working for the team. This included Kate and Paul Turner, who insisted on going first. By this point, the Intelligence Division had been carrying out for almost a month the most invasive background checks in the history of the British Intelligence Services; they had been Turner’s first order after Cal Holmwood authorized ISAT. Turner’s check was complete and had come back spotless. But the revised checks were only half of the process; the other half was an interview, with the subject attached to a lie-detector machine more sensitive than any available to the public.
The ISAT machines measured the same variables as regular lie detectors—heart rate, breathing patterns, perspiration, and so on—but did so with a precision that was unmatched. They returned results that were 99.9 percent accurate; from a mathematical perspective, they were as close to infallible as it was possible to be. The Intelligence Division staff had attached pads and wires to Paul Turner’s body, and Kate had asked him the questions they had devised together. He passed—no one had doubted for a second that he would. Then Kate had taken her turn, followed by the eight members of the Intelligence Division that had been assigned to ISAT. All passed, and Major Turner had sent a message to Interim Director Holmwood, telling him they were ready for him.
* * *
That had been yesterday.
Cal Holmwood had also passed, to the surprise of precisely no one, and had given them the final order to begin. To avoid any possible accusations of agenda, they were taking the operators in computer-randomized order. The first of them, Lieutenant Stephen Marshall, looked up as Kate and Turner entered the interview room. The pads and wires were already attached to his body, and his face bore an expression of outright contempt as they took their seats opposite him.
“Lieutenant Marshall,” said Paul Turner. “Do you need anything before we begin?”
Marshall’s face curdled with disgust. “Just get on with it,” he spat.
“As you wish,” replied Turner, and glanced over at Kate. She nodded, then opened her folder of questions to the first page.
“This is ISAT interview 012,” she said. “Conducted by Lieutenant Kate Randall, NS303, 78-J, in the presence of Major Paul Turner, NS303, 36-A. State your name, please.”
“Lieutenant Stephen Marshall.”
Kate looked down at the table; set into its surface was a small screen, angled in such a way that the interviewee could not see it. Two gray boxes filled it; these displayed the results of the two sets of monitoring equipment that were humming quietly away on either side of Lieutenant Marshall’s chair. After a millisecond or two, both boxes turned bright green. She nodded.
“Please answer the following incorrectly,” said Kate. “State your gender.”
Marshall smiled slightly. “Female.”
Both gray boxes turned red.
“Okay,” said Kate. “Let’s get started. Are you a member of Department 19?”
“Yes.”
Green.
“Do you currently hold the rank of lieutenant?”
“Yes.”
Green.
“Are you currently assigned to the Surveillance Division of said Department?”
“Yes.”
Green.
“Do you understand that your position involves the acquisition and analysis of data that is classified above top secret?”
“Yes.”
Green.
“Have you ever used your position for any purpose other than directly specified in your orders?”
Marshall tensed with anger. “No,” he said.
Red.
“I would ask you to think very carefully about your last answer,” said Paul Turner. “Lieutenant Randall is going to ask you the question again.”
Marshall’s face began to color a deep crimson. “This is absolutely—”
“Lieutenant Marshall,” interrupted Kate. “Have you ever used your position for any purpose other than directly specified in your orders?”
“Yes,” spat Marshall. “You obviously know I have.”
Green.
“Please explain the circumstances that led to your last answer,” said Kate.
“My girlfriend and I were having problems,” said Marshall, his face burning red, his voice like ice. “She was acting weird, being secretive, lying about stuff. So I listened in on a couple of her phone calls.”
Green.
“When did this incident take place?” asked Turner, taking over the questioning as Kate sat back in her chair. Marshall stared at her with eyes full of hatred, then turned his attention to the security officer.
The first interview, thought Kate. The very first one and I’ve already made an enemy. Jamie told me they were going to want my head if I did this.
She had no idea how right he was.
6
CIVILIZED MEN
Château Dauncy
Aquitaine, southwestern France
More wine?” The voice was smooth and full of quiet authority.
Admiral Henry Seward nodded, raising his glass with one slightly trembling hand. A servant in immaculate black-and-white eveningwear, his eyes glowing a faint, respectful red, appeared beside him and filled his glass with wine so dark it was almost black. The château’s cellar contained treasures that would have widened the eyes of even the most experienced sommelier, and bottle after stunning bottle was brought up and decanted every evening in anticipation of dinner, even though the diners never numbered more than three, and usually only two.
Such was the case again this evening.
Henry Seward sat at one end of a long table that could easily have seated twenty, while his dinner companion sat at the other. A small team of vampire servants attended to his every request, looks of devoted terror on their supernatural faces, although Seward knew full well it was not him they were scared of.
The source of their fear was sitting at the other end of the table, a gentle smile on his narrow face.
* * *
Vlad Tepes, who had later been known throughout Europe as Vlad Dracul and Vlad the Impaler, and who had eventually come to call himself Count Dracula, sat easily in his chair and regarded his guest. Valeri Rusmanov, who could not be faulted for his loyal
ty or his diligence, but often left much to be desired when it came to manners and etiquette, referred to Seward only as “the prisoner,” which was unacceptable to Vlad. It was factually accurate, but it created an atmosphere he considered unbecoming of civilized men, men who had commanded armies and fought for what they believed in. So he referred to Henry Seward as his guest, and treated him accordingly during the dinners they shared. The treatment the director of Department 19 received in the long hours of darkness after the meals were finished was far less civilized, but was a regrettable necessity of the situation. Regrettable from a perspective of manners, that was. From a personal perspective, Vlad found the nightly torture of Henry Seward utterly delightful.
The first vampire looked down the length of the long table at his guest. Seward was clad in a beautiful dark blue suit that Vlad had ordered made for him by one of the finest boutiques in Paris. He had sent one of Valeri’s servants north to collect it two days earlier and had been pleased to see that it fitted his guest like a glove. He had not been sure that it would; Seward was losing weight rapidly, a result of the deprivations and torments that had been inflicted upon him in the last month. And, despite the elegant shimmer of the suit and the soft lines of the shirt and tie beneath it, the damage inflicted during the long nights could not be completely hidden.
Two fingers were now missing from Henry Seward’s left hand; they had been broken with hammers and torn off at the end of the day the Blacklight director had been delivered to the château by Valeri, who had worn a grin of immense satisfaction on his craggy, mountainous face as he presented his prize to his master. The stumps were bandaged neatly, and the dressings were changed every day by a vampire servant who had once been a doctor. More bandages, small caps of bright white, covered the tips of five of Seward’s remaining fingers, hiding the ragged pink flesh that had been uncovered as his fingernails had been pulled out. It was an ancient torture, one of the very oldest, and although it could not be expected to break a man with as much determination and experience as Henry Seward, it still produced a pitch of scream that was music to Vlad’s ears. It was also a good place to start, an early benchmark to establish, from where things would only get worse the longer the victim held out. And, indeed, they had got much, much worse.