Department 19, The Rising, and Battle Lines

by Will Hill

  He had launched himself across the room, tearing at the walls as he went, gouging long claw-tracks in the old wood, and wrenched the huge oil-painted portrait of the three Rusmanov brothers down from its place on the wall above the fireplace. He had torn it to shreds, his hands little more than a blur, then hurled the pieces through the wall that stood between the study and the chateau’s grounds. The slivers of frame and ancient canvas had been thrown with such force that they had exploded through the wood, leaving a spray of tiny holes that let the cold night air in; it looked as though someone had loaded a shotgun with buckshot and fired it.

  Now he was rampaging through Valeri’s bookcases, a dark blur, barely identifiable as human. Books and parchments, documents and maps – all were obliterated by his frenzied, tearing hands and nails, exploding into the air and falling slowly to the floor like drifting snow. As Valeri watched, completely dumbfounded by the news about Valentin, but filling rapidly with concern at the sight of his master exerting himself so terribly, the door to the study flew open and Benoît, the elegant French vampire who had served as Valeri’s valet for more than a decade, thundered into the room.

  “My lord!” he shouted, over the noise of the carnage. “What on earth is happening in here? I was worried that you were being attacked.”

  Valeri raised his hand towards the butler, and Benoît fell instantly silent. The two vampires stared into the snarling hurricane that was Dracula; as the shelves that had held his now decimated library were smashed to splinters, a fine rain of blood began to fall to the floor beneath Dracula’s blurred feet.

  My lord, thought Valeri. This fury is unsustainable.

  “Master!” he bellowed. The screeching, howling tornado spun to a halt, and Dracula stared at him, his eyes like jet black fire, steaming and burning in their sockets.

  “You dare call for me?” he snarled, and took a step towards Valeri. “Like you would a dog? As I call for you? Your manners have deteriorated in my absence, Valeri. Perhaps a lesson is—”

  Dracula stopped in the middle of his sentence, a strange look crossing his face. The ancient monster’s chest was hammering up and down, his face covered in sweat, and his arms and shoulders were visibly trembling with fury. Then he staggered backwards, and Valeri had time to notice a drip of blood fall from one of his master’s ears, before a thick gout of dark red blood exploded from Dracula’s nose, and his body began to fall apart.

  Blood burst from his hairline, running in rivers down his face, as though a crown of thorns had been forced atop his head. Crimson liquid jetted from beneath his fingernails, and as his eyes lost their fire, they began to bleed too, dark red tears bubbling in the corners and cascading down his cheeks. Valeri watched, horrified, as a patch of skin on his master’s neck dissolved, so quickly and smoothly it was as though it had never been there at all, displaying the tendons, muscles and the pale knot of his spine through the widening hole. Then he moved, praying it was not already too late.

  In a single stride he crossed the room and, without wasting even a second to give his faithful servant the apology he deserved, tore Benoît’s head clean from his shoulders with one smooth jerk of his arms. The head came free with an audible pop as the spine separated; the butler’s face was a mask of utter surprise.

  Valeri hurled the decapitated head aside, and grabbed the headless torso of his companion. Blood was gushing from the open neck like water from a fire hose, splashing against the study’s high ceiling; Valeri shoved his hand into the gaping wound, feeling the warm blood soak his entire arm, and hauled together the erupting ends of the carotid artery and the jugular vein, holding them tightly closed in his superhuman grip. He lifted Benoît’s body effortlessly in his other hand, and flew to his reeling master.

  Dracula was staring up at Valeri with a look of dying outrage on his face; one of his eyes had fallen in, and his face and neck were a sickening patchwork of missing sections of skin, dissolving muscle and disintegrating bone. Blood was coursing out of the bottom of Dracula’s tunic, and was pooling in huge quantities round his feet. His mouth was trying to work; Valeri could see the muscles moving clearly, but could not make out the words his master was trying to form. He ignored them; whatever Dracula was trying to say was not important now.

  Valeri grabbed his master’s jaw, feeling with terrible panic and revulsion the way the flesh gave beneath his fingers, as though it was tissue paper. Dracula’s one remaining eye managed to look affronted at this invasion, but he had not the strength left to attempt to resist. Valeri pulled his master’s mouth open, realising with calm horror that he could see the study wall through the widening holes in the back of Dracula’s head, then shoved Benoît’s neck towards his master’s mouth, and released his grip on the throbbing, pulsing wounds.

  Blood sprayed into Dracula’s mouth in a roaring crimson torrent. The effect was instantaneous; Dracula’s missing eye bubbled back into place, and both burst into flaming red. Valeri felt the flesh beneath his fingers begin to solidify, like cooling wax, and then his master’s hand flew up from his side, and pushed him away across the study. He skidded to a halt and watched as Dracula buried his face in the gushing flow of blood, and drank and drank.

  Minutes passed.

  Valeri stood silently, waiting to do his master’s bidding, as he had been all his adult life. Dracula sucked and bit and chewed at the stump where Benoît’s head had been; the butler’s neck and hands were quickly turning blue as blood left the cooling body in huge gulps.

  Eventually, Dracula stood up, and let the servant’s body fall to the ground.

  Valeri’s master’s face was appalling; it was coated thickly in blood, which dripped heavily on to the study floor. Dracula threw back his head and took a deep breath, then released it as a guttural groan of pleasure; he looked more like his old self than at any time since his resurrection. The air around him seemed to vibrate with power, as though he was at the centre of a strong electric field, and his arms and shoulders rippled with new muscle. He slowly lowered his head, and regarded Valeri with a wide smile. Then he seemed to remember the headless body lying at his feet, and gave it a curious look.

  The butler’s head was lying where Valeri had thrown it, in the far corner of the study; it had landed upright, and appeared to be watching the events with a look of genuine hurt on its pale face.

  Dracula glanced at it, at the body it had been attached to, then raised one of his feet, and stamped it through Benoît’s chest, crunching through the butler’s breastbone and squishing his heart to mush. With a series of low thuds, the body burst; there was so little blood left in it that it did little more than fold in on itself, before disintegrating beneath Dracula’s foot. The red in the ancient vampire’s eyes flared briefly with pleasure, before he turned his attention to Valeri, who had not moved.

  “I cost you your servant,” said Dracula. “I apologise.”

  “Do not trouble yourself, master,” replied Valeri, his voice thick with worry. “Servants come and go, as they always have.”

  Dracula glanced around the study, and appeared to notice for the first time the damage he had inflicted upon it.

  “Did I do this?” he asked, softly. He did not appear to be directing the question to Valeri, who remained silent. “I do not remember.”

  The world’s first vampire walked slowly across the study, his head lowered with confusion. He sat down heavily on the edge of the chaise longue, and looked at Valeri.

  “This group that your brother has allied himself with,” said Dracula. “They are the descendants of the men who pursued me?”

  “Among others, master. They have become significantly more numerous than that, across the years, as I told you.”

  Dracula nodded. “You know where they reside?” he asked.

  “Yes, master,” replied Valeri. “I have the location of their headquarters.”

  “And you have never seen fit to deal with them? You have never simply wiped them from the map?”

  Valeri hesitated. “Mas
ter, Blacklight is both well-manned and well-armed. They monitor the skies around their base for a hundred miles in every direction, and the ground for ten. A frontal assault has never seemed strategically wise.”

  Dracula laughed, a short snort of derision.

  “You always were a coward, Valeri,” he said. “You never had any real stomach for battle, unlike your brothers. There was a reason I always placed you in charge of our defences; you never possessed the audacity necessary for a decisive attack.”

  “I’m sorry I disappointed you, master,” replied Valeri, his jaw set firm.

  The hurt in Valeri’s voice was audible, and Dracula’s face softened as he registered it.

  “I’m sorry, my old friend,” he said, his voice low. “You never did, and I would not have you think otherwise. The battles we won, we won together. Always remember that.”

  “I do, master,” said Valeri, proudly.

  “Do you have the stomach for another?” asked Dracula. “Will you take a company of our kind, go to this Blacklight and do what needs to be done?”

  “I will, master.”

  “Bring me their commander, alive. I would speak with the man who presumes to hunt us. Leave no one else drawing breath. No one.”

  “What of the other descendants of your enemies, my lord?”

  “They are nothing to me,” said Dracula. “The men I would take revenge on are all dead. Kill them all, and let us close this unhappy chapter of our history.”

  “I understand, master.”

  Dracula nodded, then narrowed his eyes.

  “I’m ordering you to kill your brother, Valeri,” he said. “Does this not perturb you?”

  Valeri smiled at his master, a thin look of pure wickedness.

  “Not in the slightest, master.”

  21

  HEROES’ RETURN

  The atmosphere in the back of the van should have been triumphant; instead, it was as cold and treacherous as the surface of a glacier.

  Kate and Larissa were sitting next to each other, their arms folded and their eyes fixed on the wall opposite them. Between their gazes sat Jamie, deliberately looking anywhere other than at either of the two girls. Separated from Squad G-17 by an ultraviolet screen that had been generated more for reasons of protocol than any faith in its effectiveness sat Valentin Rusmanov, his butler Lamberton and Ted Ellison.

  The servant appeared to be asleep, his head resting against the wall, his eyes closed, his hands folded neatly in his lap. Ted unquestionably was asleep; the old man’s chin had descended towards his chest as soon as they pulled away from the Twilight Care Home. Valentin, on the other hand, was wide awake. He was sprawling lazily in his chair, his left foot resting on his right knee, and was watching the three Operators intently.

  They’re so young, he marvelled. They’re just children. But the boy, Jamie, whom the two girls are so angry with, destroyed Alexandru. How is that possible?

  Valentin was hosting a party at his mansion in New York when word reached him of the death of his brother.

  He was sitting on a sofa in one of the rooms on the second floor, sipping a glass of bourbon that was almost as old as the building and smoking Bliss through a clear crystal pipe, watching the show that was being played out in front of him. There were a number of people, men and women, vampires and humans, begging for his attention, but he ignored them all; in the middle of the floor, a small company of actors were acting out the death of Julius Caesar, with the part of the Roman Emperor being played by a human man in his fifties.

  When the scene reached its climax and the vampires thrust their daggers into the man’s flesh, spilling his blood across the wooden floor, Valentin began to applaud. The vampires bowed, before one of them knelt beside the dying man, and gently bit his neck. Within minutes, the newly-turned vampire was back on his feet, his eyes glowing red with pride as he accepted the congratulations of his audience, revelling in his rebirth.

  Around the room, flesh intertwined with flesh, and the air was thick with grunts and muffled screams. The scent of blood filled Valentin’s nostrils, and he savoured it. He had thrown his annual Theatrical Revue for more than a century, yet it was still one of his very favourite nights on the social calendar he maintained; the willingness of mortal men and women to offer up their bodies for the chance of immortality, or just to quench the darkness inside themselves, never ceased to delight him.

  He turned his attention to a woman who was standing against the wall, a look of nervous excitement on her face. She remained within a pace of the door, as though she was not sure whether she had the courage to enter the room and give herself over to what was happening within it, needed to know she was within easy reach of escape if her nerve failed her. The woman was tall and slender, with long curls of strikingly red hair, and Valentin was deciding whether to go and introduce himself or have her brought before him when Lamberton appeared silently at his side, and whispered that he bore bad news.

  Valentin nodded, and followed the servant out of the room. They walked along the corridor towards the stairs that led to Valentin’s private suite of rooms on the building’s uppermost floor, Lamberton following a respectful distance behind his master. They reached the seventh floor, and Lamberton stepped smoothly in front of his master. He opened the study door, stepped inside the room and held it wide.

  Valentin nodded, then made his way to his wide desk as Lamberton turned on the collection of antique lamps that illuminated the study. With the room acceptably lit, he appeared before Valentin’s desk just as his master settled into his chair. His timing was, as always, impeccable.

  “Bad news, you said?” asked Valentin, pouring himself a drink from the crystal decanter on his desk. He could have told Lamberton to do it, but they were long past such petty demonstrations of authority.

  “Yes, sir,” replied Lamberton. “I’m afraid so.”

  “Out with it then,” said Valentin. “I doubt it’s going to get any better the longer I have to wait to hear it.”

  “It’s your brother, sir,” said Lamberton, his voice tinged with exactly the appropriate amount of sensitivity. “Alexandru. I’m afraid he is dead, sir.”

  Valentin’s hand froze halfway to his lips. Then he raised the glass the rest of the way and drained it.

  “Is that so?” he said. “Your source is reliable?”

  “It is, sir,” replied Lamberton. “I sought confirmation before I disturbed you and, regrettably, was able to secure it from a number of trusted acquaintances. I’m very sorry, sir.”

  Valentin nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “Do you know how it happened?”

  “The details are still somewhat unclear, sir. It appears that he was destroyed by Julian Carpenter’s son, in retaliation for the abduction of his mother. That is all that is currently known, sir.”

  “One of the Carpenters,” said Valentin. “I confess to being unsurprised. I warned him that his obsession with avenging Ilyana was dangerous, warned him several times. I have never understood why our kind seeks to provoke the likes of Blacklight; they may be mere insects, but even insects can sting you.”

  “Exactly as you say, sir,” replied Lamberton.

  Valentin nodded, then reached for a second glass and poured a measure of bourbon into both. “Toast my fallen brother with me, Lamberton,” he said, holding one of the glasses out to his servant. “I suppose he deserves that much.”

  Lamberton stepped silently forward and accepted the glass.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, then raised himself straight, as if standing to attention, and lifted his glass into the air. “To Alexandru Rusmanov, who lived life exactly as he pleased.”

  Valentin laughed. “Perfect,” he said. “To my brother. Noroc.”

  “Noroc,” repeated Lamberton, and the two vampires drained their glasses.

  Sitting in the back of the van, with the laughable ultraviolet wall separating him from the three young members of Department 19, Valentin found himself full of an emotion he had not been expect
ing.

  For all their differences, Alexandru had still been Valentin’s brother; the blood that coursed in their veins had been the same. This was why he had sought out Jamie Carpenter, why he had decided to make his offer to him rather than to Henry Seward, who was widely known to be the current Director of Blacklight; because he had needed to see the boy who had destroyed his brother face to face. Now, sitting merely metres away from him, what he felt as he looked at Jamie was not anger, or grief, or the desire for revenge; what he felt was nothing short of admiration.

  The bravery it must have taken for this boy to stand face to face with my brother and not falter, I simply can’t imagine. I would have thought twice about it, had the situation ever arisen.

  It was not merely that Alexandru had been old, or powerful, although he had been both in enormous measure; it was the rampaging flame of madness that burned at the heart of the middle Rusmanov brother which had always made Valentin uneasy.

  As a man, it had been there, buried deep beneath a mostly convincing veil of humanity, appearing rarely and always apparently at random. As a vampire, it had been given free rein, and it had consumed Alexandru from within, until it was all that remained. His sadism, his unpredictability, his absolute lack of interest in the preservation of any life, including his own, had made him less a vampire than a force of nature; he moved through the world like a hurricane, dispensing death and pain and misery wherever he touched down, leaving nothing but devastation behind him.

  Valentin, who considered such indiscriminate carnage to be both reckless and vulgar, had ceased to have anything to do with him several decades earlier. They had last spoken in the aftermath of Ilyana’s death in Hungary, when grief had temporarily overwhelmed madness, and the man Alexandru had once been had resurfaced, if only for a few short days, days in which the middle Rusmanov brother had spoken exclusively of his desire for revenge on Julian Carpenter and his family.