Department 19, The Rising, and Battle Lines

by Will Hill

  There was a murmur of approval from the table, as the waiter poured blood into the delicate crystal glasses that stood in front of each of the guests. When the glasses were full, Dante raised his towards his guests, who lifted theirs in kind.

  “Long life,” he said, solemnly. “Lived to its fullest.”

  The diners repeated the toast, then drank deeply from their glasses. Frankenstein winced at first, as he always did; the blood had thickened since it had been collected, and was unpleasantly lukewarm. But he persevered; the metallic taste of the blood, and the sense of uncompromising, self-loathing decadence that accompanied it, soon overcame his initial distaste.

  The table descended into conversation, and Frankenstein again found himself stranded between two streams of chatter. The woman with the white face was talking to Lord Dante and Latour, leaning so far towards the vampire king that she was in danger of overbalancing in her chair. Latour was unable to complete a sentence; the woman interrupted him every single time, her eyes fixed on Dante, desperate for his attention, and his approval.

  Latour, for his part, appeared amused by her naked hunger, and allowed himself to be overridden. The woman’s husband was attempting to engage the long-haired vampire, who was refusing to offer more to the fledgling conversation than a series of brief, deep grunts. As a result, it was Frankenstein who first heard the commotion in the theatre’s auditorium.

  The sounds coming through the door were muffled by the thick wood, but were nonetheless unmistakable; the grunts and growls of excited vampires, the thunder of running feet and then, clear above the racket, a solitary female scream. The sound, high and full of abject terror, drew the attention of the diners, who turned their gazes to the door.

  “Who disturbs our evening?” asked Lord Dante, his voice full of affront. “Jacques! To me!”

  The door slid open again and the vampire waiter instantly appeared, as though he had been standing on the other side of the door, waiting in case he was needed.

  Probably exactly what he has been doing, thought Frankenstein. Pathetic, subservient creature.

  “Go and learn the nature of this commotion,” ordered Dante. “They all know full well that I expect revelry kept to a minimum when I am entertaining guests.”

  Jacques bowed deeply, crossed the dining room and disappeared through the door.

  “Intolerable,” muttered Dante, shaking his head. “A king should be able to dine in peace, should he not? I ask so little of them, and they treat me thus. Perhaps I need to remind them of their places in the order of things.”

  “Quite right, my lord,” said the woman, enthusiastically. “You should destroy them all.”

  “Perhaps I should,” replied Dante, fixing his dark red eyes on her. “Perhaps I will start with you, if you don’t curb your impertinent tongue. How would that be?”

  The woman shrank back in her chair, a look of fear on her brilliant white features.

  “Your Majesty,” she spluttered. “I must apologise. I-I meant no disres—”

  “Hush your pleading,” said Dante. He was no longer looking at the woman; his attention was firmly fixed on the door. The noise in the auditorium had ceased, and the vampire king and his guests waited for the waiter to return.

  The door slammed open and Jacques backed into the room, hissing and snarling, his red eyes blazing. Held tightly in one of his arms was a blonde girl, no older than twenty-five, her eyes blank with fear. She was struggling in his grip, half-heartedly grabbing and slapping at the arm, but the waiter paid no attention to her in the slightest. Jacques kicked the door violently shut, a low growl dying in his throat as he turned to face the vampire king. The red disappeared from his eyes, and he smoothed himself down with his free hand. The savagery that had been emanating from him as he backed into the room was gone; the servile, neatly groomed waiter had returned.

  “My apologies, Your Majesty,” he said, smoothly. “I would not have had you see me like that.”

  “There is no need to apologise,” replied Lord Dante, although he was not looking at his servant. He was staring with open desire at the girl who had been dragged into the room. “It is not healthy for men such as us to hide our natures at all times. The beast that dwells within us requires release, does it not?”

  “As you say, Your Majesty,” replied Jacques, bowing once more, his grip on the girl remaining tight.

  “Who is this girl that you have brought to join us?”

  “A gift, Your Highness,” said Jacques. “Girard believed she might be to your tastes, and brought her here, as a token of his loyalty and his love for you. Babineaux objected, and tried to take her for himself. The dispute was in full swing when I entered.”

  “Did you resolve it?” asked Dante.

  “I did, Your Majesty.”

  “Satisfactorily?”

  “Not from Babineaux’s perspective, Your Majesty,” replied the butler. “He will make no further attempts to deny the king of Paris what is rightfully his. Or further attempts at anything else, my lord.”

  “Excellent,” said Dante, a cruel smile on his face. “Let me inspect this gift, Jacques. And be sure to send Girard to me before the night ends, so I might make him aware of my gratitude.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” replied Jacques, and held the girl out towards his master. Her head was slumped, her chin resting on her chest. She appeared to be barely conscious. Jacques shook her by the shoulders, and when she failed to respond, reached a gnarled hand around and slapped her pale cheek.

  The sound was like a rifle shot in the small dining room, and the girl’s eyes instantly flared open, rolling around in their sockets before settling on the lustful face of Lord Dante. When she faced him, her eyes widened even further, but Frankenstein, who was watching intently, didn’t believe it was from fear. He felt his muscles tighten involuntarily; to his old eyes, the expression looked like something else.

  It looked like recognition.

  “Pierre?” said the girl, her voice little more than a whisper. “Oh, thank God. Please don’t let them hurt me, Pierre. Please.”

  The smile on Lord Dante’s face didn’t so much as flicker, but something in his eyes changed. Frankenstein, who had turned his attention to his host, saw it happen, and realised with a rush of savage pleasure that it was fear.

  The vampire king was afraid.

  Why, though? he wondered. Why does this girl frighten him?

  “Leave us, Jacques,” said Dante, his smile rigid.

  The waiter released the girl, who didn’t move; she was staring at the vampire king with a look of salvation on her face, her hands clasped between her breasts. Jacques bowed, and backed out of the dining room, leaving Dante alone with his guests, and the gift that had been given to him.

  The atmosphere in the room had suddenly become charged, to the obvious bafflement of the vampire king’s guests. Latour, who was looking at the girl with outrage written all over his face, was the first to speak.

  “Wench,” he hissed. “You dare speak to Lord Dante in such a familiar manner? You are addressing a being to whom you are less than nothing, who has lived for four centuries and more. You will bow your head before you speak to him again, and you will refer to him as Your Majesty. If you do not, I will tear the tongue from your head.”

  The girl looked at him, tears brimming in the corners of her eyes.

  “B-but,” she replied, her voice quavering, “I… I know him. He lived in Saint-Denis, when I, when I was growing up. His name is Pierre Depuis. Or it w-was. He disappeared when I was just a little girl, more than t-twenty years ago. Everyone thought… everyone thought he was dead.”

  “Kill her, Latour,” said Dante, his face colouring a red so deep it was almost purple. “I would hear no more of her ravings.”

  Latour leapt from his chair, his eyes colouring red. The white-faced woman did likewise, and grabbed the girl by her shoulders, causing her to shriek with fear.

  “Wait!” boomed Frankenstein. He had not taken his eyes from D
ante’s face, nor had he moved in his seat. The volume of his voice and obvious severity in the tone made both Latour and the woman hesitate.

  “You contradict me, monster?” hissed Lord Dante. “In this place, you would do so? You would dare?”

  Frankenstein looked evenly at his host. “Do you know what she is talking about, Dante?” he asked.

  “Of course not,” blustered the vampire king. “She has clearly mistaken me for some peasant boy.”

  Frankenstein glanced at the girl, who was openly trembling.

  “She seems quite sure,” he said. “Why do you suppose that might be?”

  “I have no idea,” replied Lord Dante. “Are you asking me to attempt to understand the thinking of this girl? I cannot begin to perceive the primitive way her mind works. Now kill her, Latour, while the mood of the evening might still be salvaged.”

  Latour looked at Dante, then back at Frankenstein. His face wore a look of confusion, and a conflict of loyalty was evident in his eyes.

  “W-why would you want to hurt me, Pierre?” asked the girl, tears now flowing down her face. “What d-did I ever d-do to you?”

  Lord Dante leapt to his feet, so quickly that it was impossible to see the movement. His eyes burst crimson, and he swept the glasses, bottles, china plates and silver cutlery from the table, where they crashed against one of the red walls.

  “Enough!” he screamed, his voice high and furious. “That is more than enough! I am Dante Valeriano, the vampire king of Paris, and I have never heard of this man you are mistaking me for. Now kill her, Latour – I command you to kill her!”

  Latour didn’t move.

  He was staring at Frankenstein, a pleading look on his face. The monster realised that everyone around the table was looking at him, that the authority in the room was shifting away from the vampire king. Dante followed the gazes of his guests, and realised it too.

  “You doubt me, Frankenstein?” he asked, his voice full of menace. “After all the time we have spent in each other’s company, you doubt me?”

  The monster ignored him, and stared around at his guests.

  “Tell me,” he said, his voice like rumbling boulders. “How long have any of you ladies and gentlemen actually known our illustrious host?”

  The cowed man, the husband of the white-faced woman, wiped his brow with a handkerchief, and looked at Frankenstein.

  “Well, sir,” he said, nervously. “Of course we have only had the pleasure of Lord Dante’s presence among us these last ten years or so. It is common knowledge that before that he was in seclusion, avoiding the Tartars who had been sent to bring his head to Moscow.”

  He smiled, like a schoolboy who is relieved to have been asked a question to which he knows the answer. Frankenstein thanked him, then turned a gaze of utter contempt towards Dante, who visibly recoiled.

  “You mongrel,” growled the vampire king. “You dare doubt that I am who—”

  “I dare,” interrupted Frankenstein, pushing his chair backwards and rising to his full, towering height. “I doubt you, my lord. I have seen better fakers and far better liars than you this past century, and I doubt you. I call you Pierre Depuis, of Saint-Denis. I call you a fraud.”

  “Kill him!” shrieked Dante. “Kill them both, and bring me their lying tongues on—”

  Thunk.

  Dante’s eyes widened. He looked at Frankenstein, then followed his gaze down to the monster’s outstretched arm. The pale grey-green hand at the end of it was gripping the handle of the heavy kukri knife the monster always wore on his belt. The thick, heavy silver blade was buried up to the hilt in the vampire king’s chest, pinning him solid to the wall behind him. Frankenstein had moved so quickly that nobody had realised what was happening until it was already done.

  Dante reached out a trembling hand towards the monster, then watched with uncomprehending horror as it began to dissolve before his eyes, falling apart into wet chunks of scarlet flesh that pattered on to the table. Then, just as quickly, it began to regrow, new muscle knitting, new skin bursting into place. As it did so, his neck began to slide apart, then stopped, and repaired as his arm had done. A thick gout of blood exploded from the vampire king’s chest, then was stilled. Dante’s face began to melt into blood, then solidified, then melted, then solidified, as he stared down at the blade that had crunched through the centre of his heart.

  For a moment, the dining room was utterly still. Then the white-faced woman shrieked, and the vampire guests leapt back from their chairs, their eyes flooding red, their fangs bursting into view. Latour stood, frozen to the spot, staring at the stricken vampire king.

  Frankenstein didn’t wait.

  He leapt over the table towards the long-haired man, his vast size driving the vampire back against the wall. Without looking, he reached out, grabbed the white face of the woman and smashed her head against the wall. She went to the floor, blood spraying from the holes her fangs had punched in her own lips. Frankenstein kicked out to his right, connecting solidly with the woman’s partner and sending him sprawling. Before either had a chance to get back to their feet, he pulled a short dagger from inside his waistcoat and plunged it into the long-haired vampire’s chest.

  The vampire exploded, soaking Frankenstein from head to toe in steaming gore. He turned away, appearing not to notice. The side door to the dining room crashed open, and Jacques stepped through it, his eyes blazing, drawn by the pungent scent of fresh blood. He stopped dead in his tracks, staring at his master; it gave Frankenstein all the time he needed. He thrust the dagger into the waiter’s back, and was moving again as the servant exploded, showering his gaping master with blood.

  He advanced on the white-faced woman, who was hauling herself to her feet. She raised her hands to protect herself as Frankenstein, a giant blood-soaked nightmare, bore down on her. The dagger went clean through her left palm, pushing the hand backwards as it thudded into her chest, cleaving her heart in two. She burst like a balloon, but Frankenstein was already moving again, and the blood splashed across his broad back. The woman’s husband was backing away, an apologetic look on his face, his hands out in placation.

  “Please,” he said. “Please don’t. I’ll leave, I’ll—”

  What he was offering to do, Frankenstein would never know. The dagger flashed out for a fourth time, and a millisecond later a final eruption of blood soaked the dining room. The four vampires had been destroyed in less than ten seconds, and their destroyer whirled to face the head of the table, where Dante was still gasping incredulously at the injury that had been done to him, where both the girl and Latour were staring at him with frozen horror.

  “We must go, Latour,” said Frankenstein. “Right now.”

  Latour glanced at Lord Dante. The fraudulent vampire king was staring in horror, as his body threatened to dissolve then healed, over and over again.

  “What have you done to him?” whispered Latour. “What dark magic is this?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Frankenstein. “Nor do I care. Take hold of the girl, and let us leave, while we are able to do so.”

  Latour’s gaze flicked between the girl, Dante and Frankenstein. His face was a mask of torment.

  “Last chance, my friend,” said Frankenstein. “Are you coming or not?”

  Latour said nothing, but a look of terrible shame passed across his face.

  It was all Frankenstein needed to see. He stepped forward quickly and grabbed the blonde girl. She cried out as his mottled fingers closed round her forearm, but when he hauled her towards the door, she went willingly. He paused for a moment, placing his ear to the door, then pushed it open. He cast a final look back into the blood-soaked room, and saw Dante staring at him, a wide-eyed expression of utter outrage on his face. Then he was gone, pulling the girl behind him.

  The following morning, Frankenstein stood outside an elegant stone building on Rue Scribe, and took a deep breath.

  He had dragged the unprotesting girl, whose name he eventually discovered was
Daphne, through the theatre of La Fraternité de la Nuit, without attracting so much as a glance from the assembled vampires; the destruction of Babineaux had thinned the crowd, and those that remained were focused on the stage, where two female vampires were deflowering an adolescent boy.

  Frankenstein had pushed through the foyer, abandoning his overcoat, and out into the Paris night. Only once they were clear of the theatre, and had attained some measure of safety, did Daphne begin to cry. Tears spilled from her eyes, and her legs gave way beneath her; she would have fallen had Frankenstein not caught her by the waist. He had taken her to a small hotel on Rue Saint-Claude, and coaxed her gently on to the bed. She had lain awake for a long time, staring at him, but thankfully she had been unwilling, or unable, to ask any questions.

  He had no answers for her.

  Eventually, she slept. Frankenstein stared out of the hotel room’s window, and as he watched the sun rising to the east, he made a decision.

  For as long as he could remember, he had considered himself worthless. The circumstances of his birth, the recycled nature of his very body, had made it an easy conclusion to reach, and what he had done to Victor Frankenstein, the man whom he had eventually come to recognise as his father in every way apart from the biological, whose name he had ultimately taken in a belated attempt to honour the dead man, had confirmed it.

  He had intended to die in the Arctic, had believed he deserved to, was looking forward to welcoming the end. But a Norwegian explorer vessel had denied him even that most fundamental of rights, the right to end one’s own life. He had been suffering from advanced hypothermia when they found him, and had been unable to articulate that he did not want, or deserve, their assistance. Instead, they had nursed him back to health, and several months later, his recuperation complete, he had arrived in Paris.

  The pleasures of the night came easily to him because he believed, deep inside his tortured soul, that he was less than human, and therefore that human morals and human decency need not apply to him. He had done terrible things in the decade he had spent in the French capital, under the cover of darkness, and the long shadow of war. In Latour he had found someone similarly unburdened by guilt, or by conscience, and they had indulged the very worst of themselves, together. And when the doubts came, as they occasionally did in the dead of the night, as he was washing blood from his hands or shivering through an opiate haze, he pushed them away. He would not listen; doubts were for the good, for the human.