Darkest Night

by Will Hill

  “Yes, sir,” said Matt. “And Kate. And Jamie and Larissa. And about a million other things.”

  I know exactly what you mean, thought Turner.

  “There’s a remarkable amount happening at the moment,” he said, “so I’ll get straight to the point. We’ve spoken before about your unique status inside the Lazarus Project.”

  Matt nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “You were removed from the active roster when Lazarus was founded, but you are still an Operator,” said Turner. “And every Operator in the Department is going to France tomorrow to fight Dracula.”

  The Director watched Matt closely as he spoke. He prided himself on his ability to read people, but the teenager’s reaction required none of his skill to interpret; the colour drained from his face as an expression of profound terror rose on to it.

  “Lieutenant Browning?” he said. “Is there anything you want to say?”

  This was the key test, as far as he was concerned. He had no intention of forcing the brilliant, gentle teenager to fight, but he would only excuse him if Browning didn’t ask him to. If Matt showed the bravery expected of every member of his Department, Turner would show him the mercy he unquestionably deserved for everything he had done; if he showed cowardice, his Director would not be so lenient.

  Browning was staring at him, his eyes wide, his face almost translucent.

  “Matt?” he said. “I asked you a question. Is there anything you want to say to me?”

  The teenager swallowed hard, and shook his head. “No, sir,” he said. “When will I receive my orders?”

  Good boy, thought Turner.

  “You won’t,” he said, and sat back in his chair. “Public distribution of the cure will continue regardless of what’s taking place in Carcassonne, so you will not be allowed to go to France. I’m sure this will be disappointing, but I’m afraid my decision is final.”

  The expression of relief that appeared on Matt Browning’s face was one of the most heart-warming things Paul Turner had ever seen.

  “If you say so, sir,” said the teenager.

  “I do,” said Turner. “Get back to work, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”

  Matt walked stiffly along Level A until he reached the lift at the far end. He stepped through the doors, pressed the button marked F, and slumped against the metal wall, his head lowered as he fought back tears of relief.

  He could not have accurately articulated what he was feeling; the jumble of emotions was too strong, too varied. As awful a prospect as it was, if he had been ordered to go to France, he would have gone, and tried not to embarrass himself or get anyone else hurt. But he would have been afraid.

  So very, very afraid.

  As the lift slowed, he said a silent thank you. He knew the Director had lied to him; distribution of the cure did not require his supervision, and was no reason for him to be excused from the battle that would begin in barely twenty-four hours. What Paul Turner had done was show him mercy in the guise of orders.

  Thank you, sir. Thank you.

  Matt exited the lift and walked the familiar route towards the Lazarus Project. As he extended his ID card towards the black panel on the wall outside the door, guilt slammed into him, hot and sharp. What kind of person would accept a Get Out Of Jail Free card when his friends were getting ready to risk their lives? What did it say about him? Was it the action of the man he had started to believe he was becoming?

  I wouldn’t be any use, he told himself. I’d just get in the way, and I’d only make everything worse.

  That isn’t the reason, whispered a voice in the back of his head. Be honest with yourself, if nobody else.

  Matt grimaced.

  Fine. If I went to France, I would die. And I don’t want to die.

  He pressed his ID to the panel and opened the door. A few of his colleagues smiled at him and returned to their work; the majority of them didn’t so much as look round. Only a single pair of eyes stayed fixed on him: the beautiful grey gaze of Natalia Lenski. He gave her a tight smile, and nodded towards the corner of the laboratory. She immediately got up from her desk and made her way over; he walked along the edge of the room to meet her.

  “Are you all right?” she whispered. “What did Major Turner want?”

  “I’m fine,” said Matt. “He wanted to tell me that I’m not allowed to go to France, even though I’m technically still an Operator. I have to stay here.”

  Natalia grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “That is good news,” she said. “That is very good news.”

  “I suppose so,” he said. “I was relieved, though, Natalia. I was so relieved. Maybe I’m just a coward.”

  Natalia frowned at him. “That is stupid,” she said. “There are many ways of fighting. What we have done here, what you have done, has changed the battle before it even starts. Without PROMETHEUS, it would be much harder for Jamie and Larissa and the others. So, what? You should go and die, in France, just to prove that you are brave?”

  Matt blinked. “I …”

  “Turner ordered you to stay here because you are not a soldier. Do you want to be a soldier?”

  “No.”

  “Then it is good,” said Natalia, and smiled at him. “OK?”

  Matt looked at her. The guilt still lurked in the pit of his stomach, squirming and pulsing; he knew it would not disappear until the people he cared about returned home safely, which he understood was far from a certainty. But at the same time, he knew Natalia was right.

  He nodded. “OK.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  Matt nodded again, more convincingly.

  “I’m sure,” he said. “But if I’m not going to France, I want to do something useful. If we defeat Dracula, we’re going to see a lot more vampires come forward for the cure, not to mention the Operators who’ve been turned for PROMETHEUS. I want to see if we can improve the formula, make it quicker and less painful. They shouldn’t have to be cured in padded rooms.”

  Natalia smiled at him. “That sounds like a much better use of your talents,” she said. “So back to work, then?”

  Matt returned her smile and nodded. “Back to work.”

  Victor Frankenstein woke with a heavy heart, wondering if this was going to be the last morning he saw.

  He knew it was a possibility; he had long been someone who believed there was nothing to be gained by lying to himself. His previous stubborn refusal to accept reality, regarding certain situations and people, had caused much of the trouble that had befallen him in the first two centuries of his life; it was one of many things that had changed on the snowy New York night he had sworn his oath to John Carpenter, altering the trajectory of his life forever.

  The monster lifted his uneven arms above his head, stretched his recycled muscles until they creaked, then set about making coffee. His head felt thick and fuzzy, like it had on so many mornings in Paris and Istanbul and Rome, like it had during the dark, whisky-soaked months after he had regained his memory and been brought home to the Loop. He had not touched a single drop the night before, however; this was something deeper than a hangover, a tiredness that seemed to radiate from inside his bones. Frankenstein pulled on his uniform as the kettle rattled, then poured himself a mug of coffee so dark and threatening it looked like it was made of antimatter. He took a sip, grimaced, then drained the mug and poured another.

  For the last six months or so, the monster had felt like a ghost. His condition put him out of commission for three days of every month, leaving him squarely on the sidelines as the country went into meltdown before their eyes and the Department tried frantically to keep its head above water. He had watched as the boy he had sworn to protect had first been turned into a vampire, then rejected him utterly for a betrayal the teenager could not forgive. Frankenstein understood now that he had made a terrible mistake by not telling Jamie that his father was still alive; he had prioritised the Carpenter that was broken – the one that had been his closest friend – over the one who had really need
ed him, and he would always regret it. But if he was going to die today, he was not going to do so without trying one final time to fix the only thing left that mattered.

  Frankenstein stepped out of the lift on Level B and strode along the curved corridor until he reached the door of Jamie’s quarters. He took a deep breath, collected himself, and knocked sharply on it.

  A faint groan rang out from inside the room, followed by scuffling sounds and the heavy thuds of disengaging locks. The door swung open, and Jamie appeared. His eyes were red and bleary with tiredness, until they settled on the monster, and sprang open wide.

  “What do you want?” asked Jamie.

  “To talk to you,” said Frankenstein.

  “Not interested,” said the teenager, and swung the door shut.

  The monster jammed a boot inside the frame. “Five minutes,” he said.

  Jamie glanced down; when he raised his head, red fire was flickering in his eyes. “Move your foot.”

  “No.”

  “Move it or I’ll move you.”

  Frankenstein met the teenager’s gaze. For a long moment, neither man moved; they stood in silence that was thick with tension. Eventually, after an unknowable amount of time, Jamie sighed.

  “Five minutes,” said the teenager, and backed into his quarters.

  Frankenstein nodded, and followed him inside. Jamie strode across the room, flopped down into his chair, and folded his arms across his chest, an impatient look on his face. Frankenstein shut the door and faced him.

  “Well?” said Jamie. “Talk.”

  Stay calm, he told himself. Don’t let his petulance get to you.

  “In a few hours, we’ll be in France,” said Frankenstein. “And you know as well as I do that a lot of people are going to die.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” said Jamie. “I do know that.”

  Calm.

  “Fine,” he said. “I know you’d prefer it if I wasn’t part of the strike team, and I understand that, but Paul’s right. We’re going to have to work together, whether you like it or not. Personal feelings have to be put aside.”

  “I’m totally fine,” said Jamie. “You should worry about yourself.”

  “You’re totally fine?”

  “Isn’t that what I just said?”

  “It is,” said Frankenstein. “I just don’t believe you.”

  Jamie’s eyes flashed red. “I stopped giving a shit about what you believe a long time ago.”

  “I know,” said Frankenstein. “When you found out your father was still alive. And that I hadn’t told you.”

  “I don’t want to talk about him,” growled Jamie.

  “Are you sure?”

  The teenager stared, his face darkening with anger. “Why are you here?” he said, eventually. “Do you want me to forgive you? Because that’s not going to happen.”

  Frankenstein shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t want you to forgive me. I want you to forgive yourself.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I should have told you your father was alive,” he said, and took a step forward. “I thought my loyalty to him took precedence over my loyalty to you, and I made a decision that I will always regret. I can’t blame you for believing I let you down, and I’m not going to tell you that you’re wrong to do so. But what I am going to tell you is that you are not your father, no matter how much you may fear that you are. You took the truth about him out on Larissa, and she left you, just like Julian did. You couldn’t bring yourself to tell her you needed her, just like Julian was too proud to ask for help when Alexandru Rusmanov was moving against him, and you ended up alone. But you’re strong, Jamie, far stronger than he was when he was your age, so you get up every morning and put one foot in front of the other, because you’ve convinced yourself that your mother needs you, that your friends need you, that the entire Department needs you. And you’re right, they do. But I don’t think you’ve ever dealt with what your father being alive really meant.”

  Jamie didn’t say a word. The colour had drained from his face, leaving it ghostly pale.

  “I know you grieved for him,” continued Frankenstein, “and I know that what happened that night has come to define you, to provide you with the fuel that keeps you going. So if you can’t see why you pushed everyone away as soon as you knew he was still alive, why you’ve been taking so many risks and putting yourself in so many dangerous situations, then you’re either not as clever as I think you are or you simply don’t want to see the truth.”

  Jamie stared at him. The red fire in his eyes was gone, replaced by a glistening shimmer.

  Say something, thought Frankenstein. Anything.

  “That’s the most I’ve ever heard you say,” said Jamie, his voice low.

  “It needed saying,” said Frankenstein. “I might not get another chance.”

  “Is that why you said it? Because we’re going to France in a few hours?”

  He shook his head. “I know you’ll do your job, whatever you might think of me,” he said. “And I will always try to protect you, whether you like it or not. I said it because I care about you a great deal, Jamie, and if the worst should happen, I want to know I tried everything I could to make you see that. Because I don’t want anything left unsaid.”

  “I know you care about me,” said Jamie, his face creasing with pain. “I never doubted that. That wasn’t the problem.”

  Frankenstein didn’t respond; it felt like a crack had appeared in the high walls the teenager had put up around himself, and he didn’t want to do or say anything that stopped it from widening.

  “I mourned him,” said Jamie, his voice little more than a whisper. “My dad. We buried him, and we mourned him, and for a long time I was lost. Then you saved me from Alexandru, and brought me here, and I found a place where I felt like I belonged. I didn’t think I’d ever trust anyone again, but I trusted you, and I trusted Henry Seward, and Cal Holmwood. Paul Turner. Even Valentin, for God’s sake. But then you disappeared, and Henry was taken, and Cal died. I got you back, but for a long time you weren’t the same. You know that, right?”

  Frankenstein nodded. “I know.”

  “My dad turning out to be alive wasn’t the problem. It really wasn’t. What killed me was finding out that you and Larissa had known about it. I was so angry with you both, so angry that I could barely speak, could barely be around anyone, but what did it get me? I lost you both. That’s all. I couldn’t apologise to Larissa because she was gone, and I couldn’t bring myself to apologise to you, even though I knew I should. I just couldn’t bear the thought of being let down again. Can you understand that?”

  Frankenstein’s heart thudded with pain. “Yes,” he said. “Better than you know, Jamie. I understand hating yourself, and I understand putting walls up so you can’t be hurt. But it was your grandfather who showed me that living like that isn’t really living. Yes, other people can hurt you, and sometimes they do, whether they mean to or not. But you can’t exist alone.”

  “Kate’s hurt,” said Jamie. “Larissa is back, but she isn’t really. If we survive Carcassonne, she’ll go, and it will be only a matter of time until Matt goes too. My mum is all I’ve got left.”

  Frankenstein took another step forward. “That’s not true,” he said. “Not unless you want it to be. I’m here, and so are Ellison and Qiang, and Paul, and Angela Darcy, and Jack Williams, and dozens of other people who care about you. You’re not alone. Maybe you’ve convinced yourself that it would be easier if you were, but you’re not. After today, you’re going to have to start accepting that.”

  Jamie grunted. “If we’re still alive.”

  “That’s right,” said Frankenstein. “I’ve told you everything I came here to tell you, Jamie. Is there anything you want to say?”

  Jamie smiled. “See you in the hangar?”

  Frankenstein grunted with laughter. “Indeed you will.”

  He turned towards the door. As he took hold of the handle, Jamie said his na
me, and he turned back to see the teenager looking at him with an expression of affection that momentarily warmed his heart.

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you,” said Jamie.

  “For what?”

  “Caring enough to say what you said.”

  Frankenstein smiled.

  “It’s all right, son,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “It’s going to be all right.”

  A wry smile rose on to Jamie’s face. “I don’t believe you,” he said. “But that’s OK.”

  I don’t want anything left unsaid, thought Jamie. Absolutely right.

  He was still sitting in his chair, staring at the door that Frankenstein had exited through five minutes earlier, trying to process what had just happened. The sight of the monster when he opened the door had filled him with a bitter cocktail of anger and disappointment, the same emotions he had felt whenever he had seen him in the last six months or so. Now, barely fifteen minutes later, what he was feeling was an overwhelming sense of relief, as though a huge weight had finally been removed from his shoulders and set aside.

  Both Kate and Matt had asked him many times whether he missed Frankenstein, and he had never lied to them by saying no. He had told them that he did, of course he did, but that he could not forgive the monster for what he had done, and didn’t think he would ever be able to. But now, staring around his empty quarters, he realised how wrong he had been; in the end, he had forgiven him as easily and completely as if Frankenstein had borrowed a pen and forgotten to give it back.

  He got to his feet, walked across the room and opened the door, and was halfway down the corridor towards the lift before it had even swung shut behind him.

  Jamie strode down the cellblock, bracing himself to see his mother for the first time since she had been cured.

  It had almost come as a surprise to him when Larissa had asked how his mother was and he had admitted that he hadn’t seen her since she had been discharged from the infirmary; the last seventy-two hours had been so utterly hectic – even by the standards of Blacklight – that he had simply forgotten about her.

  It hurt his heart to admit it, but it was the truth.