Department 19

by William Hill

  He passed a table full of sleek young men, their dinner suits gleaming black, the pleats razor sharp, and he found himself unable to look away. There was something intoxicating about them, the cigarettes dangling casually from their pale fingers, the easy manner of their conversation, the—

  “Watch where you’re going, for heaven’s sake,” said a loud voice.

  Carpenter pulled his gaze from the table, sought the source of the reprimand, and felt his heart lurch. In front of him stood a large, stocky man wearing a carved vulture mask, from the eyeholes of which flashed a dark red glow. The man leaned forward, peering at Carpenter. He seemed about to speak when a young woman in a black dress danced into him, and he spun around and berated her for her clumsiness. When he turned back toward Carpenter, the glow from the mask was gone, and the man shoved roughly past him and disappeared.

  I saw them, though. I saw his eyes. What is this place?

  He worked his way to the long bar and was about to place an order when he saw a skeletally thin shape in the corner of his eye and turned toward it.

  Jeremiah Haslett was standing fifteen feet away from him, leaning on the corner of the wooden bar, talking to a beautiful blonde woman who could barely have been more than a teenager. He was wearing a red velvet eye mask and a triangular hat, but Carpenter recognized the sharp nose and the thin, cruel mouth from the photographs that had belatedly filled the London newspapers.

  Carpenter reached into his pocket, withdrew a narrow wooden stake, and let his arm drop to his side, concealing the weapon in his hand. He stepped forward, slowly, not wishing to announce his presence before it was necessary, then suddenly found the path to his target blocked by a group of laughing men and women, as they carried a tray of drinks and cigars away from the bar and back to the tables. He pushed one of the women gently out of the way, trying not to lose sight of his quarry, and she rounded on him, hissing loudly, the same dark red glow emanating from the holes in her delicate feathered mask. His heart leapt, but he stepped past her.

  Haslett was gone.

  Carpenter cursed and ran to where his quarry had stood, attracting looks of disapproval from the throng of drinking, dancing men and women. He looked around in every direction, but there was no sign of the Englishman.

  Behind him the band struck up a new number, and the activity on the dance floor intensified. A grandfather clock set between two long mirrors behind the bar tolled once, and Carpenter looked at it; the hands on the ornate face told him that it was a quarter to midnight.

  He no longer wanted another drink. He pushed on into the crowd, looking for Haslett, or for Frankenstein, but could see neither man. He passed a heavy locked door that he presumed led into the rest of the house, then found himself caught among a large group of guests and was carried out onto the dance floor, his feet barely touching the ground.

  He pulled free of the good-natured hands that grabbed at his arms and spun, disorientated. He tried to make his way toward the band, but a pretty redheaded woman blocked his path, smiling seductively at him, the tips of her incisors sharp and gleaming beneath the fractured light of the enormous crystal chandelier that hung above them. He turned about and struck out in the opposite direction but had no more success. A ring of men and women rotated in a frenzied circle of kicking feet and flailing arms, their momentum spinning him like a top. As a young man swung past him, his long blond hair flying out behind him, Carpenter saw the red glow beneath the material of his feline mask, and his skin ran cold. He turned and almost ran into the wide chest of an elderly man, who was dancing with great enthusiasm with a girl young enough to be his granddaughter. The man turned and snarled at him, his white mask glowing red, two pointed teeth appearing beneath his upper lip.

  Oh God, there are hundreds of them. What have I done?

  He reached into his pocket and pulled the stake free, but a girl wearing a diamond tiara above a Japanese kabuki mask thumped into him, and the weapon clattered to the floor. He swore beneath his breath and stooped to look for it, but a dozen feet kicked it beyond his reach. Carpenter stood up and a wave of terror so strong it was almost physical flooded through him.

  Standing before him was a luminously elegant man. He wore no mask, and his face, the features hinting at an eastern European ancestry, was so pale it was almost transparent, the veins tracing a faint pattern of blue across the milky flesh. Around them the dancing seemed to have intensified, if that were possible, yet no one collided with the man, or even appeared to come close to doing so. It was as though he were surrounded by a magnetic field that repelled the revelers.

  It is him. Dear God, it really is. The youngest of the three.

  Valentin Rusmanov regarded Carpenter with a look that made him feel like a specimen in a laboratory. The man’s eyes were the same pale blue as the veins beneath his skin and had a hypnotic quality; he felt himself sinking into them and struggled to pull his gaze away. He was about to say something, although he had no idea what it was going to be, when thundering peals of bells began to count the chimes of midnight.

  Everything stopped. The chimes rang on, three, four, five, but they were now the only sound in the room. The dancing had ceased, as had all conversation. Carpenter looked around, sure what he would see, but fear still flooded his system when he saw that he was right.

  Everyone in the room was staring silently at him.

  The final chime rang out, echoing in the quiet air, and from the back of the room a voice shouted, “Unmask!” There was a second of hesitation, then Valentin nodded, and there was a frenzy of movement as the guests removed their masks, a red glow filling the room as they did so. Carpenter looked around helplessly as the hundreds of men and women turned back to face him.

  He was surrounded by vampires.

  They regarded him with smiles on their faces, their fangs now fully extended, their eyes gleaming terrible crimson.

  This is how it ends. Torn to pieces on my first mission. My father would be ashamed.

  23

  ROUND TWO

  Jamie marched along the cellblock corridor, Frankenstein following a couple of steps behind. Jamie had refused to go to the infirmary and have his neck properly dressed, had not even changed his acrid-smelling uniform. Several Blacklight operators had stared at the white wad of bandages as he stormed through the hangar, the huge colonel following in his wake.

  Jamie stopped in front of Larissa’s cell, the UV wall shimmering in front of him. She was lying on her bed, her eyes already fixed on him, as though she had been expecting him to arrive. Then Jamie realized that she had probably heard him from the first moment he entered the block; he found it strangely easy to forget that she was a vampire.

  She smiled at him, and then the smile died on her lips as Frankenstein stepped into her field of vision and stood next to Jamie. She had a book splayed over her lap, and she immediately brought it up to her face, obscuring it from their view.

  “I need to talk to you,” said Jamie.

  The book didn’t move.

  “Did you hear me?” he asked, anger rising in his voice. “I said I need to talk to you.”

  “I heard you,” said Larissa, from behind the book. “And there’s nothing I’d like more in the world than to talk to you back. But I don’t do threesomes.”

  Frankenstein muttered something under his breath.

  “Nothing personal,” said Larissa.

  Jamie looked at the monster, ready to plead with him to leave them alone, but Frankenstein was already turning away from him.

  “Thank you,” he shouted, as the huge man’s footsteps thumped away along the corridor. When the door at the end of the block clanged shut, Larissa put the book down, jumped off the bed, and walked over to him, a wide smile on her face.

  “I knew you would be back,” she said.

  “This isn’t a social visit,” Jamie said, sharply.

  Her eyes dropped from his as he spoke, and then widened as she observed the bandage over the right side of his neck. “What happened t
o you?” she asked. “Don’t tell me someone bit you?”

  The concern in her voice made Jamie’s heart flutter. “Nothing like that,” he replied. “I got burned. On a mission.”

  “A mission!” she exclaimed. “Was it a super secret one? I bet it was. Ooh, tell me all about it!”

  Jamie blushed a deep scarlet, and Larissa laughed.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “You just looked so serious with your bandaged neck and your dirty uniform. Did you come down here to tell me off?”

  “I came down here to ask you about Alexandru,” he said. “I came down here because I thought you might be the one person willing to help me.”

  Larissa tilted her head to one side and fluttered her eyelashes.

  “That’s so sweet,” she said, choking back fake emotion. “Am I your only hope?”

  Jamie turned away from her and strode up the corridor, forcing himself to slow his pace, determined that he would not run away.

  “Wait,” she called, and he stopped. “Please. Come back. I was only playing.”

  He stood in the corridor, between two empty cells, breathing hard. It was embarrassment that had caused him to run, embarrassment that she was not taking him seriously. And although he couldn’t have explained why, it was imperative to him that she do so. He composed himself and walked slowly back to her cell.

  She smiled as he reappeared, but he saw the last flicker of genuine concern on her face, and he was glad.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I haven’t spoken to anyone for two days. The guards don’t even look at me.”

  Then they’re idiots, Jamie thought, and blushed.

  Larissa sat down cross-legged on the floor of her cell, and waited for him to do the same. He folded himself crouching to the ground, carefully, moving his neck as little as was possible, and then they were facing each other, no more than three feet apart, the UV field flickering between them.

  “Will you tell me where Alexandru is?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t know. Honestly.”

  “Will you tell me where the last place you saw him was?”

  She shook her head again, causing a lock of dark hair to fall across her forehead. Jamie tried not to look at it; the urge to brush it away was overwhelming.

  “Why not?”

  “Because if I tell you, I’ll never leave this cell again.”

  “I can talk to them—”

  “It won’t work. I’ll take you there, but I won’t tell you. I hope you can understand the difference.”

  Jamie lowered his head. He knew she was right. If she admitted to not knowing anything, Seward would have her destroyed; if she told him what she did know, Seward would have her destroyed. Her only chance was to admit she had information, refuse to reveal it, and hope they became desperate enough to play the game on her terms.

  He looked up. “So, you’re useless then?” he said, as spitefully as he was able.

  She flinched, and a tremor of hurt rippled momentarily across her face.

  Good. Good.

  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you,” she said, sounding for the first time like the teenager she had been before she was turned. “I just won’t tell you where I last saw Alexandru. Ask me something else.”

  “There’s nothing else I want to know.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. All that matters is him—and my mother.”

  “You’re really worried about her, aren’t you?”

  Jamie looked at her. “Of course I am,” he said.

  “You should be. You have no idea what Alexandru is capable of.”

  A shiver ran up Jamie’s spine.

  I don’t want to hear this. I know I need to, but I don’t want to.

  “What’s he like?” he asked, cautiously.

  “He’s the second oldest vampire in the world,” Larissa replied. “He does whatever he wants, whenever he wants. He kills humans for food, he kills vampires and humans for fun. There’s nothing you can do to stop him.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “You need to. You’ll get hurt if you don’t. And I don’t want to see that happen.” She smiled at him, and he felt his stomach revolve. “A year ago, a girl who was running with him killed a farmer in Cornwall,” she continued. “She came back to the place we were staying covered in his blood, absolutely dripping with it. Anderson asked her if anyone had seen her, and she confessed that the man’s family might have seen her leaving the barn where she found him.”

  “What happened?” asked Jamie.

  “Alexandru tore her to pieces. In front of everyone, he pulled this poor, stupid girl limb from limb and laughed at her as she screamed. There were probably twenty vampires in the room, some of them old, all of them powerful, and no one said a word. Or looked away. Even when he ate her heart.”

  Jamie felt bile rise in his stomach.

  “He sent Anderson out to the farm the girl had come from,” she continued. “Anderson killed the farmer’s family—his wife—and three children. He cut their throats and let them bleed out on the kitchen floor, staring at each other as they died.” Larissa looked at him, a gentle expression on her face. “That’s what Alexandru is like,” she said, softly. “He’s an animal. A clever, cunning animal, who delights in violence and mayhem. He’s stronger and faster than anyone on the planet, human or vampire, and he can sense danger before it appears. You can’t trick him, or sneak up on him, and you certainly can’t fight him.”

  Jamie stared at her, hopelessness filling his chest. “Then what am I supposed to do?” he asked.

  “That’s easy. You’re supposed to make sure you never cross his path. But that’s not an option for you, is it?”

  “Not really.”

  “In that case I don’t know what you’re supposed to do. I don’t see any way you pursuing Alexandru ends with anything apart from him killing you.” Larissa looked at the disconsolate expression on Jamie’s face, and sympathy overwhelmed her. “I’m not the authority on Alexandru,” she said, gently. “Talk to people. Maybe someone knows something I don’t.”

  Jamie looked at her, and his pale blue eyes were heavy with despair. “No one will tell me anything,” he said, his voice cracking. “They’re all terrified of him. No one will risk him finding out they talked to me.”

  “Talk to the monster.”

  “Why?”

  “Because all this started with your dad. And my understanding is they were close.”

  “Frankenstein said the same thing.”

  “Ask him about Ilyana. Ask him about Hungary. Ask him why he hasn’t told you about it already. And if you’re feeling brave, ask him whose side he’s really on.”

  Jamie felt a wave of nausea shoot through him. “Thank you,” he said, stiffly.

  She flashed him a dazzling smile and reclined on the floor of her cell. Her gray shirt rode up, exposing a band of pale midriff, and Jamie fought the urge to stare at it.

  “Always glad to be of service,” she said.

  He knocked on the door to Frankenstein’s quarters, and waited. It was late, well past midnight, but he doubted the monster would be asleep. He had been standing in the corridor for almost fifteen minutes, preparing himself, thinking about his father, really thinking about his father for the first time since his life had been turned upside down.

  He had rejected the things Seward had told him, out of hand. The thought that his dad could have betrayed his friends and allied himself with someone like Alexandru was impossible for him to accept.

  But then he had thought about his mother, asking her husband every evening, year after year, how his day had been, and thought about his father smiling and lying to her face, inventing people who didn’t exist and stories that hadn’t happened, and his faith in the man he had loved more than any other had been shaken.

  Larissa was right: He needed to know more about Julian Carpenter, about the real man his father had been.
>
  There was a shuffling noise from behind the door, then it opened, and a huge face loomed out of the darkened room.

  “Is something wrong?” the monster grunted.

  Jamie shook his head.

  “So why are you here?”

  “I want to ask you some questions.”

  “About what?”

  “About my dad.”

  Frankenstein looked at the teenager for a long moment, then sighed deeply. “Give me five minutes,” he said, and closed the door.

  24

  THE CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS, PART III

  New York, USA

  January 1, 1929

  “Happy New Year, Mr. Carpenter,” said Valentin, in a smooth, gentle voice. “I wonder if it will be your last?”

  Carpenter turned slowly to face him. The man’s eyes now shone red, a red that was somehow simultaneously both dark and bright against the pale perfection of his skin.

  “Do you know me?” Valentin continued.

  Carpenter nodded.

  “Good. We are well met, and I welcome you to my home. Although why you are here is a question that interests me a great deal.”

  Valentin glanced over at someone in the crowd and nodded. There was a commotion as the guests parted, creating a path to where Carpenter and Valentin stood. Through this gap two large men in white tie appeared, dragging a barely conscious Frankenstein between them and depositing him heavily onto the floor. The monster’s eyes rolled in his head, his mouth hanging stupidly open.

  Carpenter made to kneel next to the fallen man, but Valentin told him sharply to stay where he was, and he forced himself to comply.

  “Your friend has an impressive appetite for opium,” said Valentin. “It isn’t easy to incapacitate a man of his size, but we persevered.” He smiled at Carpenter, but when he spoke again, his voice contained not a trace of humor. “Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, are you here to kill me?”

  Carpenter was surprised to find his equilibrium returning; the likely inevitability of his death had sunk into him, and he was determined that he would not show this creature fear if he could help it.