by William Hill
“No,” he replied. “That is not my mission. But I would certainly consider it a bonus.”
Valentin took half a step toward him, his teeth bared, an awful, serpentine hiss rising in his throat, then quickly regained his composure and laughed—a high, feminine sound that echoed around the cavernous ballroom.
“I admire your honesty,” he said. “Most refreshing. So, if you are not here for me, who are you here for? Given what I know of your father and his friends, I am disinclined to believe you are in New York for a holiday. Am I correct?”
“You are. I came here for one of your guests.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“Jeremiah Haslett.”
A low murmur of interest rolled through the crowd.
“And what has Mr. Haslett done to warrant transatlantic pursuit?”
“His crimes are too numerous to list. But they are also largely irrelevant; he is a vampire, and that alone is enough to warrant his extermination.”
The crowd around him pulsed and hissed, but he felt no fear; it was already clear to him that Valentin alone was going to decide his fate, that the crowd of snarling vampires would do nothing without his permission.
Their host regarded him for a long moment, then spoke. “Bring Mr. Haslett before me.”
There was a cry of outrage from within the crowd, and then a commotion as the skeletal figure of Jeremiah Haslett was gripped by four vampire men and dragged through the revelers. He was thrown to his knees before Valentin, spluttering and protesting. He rose to his feet, brushing down his dinner jacket, and in an act that must have required superhuman will, Frankenstein did the same, his eyes focusing more clearly on Carpenter, a look of terrible shame on his huge face.
The four figures stood in a circle, eyeing each other.
“What to do?” mused Valentin.
“What on earth do you mean?” cried Haslett. “There is no decision to be made here, surely? Kill him, and this abomination as well, and let us return to our celebration.”
“Be quiet, Mr. Haslett,” said Valentin.
Haslett blustered, his face reddening, but did as he was told.
“Mr. Carpenter,” Valentin continued, almost cheerfully. “What do you think we should do about this unfortunate situation?”
“Let us leave,” replied Carpenter, instantly. “We will go without a fuss, and you will not see us again.”
Around him, the vampires howled with derisory laughter. Valentin didn’t even smile. “Why should I do that?” he asked.
Carpenter took a deep breath.
Please. Please let this work.
He slipped his dinner jacket off and pushed his cummerbund down to his waist. Beneath it was a leather belt, wrapped tightly with three rows of light brown sticks. Inserted into the one nearest the belt buckle was a brass fuse, wired to a trigger that was now resting lightly in John Carpenter’s hand. “Because of this,” he replied. “This is gelignite. And it will bring this entire house down on all our heads unless you do as I say.”
There were gasps and shouts from the assembled vampires. Valentin made no sound but regarded him with a look of genuine admiration.
“Bravo, Mr. Carpenter,” he said. “It is rare to be confronted with a man who is genuinely prepared to die for what he believes in. Bravo.” He looked at Haslett, whose narrow face was white with fear, then at his guests, then back to John Carpenter. “You may go,” he said.
There was a communal howl of anger from the crowd, and a bellow of objection from Haslett. Valentin’s eyes flared crimson, and he stepped into the air, hovering a foot above the ground, so that everyone in the room could see his pale, beautiful face.
“Silence,” he roared. “You will do as I say, or none of you will see another night sky.” The room fell silent, and he looked down at Carpenter. “You are free to go,” he said. “I am sure we will see each other again, and I’m capable of patience.”
“What?” screamed Haslett. “He’s free to go? He came here tonight to kill me.”
“That’s right,” replied Valentin. “He did. It’s because of you that he is here.” He looked at the crowd. “Take him,” he said. Haslett opened his mouth to say something, but the words died in his throat as the first vampire landed on him. A second leapt from the crowd, then a third, and he screamed as he was borne to the ground, disappearing under a blur of dinner jackets and ball gowns. Tearing sounds, horribly loud, came from within the squirming pile of bodies, and Haslett’s screams reached an earsplitting pitch as dark red liquid began to seep out across the marble floor.
Carpenter turned away, nausea rising in his stomach.
“Look!” shouted Valentin. “This is why you are here, so look!”
Carpenter turned back and watched.
Eventually the screams stopped, and the vampires began to stand up, their clothes and faces drenched in crimson blood. They stared at him with frenzied hunger in their eyes.
“I suggest you leave now, Mr. Carpenter,” Valentin said.
“I will not leave without him,” Carpenter replied, gesturing at Frankenstein, who stared at him with an uncomprehending look on his face.
“Fine,” Valentin replied. “Take him with you. In truth, I cannot imagine anything worse than the taste of his warmed-over blood.”
Carpenter stepped forward, gripping the trigger tightly in his hand, and put his other hand on Frankenstein’s shoulder. “Can you walk?” he asked, in a low voice.
Frankenstein nodded.
“All right,” said Carpenter. “Follow me. Slowly.” He turned around and walked carefully toward the crowd of vampires, who stepped out of his way, reluctance painted openly on their faces.
The two men walked between the silent, red-eyed guests, to the wide double door that they had come through, less than an hour earlier. Carpenter took the carved wooden handle in his hand and was about to turn it when Valentin’s voice echoed across the ballroom, and he turned to face the pale vampire.
“Our paths will cross again, Mr. Carpenter,” he said, happily. “Of that, I have no doubt. Happy New Year.”
Carpenter almost replied but forced himself not to. Instead he opened the door, walked down the hallway, and led Frankenstein out into the night.
The two men staggered down the steps of the town house. They had gone no more than ten yards from the building when a familiar voice hailed them, and the sound of running footsteps echoed in the still night air.
“Good God, John,” said Willis, skidding to a halt in front of them, his eyes taking in the gelignite belt around Carpenter’s waist and the dazed look on Frankenstein’s face. “Are you injured? Do you need me to call the uniforms? Are you—”
Carpenter cut him off. “I’m fine,” he said. “We’re fine. The mission was a success.”
“Well, that’s splendid,” exclaimed Willis, but his face still wore a mask of concern. “I shall need to speak to you before I prepare my report, but perhaps tomorrow would be more agreeable?”
Carpenter told him that he was sure it would be and thanked the American. Willis took a final look at the two men in their now disheveled dinner suits, and then turned and disappeared along West Eighty-Fifth Street.
Carpenter and Frankenstein walked slowly down Central Park West, looking for a carriage. After two blocks, Frankenstein stumbled to his knees and vomited into the icy gutter, but when he stood up, his eyes were clearer, and he looked at John Carpenter.
“I let you down,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“We both still live,” Carpenter replied. “That is all that matters.”
“Thanks entirely to you.”
Carpenter regarded the huge man. His voice was low and trembling, but his face twitched with anger; he was obviously deeply ashamed.
“You saved my life,” Frankenstein said. “When you could have left me, you didn’t. Why didn’t you?”
Carpenter shrugged. “The thought never occurred to me,” he answered.
Frankenstein studied him carefully, loo
king into the Englishman’s open, honest face. He saw nothing but the truth, and in the sluggish opium-addled depths of the monster’s mind, a decision was made.
“I owe you my life,” Frankenstein said, slowly. “I don’t say that lightly.” Carpenter opened his mouth to protest, but Frankenstein waved a hand at him, and continued. “If there’s anything I can do to help you, you only have to ask. Whatever it is, wherever you are.”
“I appreciate the offer,” Carpenter replied. “But I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“Given the last thing Valentin said to you,” Frankenstein replied, “I’m not sure that’s entirely true.”
25
HE WAS MY FRIEND AND I LOVED HIM
Jamie and Frankenstein sat in one of the offices on Level 0. The base was quiet; soldiers made their way through the halls, heading for patrol duties as their comrades slept on the lower levels. Frankenstein was nursing an enormous mug of black coffee that he had stopped to collect from the officers’ mess as they made their way up through the base. Jamie had poured a plastic cup of water from the dispenser in the corner of the office and was looking expectantly at the monster.
Frankenstein tipped the coffee to his lips, eyeing the teenager over the rim of the mug. Eventually, he spoke.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he said. “I don’t know what you want me to tell you, so if you’ve got questions just ask them.”
“OK,” replied Jamie, settling himself into his chair. “When did you first meet my dad?”
Frankenstein tilted his head, stared at the ceiling, and cast his mind back.
“I met him the day he joined us,” he said, eventually, “1979, that was. We knew he was coming—the birthdays of descendants always get around. It’s a big moment. You’ve seen how seriously Blacklight takes its history; a new descendant is that history, in the flesh. And Julian was something special, we knew that before he even arrived.”
“What was special about him?” asked Jamie. He had leaned forward onto his elbows as the monster talked.
“He was famous, inside the military and out. When he passed his Admiralty Interview Board—”
“What’s that?” interrupted Jamie.
“It’s what you have to pass if you’re going to be an officer in the Marines.”
“Hold on. The Marines? As in, the Royal Marines?”
Frankenstein sighed. “Yes, Jamie, the Royal Marines. Your father scored off the scale at the Interview Board, and word got around the military about it. Then he broke three Commando-course records, and people started to really pay attention to him. And by then, he was playing rugby for England, so he was already—”
“He was doing what?” exclaimed Jamie.
“This will be much easier,” said Frankenstein, leveling his eyes with the teenager’s, “if you don’t interrupt me every thirty seconds.”
“Sorry,” said Jamie.
“It’s all right. Julian was a top-class rugby player. He played for England schools, for the under-eighteens, then broke through into the full national team when he was nineteen, his first full year in the Marines. He was capped seven or eight times.”
“Why only seven or eight?”
“He stopped playing when he joined Blacklight. But when he turned up here on his twenty-first birthday, he was already well-known. There was no Internet in those days, but his name had been in the papers, and everyone was excited to meet him. He arrived with your grandfather John, and he was met by Peter Seward, who was the director at the time. I’ve never seen those old men so proud, so excited about a new recruit.”
Frankenstein looked at Jamie, a pained smile on his face.
“Tell me,” said Jamie, quietly. “Don’t stop now.”
“It was an incredible time,” Frankenstein said after a pause and a deep gulp of coffee. “Quincey Harker had stepped down as director a decade earlier, and Peter Seward had taken over. He didn’t really want the job, but he was Quincey’s closest friend, and when Harker retired to look after his wife, Seward saw it as his duty to carry on his friend’s work. And he did a good job of it, a damn good job, even though he would never believe it. He oversaw the changing of the guard, from the generation that dragged Blacklight up after World War II, to the new generation who would take it forward again.” He smiled, a genuine smile full of nostalgia.
“Legends walked these corridors: Albert and Arthur Holmwood; David Harker, who was Quincey’s oldest son; Ben Seward, who was the director’s son; Leandro Gonzalez; David Morris, your friend Tom’s grandfather; and your own grandfather, of course. John Carpenter was Peter Seward’s closest friend in the Department after Quincey left; they retired at the same time, in 1982, convinced that Blacklight was in safe hands.”
“Was it?” asked Jamie. His eyes were wide as he listened to the monster’s story.
“For a while,” said Frankenstein. “When your father joined, a new generation were starting to come into their own, centered around Stephen Holmwood, who was Arthur Holmwood’s son. He was a truly brilliant man, a once-in-a-generation intellect: He spoke six languages by the time he was fifteen, he played cricket and hockey for England schoolboys, and was a Cambridge blue. He didn’t join Blacklight when he was twenty-one, which caused an enormous scandal. His father begged him, but he was determined to finish at the university, which he did. Then he won a Rhodes scholarship to Harvard and went to America for a year. He came home in 1965 and joined Department 19 when he was twenty-three.”
Frankenstein looked at Jamie. “Stephen could have done anything he wanted. He could have been prime minister. But he chose Blacklight.”
Jamie’s head was pounding; he felt as though he had been holding his breath since the monster had started talking. He breathed out, took new air into his lungs, sipped his water, and trained his attention back on Frankenstein.
“So there was Stephen and his brother Jeremy and their cousin Jacob Scott, whom you met yesterday. Ben Seward was still around, and his son Henry, who’s the director now, joined a few years after your father. George Harker was there, and Paul Turner, who married Henry Seward’s sister, and Daniel Morris, Tom’s father. And Julian, of course. These men were the future of Blacklight, with Stephen Holmwood in the middle. They rose quickly through the ranks, transforming the Department as they did so. When Peter Seward stepped down in 1982, Stephen was the unanimous choice to replace him as director. And then things really started to happen.”
Frankenstein drained the last of his coffee and set the mug down on the table. “Everything you see around you, this base and everything in it, is the result of Stephen Holmwood’s tenure as director. He petitioned the government to increase Blacklight’s budget, and he sank the new funds into this place. He sent your father on a fact-finding mission to America in 1984 to visit NS9, which is their equivalent of Department
19. He was gone for ten weeks, and he returned home with a report that was the blueprint for the Loop. We expanded, taking the best men from all three branches of the military, widening our sphere of operations, hunting across Europe and beyond, running missions in Africa and Asia for the first time since the war. Stephen worked with the Departments of other countries, sharing data and resources, sending men on exchanges to every corner of the world, organizing and establishing areas of responsibility, so the entire globe came under the jurisdiction of the various organizations.” He grinned, wickedly.
“The vampires were decimated,” he continued. “They had come to believe that if they kept their heads down, they would be safe. But that was no longer true. We pursued them, chasing them from town to town, from country to country even, and we destroyed them, one after the other. There was nowhere for them to hide.” He stopped talking and looked down at the surface of the table.
“What happened?” asked Jamie.
Frankenstein raised his head and looked at him, and Jamie was alarmed to see that the monster’s misshapen eyes were damp with tears. “Stephen died,” he said, simply. “He had a heart attack in 1989. No warning. He
just died, at his desk in his quarters.”
“That’s horrible,” said Jamie, in a low voice.
“It was,” said Frankenstein. “It devastated the Department. No one knew what to do; Stephen had been the heart of everything, and suddenly he was gone. There was no director, and the people who were best able to step up and keep us going were the people who were most shattered by his death. So when Daniel Morris put himself forward, everyone was so grateful that they said yes before they’d even really thought about it.”
“Tom told me his father was director,” said Jamie, remembering the conversation in the Fallen Gallery. “He said it wasn’t for very long though.”
“Too long,” spit Frankenstein, and Jamie recoiled. “Dan Morris wasn’t a bad man,” he continued, after a pause. “Far from it, really. He was impulsive, and he was aggressive, and that made him a great operator, but a terrible director. It was difficult for him, to take over in the circumstances he did. It would have been difficult for anyone; Stephen cast such a long shadow. But that doesn’t excuse the risks he took, and the people who got hurt.”
Frankenstein got up from the table and poured himself water from the dispenser. He sat back down heavily in front of Jamie. “We should have seen it coming; I should have seen it coming. But it took a long time for Blacklight to recover after Stephen died, and so for at least a year, no one was paying much attention to what Dan was doing. A night mission here, an overseas operation without proper clearance there. Small things, at least to start with. But some people did notice them and began to keep a closer eye. Your father was one of them, Henry Seward was another. And so was I.”
The monster sipped his water. “In March of 1993, Dan ordered an operation into Romania—modern-day Transylvania—where all this started in 1891. That part of the world is under the jurisdiction of the SPC, the Russian Supernatural Protection Commissariat, and they have never taken kindly to foreign Departments operating in their sphere of influence. Under the Soviets, it was almost impossible even to enter their territory, and the penalties for doing so were severe. But then the USSR collapsed and the SPC started slowly to extend its hand toward the other Departments. Your father led a delegation to Moscow in late 1992, the first of its kind in almost fifty years, and he came home excited about having Russia back in the fold. Then Dan ordered Operation Nightingale, and we nearly lost them forever.”