by William Hill
“Like we did Larissa?” asked Jamie.
Frankenstein nodded, and the teenager looked at the ground.
“Why?” he asked. The word came out like a sob. “Why would Alexandru do this?”
“It’s just one more way to hurt you,” said Frankenstein. “Even though it would never have occurred to him that you might defeat him. I’m sure he intended to tell you before you died.”
“But she never . . . she didn’t do anything.”
“It doesn’t matter,” replied Frankenstein. “To Alexandru that would have only made it sweeter. But he won’t get to do it to anyone else. Because you killed him.”
A savage smile flickered briefly across Jamie’s face.
“I did, didn’t I?” he said, quietly. “I killed him.”
Then he started to cry, and Frankenstein put an arm around him and led him away from the rest of the survivors, who were looking at each other as though no one knew what they were supposed to do next.
Jamie and the monster stood near the edge of the cliff, the waves roaring and crashing far beneath them. Frankenstein held Jamie until his tears came to a heaving halt.
“I didn’t shoot,” said Frankenstein, softly. “That night, with your father . . . I didn’t fire. You have to believe me.”
“I do,” said Jamie. “I should have believed in you all along, like my father and my grandfather did. Instead I doubted you, and it almost cost me and my mother our lives.”
“I was there that night,” said Frankenstein. “But I went there to try and bring him in alive. I didn’t want what happened to happen.”
“I believe you,” said Jamie.
Then there was a snarl from a clump of bushes, and the second of Alexandru’s werewolves launched itself at Jamie from the undergrowth.
Frankenstein didn’t even hesitate.
He shoved Jamie to the ground and caught the snarling, snapping wolf out of the air, holding it at arm’s length, keeping the razor-sharp teeth away from his throat. Jamie yelled for help and heard the thud of footsteps as the survivors grabbed their weapons and ran toward them.
But it was too late.
The two huge creatures staggered back and forth along the lip of the cliffs, the wolf on its curved hind legs, its yellow eyes gleaming in the pink light of the horizon, the monster straining to stay upright, forcing the wolf’s head back and up. Then blood flew in the air as the wolf’s teeth closed over Frankenstein’s fingers, severing one completely and sending blood running down the monster’s arm. He didn’t make a sound; he just gritted his teeth, and bore down on the squirming creature in his grip, forcing it backward, toward the edge. They teetered there, seemingly defying gravity, then the wolf lunged and snapped its frothing jaws shut on the monster’s neck. This time Frankenstein did make a sound, a deep rumbling bellow that shook the ground beneath Jamie’s feet. The werewolf roared through its teeth, a sound of wicked triumph, then slowly, agonizingly slowly, the two creatures fell backward over the lip of the cliff, and disappeared from view.
“No!” screamed Jamie. He ran to the edge and looked down at the crashing white foam that sprayed into the air a hundred feet below him.
There was no sign of either the wolf or the monster.
Frankenstein was gone.
He craned his head forward, stretching his neck muscles, his arms reaching out behind him for balance, trying to get a better view, hoping to see his friend, to see some sign of the man who had saved his life—again.
The slick grass at the cliff’s edge moved beneath his feet, and he felt his center of balance pitch forward. He looked out at the horizon, at the pink light blooming above it, and realized he was going to fall. The ground slid away beneath him, sods of earth and clumps of grass tumbling down the sheer rock wall, and he felt himself tumble forward. Then a hand grabbed the back of his collar, lifted him into the air, and pulled him back onto solid ground.
Jamie fell to his knees, and looked up into Larissa’s pale, beautiful face. She knelt down in front of him and put her arms around him. He embraced her and laid his head on her shoulder, overcome with more grief than any one person should ever have to bear.
They stayed that way for a long time.
Sometime later, Jamie could not have guessed how long, a gentle rumble began to vibrate through the ground beneath him. He raised his head from Larissa’s shoulder and looked out across the sea. A speck of black was approaching on the horizon; as he watched, it grew larger and larger, the rumbling increasing. Less than a minute later, Jamie got his first look at the dark shape that he had seen beneath the hangar on the day he arrived at the Department 19 Base.
The Mina II blasted above the surface of the North Sea, raising two columns of white water a hundred feet high in its wake. It decelerated as it approached the wall of cliffs, Cal Holmwood firing its vertical thrusters and pulling the control stick backward, guiding the supersonic jet up and over the lip. The thrust from the powerful engines swirled dust into the air and sent the survivors running for the cover of the helicopter, with the exception of Jamie and Larissa, who held each other at the edge of the cliff and watched the plane slow to a halt, then begin to descend.
The Mina II was a huge black triangle that seemed to hang in the sky in front of them. Its rear edge was longer than its sides, making the wings curved as they reached their tips, and its underside was absolutely flat, painted a bright, featureless white. As the jet lowered itself toward the ground, Jamie saw the small bubble of the cockpit appear above the sharp nose, followed by the thick, angular fuselage. Then three sets of landing gear slid smoothly out of the plane’s belly, and the Mina II was on the ground. A wide ramp descended, and then Admiral Seward was running down it, followed by a small group of black-clad operators.
“B Unit, secure the monastery,” yelled the director.
Four of the operators split away from the group, their weapons drawn, and ran toward the ancient stone building. Seward scanned the group of survivors, until his eyes rested on Jamie, and he ran to him.
Over the shoulder of the oncoming admiral, Jamie saw one of the operators lift his helmet to reveal Paul Turner’s glacial face. Then he saw something that qualified as one of the most unexpected sights of this strangest of days; he saw the major smile at him.
“Morris,” said Seward, slowing to a halt in front of Jamie and Larissa, and looking at the teenager with an expression of immense regret on his face. “It was Morris who betrayed us. I knew it as soon as I discovered he had accessed the codes for the Russian vaults. It was Morris. Not your father. I’m so sorry.”
Jamie looked at him, his expression unreadable.
“Where’s Alexandru?” asked Seward. “Did he escape?”
The teenager shook his head. “I killed him.”
Seward paused and looked carefully at Jamie, admiration blooming on his face. “You killed him?”
Jamie nodded.
“Where’s your mother?” asked Seward, looking around. “And Colonel Frankenstein? I don’t see them.”
Jamie looked at him, his face streaked with tears, and didn’t answer.
48
THE END OF THE TUNNEL
“ You’re not putting my mother in a cell,” said Jamie. They were standing in the Ops Room—Jamie, Marie, Admiral Seward, Larissa, Kate, Paul Turner, and Terry.
Jamie’s heart was being pulled in what felt like a hundred directions. The euphoria of destroying Alexandru and rescuing his mother was tempered by the loss of Frankenstein and the discovery of his mother’s fate; Alexandru’s last cruel, spiteful attack on the Carpenter family. Pride and guilt and terrible, empty loss fought for control of his exhausted mind and body, and then Admiral Seward had pulled his radio from his belt and asked the person on the other end to prepare a cell for an immediate occupant.
“You’re not putting my mother in a cell,” he repeated. “She hasn’t done anything wrong.”
Marie Carpenter looked at her son, and felt her chest swell with pride.
He can barely stand
up, he’s so tired. But he’s still fighting for me.
They had sat next to each other on the flight back to base. Paul Turner, Admiral Seward, and the survivors of Lindisfarne had flown home on the Mina II, the supersonic jet covering the distance in less than twenty minutes. The rest of the operators, the men dispatched to clean up the blood-soaked monastery, would return home in the helicopters that were waiting on the headland and at the mainland end of the causeway.
Mother and son had said very little during the flight. As they had blasted off from the small island, the jet shuddering beneath their feet as it hauled itself into the air, Marie had stayed turned away from Jamie; her shame at what had been done to her, and what he had seen her do, still too great for her to bear. He hadn’t pushed her, or hurried her; he just sat next to her, his head back against his seat, his eyes open, looking at his mother with a smile on his face. Larissa and Kate watched him from across the cabin, as did Admiral Seward and Terry, expressions of sadness on their faces. Paul Turner appeared to be asleep, his cold eyes closed, his head tipped back. Jamie barely noticed them; he just looked at the back of his mother’s head, his face alight with love, and relief.
Eventually, she spoke. “Stop it, Jamie,” she said. “I can feel you staring at me.”
He didn’t reply, nor did he stop looking at his mother.
She spun around and stared at him. “I told you to stop it, Jamie,” she said, fiercely. Then she saw the look on her son’s face, and the fight went out of her. Her face softened, and she reached over and put her arms around him.
Jamie returned her embrace, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face against her shoulder. “I thought I’d lost you, Mom,” he whispered. “I thought I’d lost you.”
She shushed him and held him close. Across the cabin, a smile crept across Kate’s face, and she looked at Larissa. The vampire girl was crying, tears running down her pale face, but she made no attempt to wipe them away.
When the Mina II rolled to a halt at the end of the long runway, the exhausted group of men and women stumbled down the aircraft’s ramp and onto the warm tarmac. Marie was walking steadily on her own, having refused all offers of assistance, Larissa was floating a few inches above the ground, and Jamie had fallen in beside Admiral Seward, who kept glancing at him with a look of mild astonishment on his face, as if he needed to keep checking that the teenager had really stood face-to-face with Alexandru Rusmanov and emerged victorious.
They were walking silently toward the hangar when suddenly the great double doors began to slide open, spilling light across the taxiway, illuminating the tired faces of the approaching figures. Then noise filled the air, as tens of Blacklight operators burst from the hangar and ran to them. Jamie cast a nervous look in Admiral Seward’s direction, but the director merely smiled.
The tide of black-clad men and women stopped in front of Jamie and Seward, and for a moment, there was silence. Then a lone pair of hands began to clap, then another, and another, until the applause was deafening, punctuated with yells and cheers. Jamie took half a step backward and found Admiral Seward’s hand on the small of his back. He looked up at the director, confusion on his face.
“That’s not for me,” said Seward, softly, then began to clap as well, stepping away from Jamie so the teenager stood alone, surrounded by cheering operators and the beaming faces of his family and his new friends. A smile crept across his face, and he walked slowly into the throng, which quickly swallowed him up in a tornado of hugs and handshakes and thumps on the back that nearly knocked the tired teenager off his feet.
“It’s fine, Jamie,” said Marie Carpenter. “It’s the sensible thing to do. I’ll be fine in the cell while we work out what to do.”
Jamie looked at her. Her face was open and honest, her eyes wide, a slight flicker of fear at the corners of her mouth.
“Are you sure?” he asked her.
“Of course I’m sure,” she replied. “Will you come and see me after you get some sleep?”
“Of course,” he said. “I promise.”
“I’ll escort you down,” said Terry, and stepped gently to Marie’s side.
“Thank you,” she said, then looked at her son. “Thank you,” she said again, and he smiled as the instructor led his mother out of the Ops Room.
Tiredness crashed through Jamie.
He looked around the room; Larissa and Kate were chatting amiably, and Admiral Seward was deep in conversation with Major Turner. He walked over and interrupted them.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, his voice cracking. “Do you think someone can find out if the boy in the infirmary is still in a coma? His name’s Matt. I think I’m going to go and lie down, but I’d like to visit him in the morning.”
Seward looked surprised at the request but said he would see to it personally. Jamie thanked him, turned, and walked unsteadily out of the room.
He bumped into the wall twice as he made his way to the elevator at the end of the corridor, the low hum of the base all around him. He pressed the button for the second underground level and closed his eyes. When the doors slid open less than fifteen seconds later, they jolted him from sleep that had dragged him down the second his eyelids met. Jamie shoved himself out of the elevator and pushed open the door to the dormitory. He stumbled through the long room and was about to use the last of his energy to hurl himself onto his bed, when a white object caught his eye.
It was an envelope, standing on the small table beside his bed. Two words were written on it in beautiful, elegant script:Jamie Carpenter
He lifted it from the table, tiredness pulling relentlessly at him, and tore it open. A single sheet of paper fluttered out onto his green bed, covered in more of the same careful handwriting.
Read it tomorrow. Lie down. It’s probably not important. Lie down.
Jamie shook his head, and the fog of tiredness lifted temporarily. He lifted the sheet of paper and began to read.
Dear Jamie,
If you are reading this, it means I didn’t make it back from Lindisfarne. If that is the case, I don t want you to mourn me—I lived a life full of wonders, alongside some of the finest men and women ever to walk this small planet. I would not have changed a moment of it.
I am now certain that Thomas Morris is working against you—I have suspected it for some time, and I became sure when he brought up the night your father was lost. I believe he has been trying to separate us, as he knew that I would not allow any harm to come to you. And now he has achieved his aim. So I am going to follow you to Lindisfarne—I pray I will not be too late.
You deserve to know the truth, Jamie. I am sorry that I could not tell you the nature of things before now, but until the true betrayer of Blacklight revealed himself, it was too dangerous. I now believe that person has made themselves known, and the truth can come out.
Look after yourself, Jamie. Your ancestors would be proud of what you have done so far, but I believe you have the potential to do extraordinary things in the years to come. My only regret is that I will not be there to see them.
Your friend,
Victor Frankenstein
Tears spilled from Jamie’s eyes and splashed onto the letter, causing the black ink to run, obscuring Frankenstein’s words. His heart felt as though someone had squeezed it; it hung heavily and painfully in his chest, as hot as a furnace, as hard as coal.
You let him down. He tried to protect you, he only ever tried to protect you, and you let him down. He died saving you, died because you didn’t believe him, because you turned your back on him and walked straight into Thomas Morris’s trap.
Jamie rocked back and forth on the edge of his bed, holding his stomach, sobbing as though the world was ending. He would have given everything he had, everything he would ever have, to be able to bring Frankenstein back, even if it was only for long enough to tell him how sorry he truly was. The monster had honored his oath to the Carpenter family to the very last, and Jamie knew he was never going to be able to forgive him
self for creating the situation that had put his friend in harm’s way.
For the first time in a long time, Julian Carpenter’s voice popped into Jamie’s head.
He’s gone, son. There’s nothing you can do, except prove him right for believing in you. That’s the best way you can remember him.
Something in his father’s voice calmed Jamie, and a deep resolve settled into his stomach, a resolve to do as his dad suggested, to make the lost monster proud of him; he would never doubt him again.
A knock on the dormitory door roused him from his thoughts.
“Come in,” he shouted, his voice unsteady.
The door swung open, and Admiral Seward stepped into the room. The director of Department 19 looked tired, but there was the ghost of a smile on his lined face as he walked down the long dormitory to Jamie’s bunk. He was carrying something in his hand, but he was keeping it hidden behind his back as he walked, and Jamie could not make it out.
“How are you feeling?” asked Seward, as he stopped in front of the bunk.
Jamie handed him Frankenstein’s letter and watched the director’s eyes widen as he read the words the monster had written. He lowered the paper and looked at Jamie with incredible sadness on his face.
“It wasn’t your—” he began, but Jamie interrupted him.
“Yes, it was, sir. We both know it was. But thanks for saying it.”
Seward looked at him for a long moment, then brought the hand from behind his back. Jamie gasped; in the old man’s hand were a small purple box, and the Bowie knife that had once belonged to Quincey Morris.
“May I sit down?” asked Seward.
Jamie nodded, his eyes never leaving the knife. The blade that had pierced Dracula’s heart, that had been passed down through the Morris family, that had been used only hours ago to perform Thomas Morris’s ultimate betrayal.
The director eased himself down onto the bunk beside Jamie and passed him the knife. Jamie held it lightly in his hands, a feeling of revulsion spreading up his spine.