With rising snarls of anger, the vampire crowd threw themselves towards the tight huddle of Department 19 Operators. Jamie didn’t move; he stood absolutely still, the grenade resting loosely in his hand, a narrow smile on his face, as his team went to work around him.
Jack Williams raised his T-Bone to his shoulder and pulled the trigger. The metal stake erupted from the end of the wide barrel and screamed through the hot, sticky air. It crunched through the chest of an approaching vampire wearing a fluorescent green T-shirt and shot into the mass of vampires who hadn’t moved. It tore the nose off a girl in a pink minidress, who screamed and clasped her hands to her face.
The vampire in the green T-shirt was still moving, his teeth grinding through the Bliss high that was coursing through him, the thick metal wire twanging through the hole in his body. His face was contorted with pain and adrenaline, his eyes blazing; he was less than a metre away from Jack when his body finally realised
what had been done to it, and he exploded into a pillar of steaming blood.
Screams echoed through the crowd, and several of the vampires ran to the far corners of the nightclub, desperately searching for a way out. A vampire wearing head-to-toe black leapt for Jamie, her hands twisted into claws, her eyes wide and fixed on the grenade in his hand. Claire Lock stepped sharply forward and plunged her stake into the airborne woman’s heart; she splashed to the concrete floor as a dark smear of blood.
The ring of vampires who had approached the Operators paused. The expressions on their faces, which had been anger mingled with bloodlust, now slid slowly to fear. The communal will to attack left them, and they scuttled back into the crowd, staring at the dark huddle of figures, waiting to see what they would do next.
“It’s very simple, ladies and gentlemen,” said Jamie, smiling at the swaying, trembling crowd. “If one of you tells me where I can find Jean-Luc Latour, then I walk out of here with this grenade in my hand, and you all get to live. If no one tells me what I want to know, then I press the trigger.”
He stood waiting, the UV grenade resting in his hand.
“No takers?” he asked, his voice light and friendly. “Well, that’s disappointing. But I suppose I have to respect your decision.”
Jamie twisted the grenade, and it sprang open, exposing the purple bulb at its core. He raised it into the air, let his thumb rest over its trigger, and was about to press it when a voice emerged from the crowd.
“Don’t,” it said. “I’ll tell you.”
Jamie removed his thumb from the trigger, but did not close the grenade.
“Tell me what?” he asked. “What are you going to tell me?”
“Latour. He’s at his club, not far from here.”
“Tell me where,” said Jamie, sharply.
“On Rue de Sévigné. It’s a building with no windows.”
“Why is he there?” demanded Jamie. “Who lives in the building?”
“The king of Paris lives there.”
“I know where that is,” said Dominique Saint-Jacques. “We can be there in ten minutes. Let’s go.”
“OK,” agreed Jamie. “Destroy them all, and let’s get out of here.”
There was a chorus of screams and terrified moans from the crowd. Jamie placed his thumb back on the grenade’s trigger and was about to press it when he felt hands grip his shoulders, and then he was spun round towards his team.
The four Operators of his team surrounded him, their visors raised, expressions of hostility on their faces.
“Don’t, Jamie,” said Claire Lock. “I won’t be part of this.”
Jamie stared at her, incredulous. “Part of what?” he barked. “Part of destroying a room full of vampires?”
“That’s not what this is,” said Angela. “This is murder, pure and simple. Trust me, I know the difference.”
“She’s right, Jamie,” said Jack Williams. “This isn’t what we do. And it’s not what Colonel Frankenstein would want.”
Jamie stared at his friend. “Don’t bring him into this, Jack,” he warned. “You didn’t know him. Don’t tell me what he would want.”
“You’re right,” said Jack. “I didn’t know him. None of us did apart from you. But I
knew
him, Jamie. He was a legend in Blacklight before any of us were even born; my grandfather has been telling me stories about him since the day I turned twenty-one. And I won’t stand by and let you dishonour his name by committing murder in the supposed service of it.”
Jamie felt something give inside him, and lowered the grenade.
Shame, hot and sharp, spilled through him, as he pictured the look on the monster’s face if he could see what he had been about to do. Frankenstein detested vampires, he felt they were unnatural, but he believed that they were not inherently evil; he would not have stood idly by and let Jamie murder a roomful of them for no other reason than because he was angry.
“You’re right,” he said, his voice low. “I’m sorry. I just can’t explain to you…” He stopped, and tried again. “I need to get him back,” he said, simply. “I have to. Will you help me?”
“We’re here, aren’t we?” asked Angela, smiling at him.
Jamie smiled back. “Jack,” he said, “I think you should assume command of this mission. I’m too close to this.”
“No way,” replied Jack, instantly. “This is your Operation, Jamie, and I’ve got nothing but faith in you. Just calm down, and stop pushing so hard. We’re nearly there.”
“What about the rest of you?” Jamie asked.
“No, sir,” said Claire. “We’re with you.”
“Agreed,” said Angela.
“Me too,” said Dominique.
Jamie grinned. “Thank you,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “Really. Let’s go and find him.”
Frankenstein watched with morbid curiosity as the audience for his death filed into the theatre of the Fraternité de la Nuit.
The pain in his arms and legs had become so constant that he no longer even felt it, which was the smallest of mercies. It had enabled him to raise his head as the first chattering voices became audible through the door at the back of the theatre, and watch as a vampire couple, dressed in beautiful evening wear, had floated through the door and down to a pair of seats in the second row.
Every one of the red velvet seats in the theatre was topped with a small RESERVATION card, with names written on them in flamboyant handwriting; Lord Dante was clearly expecting a full house.
The couple watched him intently, and whispered to each other as they made their way down the central aisle, their red eyes burning with curiosity; their expressions were similar to those of children in a zoo, children who found themselves facing a wild animal and were unable to fully convince themselves that they were safe. He stared back at them, until they took their seats and returned their attention to each other.
Frankenstein no longer felt any fear. He was exhausted, and miserable, and if this was to be his moment to die, then he was ready to embrace it. But he had no intention of dying without a fight, and he had an ace up his sleeve that no one else knew about; he knew what his body was readying itself to do, could feel his bones creaking, hear his flesh screaming for transformation.
Please,
he thought.
Please let it come before he kills me.
More vampires filed into the theatre in ones and twos, holding champagne flutes or heavy crystal-bottomed glasses in their pale fingers. All were dressed immaculately, and all peered up at him with expressions of naked surprise on their faces, as though they could not believe what their eyes were seeing. Several shouted greetings at him, and he supposed that these were men and women, like Latour, who he had once socialised with, most likely in this very building. Not for the first time, Frankenstein was glad that he could remember nothing of the life he had lived.
When every seat was taken, when every name card had been removed and stowed away in pockets and purses as keepsakes, the house lights suddenly dimmed, and an expectant hush fell over the audience.
Silently, the door to Lord Dante’s dining room slid open. Frankenstein saw it happen, but the audience’s gaze was focused on the stage, and on him. The vampire king floated silently out of his dining room, and along the rear of the curved theatre; when he reached the back of the central aisle, a spotlight burst into life, illuminating him. Lord Dante was resplendent in a gleaming black tuxedo that all but hid the bulging line of metal on his chest. His skin was lush and vibrant, his hair glossy and slicked back with oil, and his face wore an expression of utter delight, as though he had been waiting his entire life for this moment.
I suppose he has,
thought Frankenstein.
Almost a century of it anyway.
Lord Dante floated silently down the aisle of the theatre as his audience erupted with applause around him. Several vampire women threw themselves prostrate before him, clawing at his feet. He swept past without so much as a glance in their direction; his eyes, his burning, smouldering, crimson eyes, were locked on Frankenstein.
As he reached the stage, he pirouetted gracefully in the air and faced his audience, raising his arms wide. The applause grew to a standing ovation, a deafening chorus of cheers and shouts of “Bravo” filling the small space. The vampire king basked in his own glory, reborn by the adulation of his subjects, and by the realisation of a quest for revenge that was almost a hundred years old.
“Thank you,” he said, and the cheers intensified anew. “Thank you, my loyal friends. Thank you.”
He lowered his arms, and the noise began to subside. When it was quiet once more, Lord Dante floated up on to the stage, and faced his adoring public.
“This is an auspicious night,” he said. “A night that I had begun
to doubt I would ever see. But here it is, delivered to me by one of your number. Take a bow, my most faithful friend.”
Latour rose from his seat in the front row to a fresh outpouring of applause. Frankenstein watched as the vampire’s face broke into a huge smile of pure pleasure, and realised that there had never been any chance of persuading Latour to change his mind. Nothing would have robbed the old vampire of this moment of superiority, of praise from lesser beings.
“Thank you,” said Lord Dante, favouring Latour with a beaming smile of approval. “Your actions will not be forgotten, not by anyone in this Fraternité. And most certainly not by me.”
Latour sat back down in his seat. Frankenstein watched as a number of the tuxedo-clad vampires reached over and thumped him on the back, or offered their hands to be shaken, and felt his stomach twist. Then, suddenly, he felt a burning sensation along the length of his spine, as though white-hot needles were being pushed into his back.
The change was coming and, for the first time, Frankenstein relished the prospect.
Soon,
he thought, through the pain.
So soon. Please be soon enough.
“This creature you see before you,” continued Lord Dante, casting a vengeful glance in Frankenstein’s direction, “was the perpetrator of a great wrong, done to me a long time ago. For almost a century he has avoided being held to account for his actions, but no more. Now he will learn, as will you all, what it is to cross the vampire king of Paris.”
Lord Dante’s butler floated silently on stage from the wings. In his hands he held a simple wooden table, and a large roll of black cloth. He placed the table beside his master, set the cloth on its surface and departed as silently as he had arrived.
“Thank you,” said the vampire king. He took the roll of cloth carefully in his pale hands, and gripped one end. Then he lifted it sharply into the air, allowing it to roll theatrically open. There was a murmur of excitement from the crowd, and the number of pairs of glowing red eyes increased dramatically. Frankenstein was pleased he couldn’t see what they were looking at, but Lord Dante had no intention of sparing him the knowledge of what was coming; he turned in the air, holding the cloth at his side like a bullfighter, and showed his prisoner the contents.
The cloth was full of knives.
In dozens of loops and pockets, gleaming in the spotlight that still engulfed Lord Dante, lay blades of every shape and size: heavy, dull-looking hatchets and saws, long triangular carving knives and daggers, curved filleting blades and hunting weapons, tiny wicked-looking scalpels and stilettos. They tinkled gently as the cloth moved in the air, their reflections swimming against the domed ceiling of the theatre.
Frankenstein felt an icicle of fear stab at him as he looked more closely and saw the items that were at the very bottom of the cloth, almost appearing as an afterthought. There was a jar of white powder, which he knew for certain would be salt, and five small vials of clear liquid, about which he had no desire to speculate. Finally, and most appallingly, a small plastic tub sat in the very corner of the cloth. It was full of maggots, fat and yellow and writhing softly in the heat of the theatre.
The cloth was a sadist’s dream come true; a collection of items that had no purpose other than to torture, to maim and, eventually, to kill.
“I considered adding other entertainment to this evening’s bill,” said Lord Dante, grinning wickedly. “Aperitifs, if you will, to warm
your palates for the main course. But I reconsidered; after all, we know what we’re here to see.”
The vampire king laid the cloth gently on the table and leant over it, studying the blades carefully. After a few seconds, he plucked a shiny silver scalpel from its loop and held it up to the light. It flickered and gleamed, reflecting both the white light of the spotlight and the red glow of the ancient vampire’s eyes.
“Let us begin,” he said, softly, and turned towards Frankenstein.
“Where are we?” demanded Jamie, as Jack Williams pointed their black vehicle between rows of parked cars, gunning the engine as he did so. “Where the hell is this place?”
“This is Rue de Sévigné,” replied Dominique Saint-Jacques. “It should be right here.”
“I see it!” shouted Claire Lock from the back seat, where she was peering out of her window. “Back up!”
Jack hit the brakes, throwing his four passengers forward in their seats. He shoved the car into reverse, and accelerated backwards.