Department 19: Zero Hour (73 page)

“Left or right?” asked Angela, as they reached the end of the passage.

Jamie closed his eyes for a long moment, searching for the scent; it was the accumulation of Henry Seward, the smell of his skin and sweat, of his very essence leaking from his pores. He found it, stronger now than before, and pointed down the left-hand corridor.

Angela nodded. Then her eyes widened with warning, and Jamie was moving before she had time to make a sound.

He dropped into a crouch, and felt the air ripple as a huge wooden club was swung through the space where his head had been less than a second earlier. He spun back to his feet and saw a middle-aged vampire struggling for balance with a look of enormous surprise on his face; he had almost swung himself off his feet. Jamie didn’t give the man a chance to recover; he launched himself forward, slamming his attacker into the wall with a deafening crash.

The stone cracked under the impact, covering them with dust. Jamie grabbed the vampire by the throat and flew straight upwards, driving the man’s head into the ceiling. His eyes rolled and his arms went limp as Jamie spun in the air and threw him to the ground on his back. He had time to let out a single low moan before Angela darted forward and staked him. She leapt back as the vampire exploded, spraying the floor and ceiling with blood, then smiled at Jamie.

“Nice moves,” she said. “Vampirism seems to suit you.”

Jamie grinned. “Maybe,” he said. “It makes some things easier, I’ll say that much for it.”

“Come on,” said Angela. “Let’s find Henry.”

Jamie nodded, and flew down the corridor. More arches revealed more rooms, but it took only a cursory glance to ascertain that Seward was not in any of them; they were filled with bunk beds and fold-up mattresses, giving them the appearance of dormitories, or barracks.

Which is exactly what they are,
thought Jamie.
Sleeping quarters for Valeri’s army.

Valeri realised Valentin was behind him a millisecond before the punch landed on the back of his neck.

The impact was devastating; it drove all thought momentarily from his mind as he crashed to the gravel, his vision filled with fireworks of white and red. Acting on nothing more than animal instinct, he threw himself forward across the ground and rolled over in time to see a foot slam down where his head had been. He summoned up reserves of strength, climbed to his feet, and faced his brother.

Valentin was smiling at him, his eyes glowing pale red. He was wearing the all-black uniform of the enemy; the sight of it turned Valeri’s stomach, and sent fury boiling through him.

“There are no depths to which you will not sink, are there?” he growled. “No betrayal too great. Mother should have drowned you when you were born.”

Valentin rolled his eyes, his smile widening. “Shall we get this over with, brother?” he said. “We both know that you can’t beat me, so if you surrender I’ll make it quick.”

“Surrender?” said Valeri, his eyes narrowing with disgust. “To you? I would die a thousand times first.”

“A thousand times seems excessive,” said Valentin. “Once will be fine.”

The youngest Rusmanov’s smile twisted into a snarl of pure violence. He took a quick step to one side, then shot forward, his speed shocking even to Valeri’s heightened senses. The elder Rusmanov leapt backwards and swung a haymaker towards where he believed Valentin’s face was about to be, but connected with nothing. Valentin ducked the punch as though Valeri had thrown it in slow motion, and slammed a fist into his throat with a sound like breaking crockery.

And suddenly Valeri couldn’t breathe.

His eyes bulged as he slid to his knees, his hands clutching at his damaged neck, his body shaking. Valentin circled away with a look of pity on his face, a look that filled Valeri with fear.

Dear God, he doesn’t even intend to finish me. He’s just going to watch me choke.

Valeri ran his fingers over his throat, forcing himself to stay calm. The flesh was already beginning to swell, but he could feel his compacted trachea beneath it, the tube that should be carrying air into lungs that were already screaming for relief. Horror flooded through him as he realised what he needed to do, mixing with the furious shame of having been bested again, so easily, by his brother.

He tipped his head back, pain pulsing through his head and chest, and ripped open a hole in the side of his neck with his bare fingers. Blood gushed down his arm as new agony roared through him, but he ignored it; he pushed his fingers into the hole, past the muscles and tendons, and took hold of his bent and swollen trachea. With panic rising through him, he began to massage the sides of the wounded pipe with his forefinger and thumb, trying to persuade it to reopen.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then, with a sound like a newborn’s first breath, air whistled down his damaged throat and into his lungs.

Relief flooded through him as he took a deep, rattling breath. He felt some of his strength return, along with a terror beyond anything he had ever experienced. He staggered to his feet, his hand and neck and chest soaked with his own blood, and faced his brother again.

Valentin smiled. “I’m impressed, brother,” he said. “Nothing quite like conducting surgery on yourself.”

Valeri swayed on unsteady legs. He needed to buy time, to feed and recover; his brother, his hateful, wet little brother who had always been his mother’s favourite, was so fast, so unbelievably fast and strong. His terror threatened to overwhelm him as he stared at Valentin. Then he turned and leapt into the air, searching the battlefield with wide, panicked eyes for a way to regroup.

Valentin’s hand closed round his ankle.

For a single, seemingly endless moment, Valeri hung stationary in the air, as his power and his brother’s cancelled each other out. Then Valentin jerked his arm down, whipping Valeri towards the gravel, his arms flailing helplessly.

He hit the ground face first.

Valeri’s nose exploded as his front teeth shattered, sending fresh pain barrelling through his head; it was overwhelming, but he fought against it with all the strength he had left, desperate to keep moving. He crawled forward, staggered to his feet and spun round, lashing out blindly with his fists. As his vision cleared, he found his brother staring at him coldly.

“Men don’t run,” said Valentin. “You taught me that, brother. Men stand and fight.”

Rage thundered through Valeri, momentarily drowning out the pain and fear. He growled, and spread his arms wide. “Come to me then, brother,” he said. “Let us finish this.”

Valentin smiled. “Your wish is my—”

The words stopped abruptly as Valentin’s face changed. His eyes darkened black, and his mouth fell open, as though his power had suddenly been cut. His head rolled slowly backwards, until he was staring up at the sky, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

Valeri wasted no time wondering what was happening. He launched himself forward with everything he had and landed an uppercut on his brother’s chin that would have knocked over a building. Valentin hurtled into the air, trailing a torrent of blood, and disappeared over the dark expanse of the forest.

Dracula felt a rush of irritation spread through him as Valeri slumped to the ground, clutching his throat as his brother circled him. The eldest Rusmanov was a disappointment in so many ways, and would likely not survive the night, whatever the outcome of the battle, but removing him from the field at this point would tip the scales in favour of his enemies, and that could not be allowed.

It’s time to end this,
he thought, and felt familiar excitement dance up his spine.
It has gone on long enough.

He would have readily admitted that Blacklight and its allies had proven themselves worthy opponents; they had been creative, and clever, and thrown themselves into the fight with undoubted bravery and skill. But they were still merely human, with the exception of the wolf and their handful of tame vampires, and no match for what he felt in his bones he had again become.

A god.

Dracula drew his sword and descended, like the blade of a guillotine. As the ground rose up towards him, Valentin looked directly at him, his eyes black, his mouth hanging open. Then Valeri swung a punch that connected with a sound like a cannon, and the youngest Rusmanov was gone.

Dracula accelerated, and landed with an impact that echoed across the courtyard. For a long moment, there was silence, as every pair of eyes turned towards him. He stood up straight, and raised his sword as Operators and vampires alike regarded him with stunned horror.

Dracula smiled, and narrowed his eyes.

Then he roared into battle with the force of a hurricane, hacking and rending and growling with the sheer, unadulterated pleasure of violence.

And the surviving Operators, who had begun to tentatively share Paul Turner’s belief that they might yet carry the day, understood the reality of their situation.

They had never stood a chance.

“So tell me something,” said Angela. “If you and Larissa have kids, are they going to come out with fangs and glowing red eyes?”

Jamie stared at her, incredulous. “Are you actually kidding me?” he asked.

Angela smiled. “I’m just making conversation.”

“Now, though?” asked Jamie. “Right now? Really?”

Angela’s smile widened. “I’m just asking what everyone is wondering,” she said. “No need to be so touchy about it.”

“Let’s talk about it later,” said Jamie. “Maybe when the fate of the world isn’t resting in our hands?”

“Fine,” said Angela, and rolled her eyes theatrically. “Although I’m sure you used to be more fun. Let’s get on with it then.”

Jamie couldn’t help but smile; Angela Darcy was one of the deadliest human beings he had ever met, a woman whose highly classified career was soaked in blood, but she was also one of the most effortlessly charming, and most intelligent. As he reached the end of the passage and stopped in front of a door with a heavy padlock hanging from it, he realised how much calmer he felt, and marvelled at her cleverness.

I doubt she’s ever said a single word without thinking it through first,
he thought.
It sounded like she was fishing for gossip, but she knew it would take my mind off what we’re doing. She’s never less than two steps ahead of me.

Henry Seward’s scent was stronger than ever as Jamie twisted open the padlock and turned the door’s handle. The room beyond it was small, containing only a porcelain sink and a cast-iron bed frame, topped with a bare mattress.

Lying on the thin rectangle of material was Admiral Henry Seward.

Jamie gasped out loud; the sight of the Director was so shocking that he was simply unable to stop himself.

Seward looked as though he had aged ten years in the months since Valeri had stolen him from the Loop. His skin was grey and deeply lined, and hung from his bones like old meat. An eyepatch covered a socket that Jamie presumed was empty, and scars, thick ridges of bright white, criss-crossed his arms and face. His fingertips were wrapped in bloody bandages, and his skin was bruised black and purple.

If he hadn’t been able to see the Director’s chest rising and falling, Jamie’s first assumption would have been that he was looking at a corpse.

“Oh my God,” said Angela, her voice tiny beside him.

Seward lifted his head from the mattress and looked at them with a single eye that was filmy and bloodshot. Then something passed across his face, the ghost of an expression of concern.

“Look out …” he croaked.

Jamie’s eyes flared red; he spun round and shoved Angela Darcy backwards. She stumbled along the corridor, shouting in protest, but he ignored her; he was turning back into Henry Seward’s cell as a vampire woman leapt from behind the door and tore Jamie’s throat out with her fingernails.

Cal Holmwood watched Dracula drop from the sky and screamed for the Combined Operational Force to regroup.

It made no difference.

The first vampire was nothing short of a force of nature, a blur of death and mayhem, too fast for the eye to follow. Within thirty seconds of him joining the fight, Holmwood saw four Operators fall at the edge of his sword, limbs hacked clean away, blood pumping into the air in crimson freshets. He bellowed into his helmet’s microphone, his words sounding directly in the ears of every Operator still standing, ordering them to fall back and create separation, but for every one who obeyed his order, there was another who was simply frozen to the spot, unable to tear their gaze away from the horror that had been unleashed in their midst.

Cal unholstered his MP7, fired a burst into the air, and ran headlong into the battle. He dodged between Operators and vampires, ducking thrown punches and whistling stakes, heading towards the château, in front of the remains of which Dracula had played his last, most devastating card.

Himself.

A vampire lunged from nowhere and landed a glancing blow on the side of his helmet; he tumbled to the ground, his ears ringing. The MP7 spilled from his grip, and he drew the metal stake from his belt as he rolled on to his back, searching for his attacker. He brought it up as the vampire, who looked barely more than a teenager in his T-shirt and ripped jeans, flung himself down towards him.