Department 19: Zero Hour (75 page)

Jamie stared across the battlefield, his fangs itching, his eyes blazing. He handed Henry Seward to Angela Darcy, who took him in her arms with a frown on her face.

“Get him to one of the helicopters,” he growled. “Then come and find me.”

Angela nodded, and raced away across the courtyard, the Blacklight Director in her arms. Jamie wasted no time watching her go; he scanned the wide space, located the nearest vampire, and threw himself back into the fight.

The wolf skidded across the ground, gravel tearing at its fur and the pale grey-green skin beneath, but didn’t even notice the pain; its stomach was full of meat, its mouth was full of blood that wasn’t its own, and it was focused entirely on its prey.

The old vampire, the one who, in the distant corner of its mind that was still partly a man, it understood was important, had landed on the ground beside him. The wolf snapped its jaws out, missing the warm outline of the vampire’s leg by millimetres; it dug its paws into the gravel, scrambling furiously for purchase, and launched itself forward, intending to tear out the vampire’s throat with its teeth.

Another vampire – not as old, but still
old
– slammed into its side, knocking it back to the gravel. A howl of pain burst from its blood-soaked maw as three of its ribs broke, but the wolf was back on its feet immediately. It circled its attacker, the vampire it had been so desperate to kill only seconds earlier now forgotten, then lunged forward, teeth clattering shut on thin air where the vampire’s arm had been. It skidded past, stretching out a huge paw as it did so, and felt it connect with the vampire’s stomach, drawing an explosion of breath and a grunt of pain.

The wolf lunged again, its claws ripping at the vampire’s back, tearing flesh away in long strips, then reared up on its powerful hind legs and bit the back of its prey’s neck. Blood spilled into its mouth, energising it, and it pressed forward, trying to force the vampire down to the ground where its advantage would be overwhelming. The vampire resisted, digging his feet into the gravel and pushing back with all his supernatural strength; the wolf felt hands trying to force its jaws open. It bore down, but the vampire possessed strength beyond anything it had ever encountered, and slowly, inevitably, its mouth opened.

The wolf snapped its jaws down towards its prey’s head, but the bleeding vampire was too quick; he slid to the left, and caught the wolf by the throat. There was a moment of perfect stillness, as the two monsters brought all their strength to bear. Then the wolf was in the air, the vampire’s hands deep in the fur covering its neck and stomach, and found itself flying towards the corner of the ruined stone building.

It hit one of the grey slabs head first, and saw nothing but black.

Larissa paid no attention to Valeri and the Frankenstein wolf, for a simple reason. In front of her, rising to his feet with a sword that was almost as big as him in his hands, was Dracula.

The first vampire glanced over at Valeri as he grappled with the huge wolf, then smiled at her. “You are the one Valeri spoke of,” he said. “Blacklight’s pet. A traitor to your—”

Larissa blurred across the distance between them and slammed her gloved fist into Dracula’s face with all her strength. His words were cut off as he flew backwards, his heels digging long grooves in the gravel, his head rocked back by the force of the blow. She was breathing heavily, almost panting as her vampire side filled her; her skin felt like it was on fire, and her mind contained nothing more than a raging torrent of hatred.

Dracula lowered his head, blood running from his nostrils in two thick streams. He ran the back of his hand under his nose and looked at the smear of red.

“For that,” he said, his voice soft, almost friendly, “you will pay a price you cannot imagine.”

Larissa smiled. Around her the battle raged, as her friends and colleagues fought with last-ditch courage against odds that were on the verge of becoming overwhelming; she tuned out the noise and the thick smell of blood, forcing herself into the moment, focusing herself entirely on the vampire standing before her.

Live or die,
she told herself.
Here’s where you find out.

She growled and threw herself at Dracula.

The first vampire was fast, remarkably so, but Larissa realised something within the first second or two of their fight: he was
not
as fast as she had feared. She had fought Valeri Rusmanov, and had seen what the first victim was capable of; Dracula, it appeared, was barely faster than either of them, if at all. As a result, she slipped easily beneath his first punch, a lazy swing that would have nevertheless decapitated most vampires and all humans, and landed a driving punch of her own on his ribs. Dracula grunted, and the slightest flicker of a frown crossed his face as he circled away from her.

Maybe we overestimated you,
she thought.
We’ll see. But I
know
you underestimated me. Didn’t see that coming, did you?

“Quick,” he said, almost approvingly. “Perhaps you will be some sport after all.”

Larissa wasted no time responding. She feinted left, then darted to her right, a black blur trailing glowing red light, drawing her MP7 as she did so, and unloading it at his stomach from point-blank range. Dracula threw himself into the air, pirouetting gracefully, and the bullets streamed harmlessly beneath him. Her momentum carried her forward, and although she threw herself out of the way as the first vampire dropped from the air like a missile, she wasn’t fast enough.

Dracula’s foot pistoned out and connected with her chest; Larissa heard something break inside her and screamed in pain as she was flung backwards. She hit the ground on her shoulders, flipped over, and skidded across the gravel on her stomach. She leapt back to her feet, having almost reached the treeline at the edge of the courtyard, and saw Dracula streaking towards her, a wide smile on his pale, narrow face.

Keep him busy,
she told herself, trying to ignore the sickening waves of pain rolling out from deep within her.
Try and give the others a chance to do something, if nothing else.

Valeri’s back blazed with agony as he strode towards the wolf, intending to tear off its head and throw it as far into the forest as he could manage.

Blood was pouring from where the animal’s claws and teeth had gouged his flesh and pooling at his waist; every step sent pain shooting up his spine. The old vampire found himself almost incoherent with rage.

Wolves and stakes and helicopters and traitors. Animals. Kill them. Tear their hearts out. Rip off their heads. Kill them all.

He stopped beside the huge wolf. It lay at the foot of a broken piece of château wall, its chest rising and falling, its tongue hanging out of its open mouth. Valeri kicked the animal in its side, feeling hatred pumping through him, then kicked it again, and again. He heard the dry snaps of breaking ribs, but the unconscious wolf gave no response. He leant forward, his hands reaching for the animal’s neck, then stopped.

A voice in the back of his mind, the part of himself that was a General first and foremost, was telling him that the wolf was no longer a threat, that loyalty demanded he put his desire for revenge aside. Valeri growled, a low rumble that shook the ground, then straightened up and turned away, looking for his master. He had left him fighting the traitor girl, who was smarter and quicker than he had given her credit. He was not seriously worried that she might actually cause Dracula harm, but it would be good to remove her from the fight as soon as possible; she was a wild card, and such things were unwelcome on a battlefield. Valeri knew they were reaching the final throes of the battle; his brother was gone, Cal Holmwood was dead, the werewolf was unconscious, and once he helped his lord destroy the traitorous vampire brat, he was certain that whatever resistance remained in the ranks of the men and women in black would crumble.

There.

His master was near the edge of the courtyard, advancing towards the distant treeline. Beyond him, Valeri could see the black shape of the traitor, her eyes blooming red in the darkness. He growled, and was about to step into the air and speed to his master’s side when something hit the back of his head like a bolt of lightning and he slumped to one knee.

The pain thundered through him like the echo of some impossible noise, jarring every single one of his cells and rendering him momentarily blind. A second impact, less powerful than the first but still enough to send him sprawling on to his stomach, landed across his shoulders. He scrambled forward on hands and knees, rolled over, and threw himself backwards. His head was screaming, his limbs slow and heavy, but his survival instinct was still strong, and he escaped the third blow by millimetres. He dragged himself to his feet and faced his attacker.

It was a teenager, barely more than a boy, in the black uniform of the enemy. His eyes glowed the colour of blood, and in his hands he was holding a long piece of one of the rotor blades that had been sheared off when Valeri brought down the Apaches.

Valeri hissed, and staggered backwards.

How many pets do they have?
he wondered, frantically.
How many more surprises can there be?

The boy came forward, a look of savage pleasure on his face, and swung the rotor again. Valeri got an arm up to block it, but the force of the blow sent him flying. He scrambled up and was hit again, the heavy length of metal landing agonisingly on his lower back, sending fresh agony through his body and driving him back to the ground. Panic exploded into his system, numbing some, but not all, of the pain, and as he struggled to his feet, an awful thought filled his mind.

He’s going to kill me. He’s going to beat me to death with that thing.

The boy swung the rotor again. Valeri summoned the last of his strength, the very deepest reserves of his resolve, and threw himself to one side, arching his back and throwing his arms out for balance. The chunk of metal skimmed his nose, missed his chest and groin by millimetres, and buried itself in the gravel. The boy frowned, as Valeri moved.

He dropped his shoulder and swung his fists together with everything he had left. They crashed into the boy’s stomach; the air left his body with a great bursting sound, and he folded to the ground, his eyes wide, his mouth open, his chest still.

Valeri threw back his head and let out an ungodly shriek of triumph; it echoed around the courtyard like the howl of a banshee. He gritted his teeth against the pain that was coursing through his body and staggered towards the boy, whose face was rapidly turning purple as he struggled to breathe. As Valeri reached him, something clicked inside the boy’s body and he dragged in a huge, strangled breath. It made no difference; he pushed weakly at the gravel, trying to retreat, but nothing happened.

The eldest Rusmanov stared down at the teenage vampire with a smile on his face that was nothing short of sadistic. Then something took hold of his wrists, something incredibly strong, and wrenched them up and back, trapping him in place. Valeri surged forward, kicking and squirming, trying to free himself, but whatever had him was as implacable as death.

His eyes began to widen as his shoulders creaked alarmingly, then flew open as his arms broke at the elbows with cracks that rang out across the courtyard.

Valeri screamed. The pain was unbelievable, huge and hot; bile churned in his stomach and he felt his legs give way beneath him as the last of his strength deserted his battered, broken body. He hung limply in the grip of whatever was holding him, utterly powerless to resist.

Jamie Carpenter got up with a narrow smile on his face, despite the pain thumping through him.

For several long seconds after Valeri hit him, he had simply been unable to breathe; his chest had locked tight, no air getting in or out, as pressure built in his head. He suspected that fear, the cold terror that had filled him as the old vampire had approached him, had been what finally overrode his protesting muscles, freeing him from paralysis.

Then something had happened to Valeri. Jamie wasted no time wondering what; he drew the metal stake from his belt, and staggered towards the suspended vampire.

“Look at me,” he said, his voice shaky.

Valeri raised his head and Jamie recoiled; the fire in the old vampire’s eyes was gone, and he looked so tired, so utterly
exhausted
, that Jamie felt a sickening moment of sympathy for him. He pushed it away and raised the stake in an unsteady hand.

“Say hello to Alexandru for me,” he said, and plunged it into the vampire’s chest.

Valeri’s eyes widened, as a strange expression crossed his face; in the dark nights that followed, when sleep eluded him and his heart was heavy with grief, Jamie would convince himself that it was relief.

Then the second-oldest vampire in the world exploded with a sound like a clap of thunder, spraying steaming blood across Jamie’s chest and face. He gagged, wiped his eyes clear with the back of a gloved hand, and felt a smile rise on his face at what he saw.

Standing in front of him, coated in the remains of his brother, was Valentin Rusmanov.

His jaw was horribly broken, his handsome face a mess of unnatural angles and purple-black bruising, and he was coated in a thick crust of dried blood, but his eyes glowed scarlet, and he was smiling lopsidedly at Jamie.

“Come on,” he said, his voice mangled by his injuries. “Let’s finish this.”