Department 19: Zero Hour (79 page)

Larissa Kinley took a deep breath and knocked on her boyfriend’s door.

The process of repairing the reeling, battered Department was ongoing in every corner of the Loop, and she had done her part, and more; she had patrolled, and fought, and done everything asked of her by Paul Turner, who was adjusting as quickly as humanly possible to his new role as Director. Henry Seward had been given a mandatory leave of absence, to recover from the ravages of his captivity, and the Security Officer had shouldered the burden that had so worn down Cal Holmwood with typical cold precision. Broken bones were healing, cuts and bruises were beginning to fade, and recruitment to fill the gaps left by those lost in France was already under way; physically, at least, Blacklight was recovering. But lurking in the background, more poisonous and dangerous than any wound, was the conviction that had settled deeply into the ranks of Operators and staff: the belief that it was all now utterly pointless.

The consensus of opinion was that they had missed their one chance to destroy Dracula. Nobody was being blamed, out loud at least, but it had been adopted as fact by an ever-increasing number of the men and women who populated the Loop. The first vampire’s rise was complete, and Zero Hour had come and gone. They were still standing, but for how much longer?

Larissa refused to surrender to this line of thinking. She believed there was a chance, no matter how small or how rapidly diminishing it might be, that they could still prevail. She had seen Dracula up close, closer than anyone else apart from Valentin Rusmanov, and had seen the fear on his face as the Battle of Château Dauncy neared its conclusion, when he had been confronted by men and women who were not afraid of him, and who were powerful enough to hurt him, even destroy him.

She knew she would spend the rest of her life second-guessing her decision to take what remained of Valentin and flee, rather than fight. But she also had no doubt that the chance to test herself against Dracula would come again, a prospect her vampire side, which had become louder and more insistent than ever, was positively relishing.

One shot,
she thought.
Just one more shot at him. That’s all I ask.

The events of Zero Hour had made one thing abundantly clear to her, solidifying something she had always known, deep down. Although she could still not be one hundred per cent certain that it was Julian Carpenter whom Cal Holmwood had greeted in the hangar, she no longer cared; she was going to tell Jamie what she had heard, and let him decide for himself what he wanted to do. If the frightened masses within the Department were correct, and the end of the world was truly nigh, she had no intention of taking something so potentially important to her grave with her. She was going to tell her boyfriend and to hell with the consequences.

If Paul Turner had her court-martialled, so be it.

If Jamie never wanted to speak to her again, so be it.

She would tell him what she knew, and if he still cared to know the truth about herself and Tim Albertsson, she would tell him that too.

No more secrets,
she told herself.
Like we promised, but never really delivered. Time for a clean slate.

She knocked on the door again, listening for sounds of movement from inside her boyfriend’s quarters; Jamie could usually be relied upon for a low volley of swearing and grumbling whenever anyone knocked on his door.

But there was nothing.

Larissa frowned and pulled her console from her belt. She opened the messaging function, entered Jamie’s name, and tapped out a short message.

Where are you?

She replaced the console on her belt and flew towards the lift at the end of the Level B corridor, trying to ignore the tiny knot of worry that had risen into her stomach.

“Where are we going?” asked Jamie, as the double doors swung shut behind them. “And what’s so important that we have to go right this minute?”

Frankenstein shook his head. “You’re going to have to trust me, Jamie.”

He rolled his eyes. Operational Squad J-5, which had mercifully survived the Battle of Château Dauncy intact, had been stood down for the night, and Jamie had been looking forward to the possibility of sleeping for longer than four hours. He had been intending to drag Larissa and his friends to the officers’ mess for a drink when Frankenstein had approached him outside the Level 0 lift, and told him there was somewhere he needed to take him. Jamie had sighed, but followed the monster back along the corridor towards the hangar; if Frankenstein said it was important, then it most likely was.

The two men walked quickly through the hangar and pulled open the doors of one of the black SUVs parked against the wall. Jamie slid into the passenger seat as the monster climbed behind the wheel and keyed the ignition. The big engine growled, then settled, as the car sped out across the base, the artificial canopy shimmering above them in the dark gloom of the evening, the huge ultraviolet bombs standing silently at regular intervals across the grounds; having them permanently armed and ready had been one of Paul Turner’s first orders upon taking charge of the Department.

They passed through the authorisation tunnel, roared past the protesters’ encampment without slowing, and out on to civilian roads.

“You’re really not going to tell me anything?” asked Jamie.

“I’m sorry,” said Frankenstein, his eyes fixed on the road. “I made a promise.”

“To who?” asked Jamie.

“I can’t tell you that,” said Frankenstein.

Jamie frowned at the monster for a long moment, then shrugged and sat back in his seat. “This better be worth it,” he said. “This was probably going to be my only night off before the world ends.”

Frankenstein smiled, but didn’t reply.

The steady rumbling of the engine and the comfortable seat beneath him sent tiredness flooding through Jamie, and he felt his eyelids begin to flutter. He forced them open, and saw Frankenstein glance over at him. The monster had an expression on his grey-green face that was almost kind.

“Get some sleep,” said Frankenstein. “I’ll wake you when we get there.”

Jamie nodded, leant his head against the window, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, Frankenstein was shaking him gently.

They were parked outside a small cottage at the end of a gravel track; Jamie craned round in his seat and saw no other houses. Beyond the small row of trees that stood on his side of the car, Jamie could see a huge expanse of flat countryside, a landscape of browns and greens that seemed to go on forever.

“They’re the Norfolk Broads,” said Frankenstein, as though reading his mind.

He pushed open the door and stepped down on to the track, his limbs stiff and aching. Frankenstein didn’t move, and Jamie stuck his head back into the car.

“Aren’t you coming?” he asked.

Frankenstein shook his head.

Jamie frowned, and pushed the door shut. He walked round the front of the vehicle and stopped before a small garden gate; it opened on to a short path that led to the cottage’s front door.

The house was low, built of white stone with a red tiled roof. Smoke curled slowly from a chimney, billowing up into the darkening sky. Jamie took a deep breath, lifted the latch, and pushed the gate open.

His boots crunched on gravel as he approached the door, his eyes fixed on the brass knocker that hung in the centre of red panels of wood. There was nothing obviously threatening about this place, but for some reason he was nervous; his heart was beating hard in his chest, and adrenaline was dripping slowly into his limbs, causing them to tremble slightly. He could feel heat behind his eyes, and pushed it back, preventing it from bursting into the glowing red light that he was still far from used to.

Jamie stopped on the stone front step and reached out with a gloved hand. He gripped the knocker, rapped it twice against the door, then stood back, and waited.

The door swung open with a long creak and Jamie staggered backwards, his eyes wide, his heart stopped in his chest, as he stared at something impossible.

His father was standing in the doorway.

As ever, my gratitude is due first to my agent Charlie Campbell and my editor Nick Lake, the former for making sure this book got written, the latter for making it as good as it could be.

My girlfriend Sarah put up with the long writing process, and even longer edit, with seemingly endless patience. This was a hard book, one that took its toll on me and the people around me, but she braved the worst of the storm without complaint. Her support humbles me.

Sam Swinnerton, Hannah Bourne, and everyone at HarperCollins Children’s Books, for their endless enthusiasm and creativity.

Mum, Peter, Sue, Ken, Kay, Tony, Kevin, Jo. For always managing to keep the fear out of your eyes when you asked ‘how’s the book going?’

My friends, who helped in ways far too numerous to list. Joe Donaldson, Mick Watson, Janie and Jon Thorn, James Smythe, Jared Shurin, Anne Perry, Lou Morgan, Patrick Ness, Jon Oliver, James Dawson, Tom Pollock, Kim Curran, Amy McCulloch.

And lastly, and most importantly, my endless thanks to everyone who has read the series so far, especially those of you who have taken the time to send me Tweets and messages and emails. Without you I would just be shouting into a void.

Will Hill

London, February 2014

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