Uprising
Scott G. Mariani

Dedication

for Lisa

Excerpt

SINCE THE DAWN of civilisation, vampires preyed on human beings, drank their blood and regarded them contemptuously as an inferior species, a mere disposable resource. For aeons, the vampires ruled.

But things have changed. With the birth of the modern age and the explosion in human telecommunications and surveillance technology, many vampires realised that they could no longer carry on the old ways. Something needed to be done if the ancient culture was to survive.

In the last quarter of the twentieth century, the World Vampire Federation was founded to control and oversee the activities of the vampire community. No longer would vampires prey unrestricted on human beings and turn them into creatures like themselves. New biotechnologies enabled the Undead to walk in daylight, living among us, in our cities, our streets. Strict laws were imposed to control vampire activity and allow their community to carry on. Quietly. Unnoticed. Undisturbed.

These laws were enforced by the Federation’s Vampire Intelligence Agency, or VIA, with a licence granted by the Ruling Council to hunt and destroy transgressors.

But not all the vampires were willing to obey…

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Excerpt

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five

Chapter Seventy-Six

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-One

Chapter Eighty-Two

Chapter Eighty-Three

Chapter Eighty-Four

Chapter Eighty-Five

Chapter Eighty-Six

Chapter Eighty-Seven

In Conversation with Scott Mariani

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the same author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

The Scottish Highlands

November 1992

Outside the cottage, the storm had reached its peak. Rain was lashing out of the starless sky, the wind was screaming, the branches of the forest whipped and scraped violently at the windows.

The lights had gone out, and the old place was filled with shadows from flickering candles. The twelve-year-old boy had been cowering at the top of the creaky stairs, listening to the argument between his parents and his grandfather and wishing they’d stop. Wanting to run downstairs and yell at them to quit fighting. Especially as he knew they were fighting about him—

…When the thing had come. A creature that looked like a man – but could not have been a man.

The boy had seen it all take place. Watched in speechless horror, peering through the banister rails as the intruder crashed in the door and strode through the hallway. The argument had stopped suddenly. His parents and his grandfather turned and stared. Then the sound of his mother’s scream had torn through the roar of the storm.

The creature never even slowed down. It caught his father and his mother by the arms, whipping them off their feet as though they weighed nothing. Like dead leaves. It dashed their heads together with a sound that the boy would never forget. Candles hissed, snuffed out by the blood spray.

Then the thing had dropped the bodies and stepped over them where they lay. Smiling now. Taking its time. And approached his grandfather.

The old man backed away, quaking in fear. Spoke words that the boy could not understand.

The thing laughed. Then it bit. Its teeth closed on the old man’s throat and the boy could hear the terrible gurgle as it gorged on his blood.

It was just like the stories. The stories his parents hadn’t wanted his grandfather to tell him. The boy shrank away and closed his eyes and wept silently and trembled and prayed.

And then it was over. When he opened his eyes, the killer had gone. The boy ran down the stairs. He gaped at the twisted bodies of his mother and father, then heard the groan from across the room.

The old man was lying on his back, his arms outflung. The boy ran to him, kneeled by his side. Saw the wound in his grandfather’s neck. There was no blood. All gone.

Claimed by the creature.

‘I’m dying,’ his grandfather gasped.

‘No!’ the boy shouted.

‘I’ll turn.’ The old man’s face was deathly pale and he gripped the boy’s arms so tightly it hurt. ‘You know what to do.’

‘No—’

‘It has to be done,’ the old man whispered. He pointed weakly at the sabre that hung over the fireplace. ‘Do it. Do it now, before it’s too late.’

The boy was convulsed with tears as he staggered over to the fireplace. His fingers closed on the scabbard of the sabre, and he unhooked the weapon from its mounting. The blade gave a soft zing as he drew it out.

‘Hurry,’ his grandfather croaked.

The boy pushed the sword back into the scabbard. ‘I can’t,’ he sobbed. ‘Please, Granddad. I don’t want to.’

His grandfather looked up at him. ‘You must, Joel. And when it’s done, you have to remember the things I told you.’ His life energy was fading fast, and he was struggling to talk. ‘You have to find it. Find the cross. It’s the only thing they truly fear.’

The cross of Ardaich. The boy remembered. Tears flooded down his face. He closed his eyes.

Then opened them. And saw that his grandfather was dead.

The storm was still raging outside. The boy stood over his grandfather’s body and wept.

And then his grandfather’s eyes snapped open and looked deep into his. He sat upright. Slowly, his lips rolled back and he snarled.

For a second the boy stood as if mesmerised. Then he started back in alarm as his grandfather began to climb to his feet. Except it wasn’t his grandfather any more. The boy knew what he’d become.

Candlelight flashed on the blade as he drew the sabre. He raised it high and sliced with all his strength – the way the old man had taught him. Felt the horrible impact all the way to the hilt as it chopped through his grandfather’s neck and took the head clean off.

When it was done, the boy staggered out into the storm. He began to walk through the hammering rain. He walked for miles, numb with shock.

And when the villagers found him the next morning, he couldn’t even speak.

Chapter One

Eighteen years later

October 27

Pockets of thick autumnal mist drifted over the waters of the Thames as the big cargo ship cut upriver from the estuary, heading for the wharfs of the Port of London. Smaller vessels seemed to shy out of its way. With its lights poking beams through the gloom, the ship carved its way westwards into the heart of the city.

On the approach to the docks, the beat of a helicopter thudded through the chill evening air.

Eight sailors of mixed Romanian and Czech origin were assembled around the helipad on the forward deck, craning their necks skywards at the approaching aircraft. At their feet lay a row of five steel-reinforced crates, seven feet long, all identical, unmarked, that had been wheeled up from the hold. Most of the crew preferred to keep their distance from them. The strong downdraught from the chopper’s rotors tore at the men’s clothing and hair as its pilot brought it down to land on the pad.

‘Okay, boys, let’s get these bastard things off our ship,’ the senior crewman yelled over the noise as the chopper’s cargo hatch slid open.

‘I’d love to know what the hell’s inside them,’ said one of the Romanians.

‘I don’t fucking want to know,’ someone else replied. ‘All I can say is I’m glad to be shot of them.’

There wasn’t a man aboard who hadn’t felt the sense of unease that had been hanging like a pall over the vessel since they’d left the Romanian port of Constantza. It hadn’t been a happy voyage. Five of the hands were sick below decks, suffering from some kind of fever that the ship’s medic couldn’t identify. The radio kept talking about the major flu pandemic that had much of Europe in its grip – maybe that was it. But some of the guys were sceptical. Flu didn’t wake you up in the middle of the night screaming in terror.

The crewmen heaved each crate onto the chopper and then stepped back from the blast as the cargo was strapped into place. The hatch slammed shut, the rotors accelerated to a deafening roar, and the chopper took off.

A handful of the ship’s crew remained on deck and watched the aircraft’s twinkling lights disappear into the mist that overhung the city skyline. One quickly made the sign of the cross over his chest, and muttered a prayer under his breath. He was a devout Catholic, and his faith was normally the butt of many jokes on board.

Today, though, nobody laughed.

Crowmoor Hall

Near Henley-on-Thames, Oxfordshire

Forty miles away, the gnarled figure of Seymour Finch stepped out of the grand entrance of the manor house. He raised his bald head and peered up at the sky. The stars were out, seeming dead and flat through the ragged holes in the mist that curled around the mansion’s gables and clung to the lawns.

Finch couldn’t stop grinning to himself, though his big hands were quaking in fear as he nervously, impatiently awaited the arrival of the helicopter. He glanced at his watch.

Soon. Soon.

Eventually he heard the distant beat of approaching rotor blades. He rubbed his hands together. Took out a small radio handset and spoke into it.

‘He’s coming. He’s here.’

Chapter Two

The Carpathian Mountains, Northern Romania

October 31

It was getting dark when Alex Bishop emerged from the path that cut through the woods and spotted the old tumbledown house across the clearing. She just hoped that her informant had been right. Lives were on the line.

She quickly checked the equipment she was carrying on her belt and unsnapped the retaining strap on the holster. The steps on the porch were rotten and she stepped over them, treading carefully. The peeling front door swung open with a creak and she could smell the stench of rot and fungus.

Inside, the house was all in shadow. Alex stepped in, peering into the darkness. The door creaked shut behind her. The red-orange glow of the sinking sun was receding fast across the cobwebbed window panes.

Her sharp ears caught something. Was that a thump from somewhere below her feet? She stiffened. Something was moving around down there. She followed the sound through the front hall towards a doorway. A rat, startled by her approach, darted into the deepening shadows.

A muffled yell from behind the door. Then another. Shrill, scared, all hell breaking loose.

Someone had got here before her.

She kicked the door open with a brittle cracking and splintering, and found herself at the top of a flight of stone steps leading down to the cellar. She wasn’t alone.

From her hidden vantage point at the top of the stairs, Alex took in the situation at a glance. Three young guys in their twenties. One lay writhing in a spreading, dark pool of blood. Two were still on their feet, one clutching a wooden cross, the other holding a mallet in one hand and a stake in the other. Both howling in panic, wild, demented, as the cellar’s other occupant rose up from their friend’s body and took a step towards them. His mouth opened to show the extended fangs.

Vampire.

The guy holding the cross rushed forward with a yell and thrust it in the vampire’s face. It was a brave thing to do – textbook horror movie heroics – but foolish. If he’d been expecting the vampire to cover its face and hiss and shrink away, he was in for a shock.

The vampire didn’t blink an eye. Alex had known he wouldn’t. Instead, he reached out and jerked his attacker brutally off his feet. Pulled him in and bit deep into his shoulder. The young guy fell twitching to the ground, blood jetting from his ripped throat.

There was nowhere for the remaining guy to run as the vampire turned his attention to him and backed him towards the corner of the cellar. The young man had dropped his mallet and stake and cowered against the rough wall, pleading for his life.

The vampire stepped closer to him. Then stopped and turned as Alex walked calmly down the cellar steps. He stared at her, and his bloodstained mouth fell open. Recognition in his eyes.

‘Surprise,’ she said. She reached down and drew the Desert Eagle from its holster.

The vampire snarled. ‘Federation scum. Your time is over.’

‘Not before yours,’ she said.

And fired. The explosion was deafening in the room. Even in Alex’s strong grip, the large-calibre pistol recoiled hard.

The vampire screamed. Not because of the bullet that had ripped a fist-sized hole in his chest, but because of the instant devastating effect of the Nosferol on his system – the lethal anti-vampire poison developed by the Federation’s chemists and issued under strict control to VIA field agents like Alex Bishop.

The vampire collapsed to the cellar floor, writhing in agony, staring at his hands as the blood vessels began to bulge out of the skin. His face swelled grotesquely, eyes popping out of their sockets. Then blood burst out of his mouth, and his hideously distended veins exploded in a violent spatter of red that coated the floor and the stone wall behind him. Alex turned away from the spray. The vampire continued to twitch for a second, his body peeled apart, turned almost inside out, blood still spurting out from everywhere; then he lay still.

Alex holstered the gun and walked over to the young guy in the corner, grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet.

He gaped at her. ‘How did you—’

She could see that he had wet himself with fear. These amateurs had no idea what they were into.

‘It takes a vampire to destroy a vampire properly,’ she said as she unzipped the pouch on her belt. Before he could react to the meaning of her words, she’d taken out the syringe of Vambloc and jabbed it into the vein under his ear. He let out a wheezing gasp and then lost consciousness. By the time he came around, his short-term memory of what had just happened would be completely erased.

Alex replaced the Vambloc syringe and took out the one that was loaded with Nosferol. Leaving the young guy where he lay, she stepped over to his two dead friends and injected each of them with ten millilitres of the clear liquid. Standard procedure, to ensure they stayed dead. She carefully recapped the needle with a cork and put the syringe back into its pouch.

Two minutes later she was heading back out into the evening with the unconscious body over her shoulder. As she strode out of the house she tossed a miniature incendiary device into the doorway behind her. She was halfway to the trees before the whole place went up in a roar of flame, bathing the murky woods in an orange glow.

Hiding the traces of another day’s work.

‘Rest in peace,’ she muttered. She took out her phone, keyed in Rumble’s number at the London HQ.

‘Harry. You were right. It’s happening.’

Chapter Three

The Oxfordshire countryside, five miles from

Henley-on-Thames

The same night, 12.05 a.m.

‘Come back here, Kate!’

But she was already out of the car and trudging over the rough grass towards the road.

‘Piss off,’ she fired back over her shoulder as she stamped away. Dec thumped the steering wheel and swore loudly.

Kate was fuming as she reached the road and kept walking. No way she was getting back in that car. She’d walk all the way back home to Wallingford if she had to.

If she was angry with Dec Maddon, she was even angrier with herself for having accepted the boy next door’s invitation to go out for a drive. She liked him, she really did. But when he’d suddenly produced the little white pills and offered her one, she’d got scared. Scared of getting into trouble. Scared that he was trying to get her into a state where she’d have sex with him.

And scared that she’d give in. He was a few months older than her, not far off his eighteenth birthday. Better looking than any of the boys at school, and he drove a Golf GTI. He was exciting and wild. Maybe a little too wild. Kate drew the line at taking drugs.

She walked on as fast as her wobbly heels would let her. Shivering now, feeling the dampness of the mist and wishing she’d put on something heavier than the flimsy cotton top – but refusing to regret that she’d got out of the car.

It was a couple of minutes later when she saw the headlights coming up behind her. She turned and put out her thumb. The car sounded its horn at her and drove on. She did the V’s at the disappearing taillights. ‘Wanker!’

She kept walking. The dark empty road was spooky, but she didn’t care. So what if it was Hallowe’en? She wasn’t a kid any more. She was more concerned about the cold. Really getting to her now.

Then, a little further up the road, she saw another car approaching. She was about to put her thumb out again when it signalled and pulled up. She trotted over to it. Big square headlights, the luxuriant purr of a very expensive car. She noticed the Rolls-Royce radiator grille as she walked up close. The driver’s window whirred down.

Kate peered inside. ‘Thanks for stopping,’ she said.

Dec Maddon sat there muttering angrily to himself and slapping his forehead with his palm. What an eejit, blowing it like that. His dad was gonna kill him if this got back. The ecstasy pills were a new thing – in fact he’d never even touched the stuff in his life before deciding it would be a cool thing to try tonight with Kate – but of course nobody would believe him. He was in the deepest shit imaginable. Kate probably wouldn’t want to talk to him again, and her stuck-up bitch of a mother would have a field day.

He’d been crazy about Kate Hawthorne ever since his family had bought the house next door. She was beautiful, with china-blue eyes, tumbling red curls that looked like something out of an old painting and a smile that made his day – and up until now he’d been pretty sure the signals she’d been putting out meant she kind of liked him too. Trust him to go and fuck it all up.

He sat there fulminating for a few minutes before he decided to follow her. He’d explain. She’d understand…he hoped.

He started the car and bumped over the verge onto the country road, turning right to head back towards home. The mist drifted in his headlights. He was certain he’d spot her pretty quickly.

And he did. But she wasn’t alone. She was just getting into a black Rolls that was pulled over at the side of the road. She shut the door behind her, and the big car moved off.

Dec followed it for a few miles. The mist was rapidly thickening, and he was so focused on tailing the Rolls that he began to lose all sense of direction. They were deep into the winding country lanes now, way off his normal routes. After a while, the Rolls indicated left and glided through a tall gateway. Automatic gates closed behind it, blocking him out.

He parked the Golf at the side of the road. His breath was misting in the cool night air as he walked up to the gates and ran his hand down the cold wrought iron bars. He looked up.

Two giant birds were peering down at him out of the drifting fog. He stared up at their curved beaks and great wings, and it was a moment before he realised he was looking at stone statues perched on the gateposts. The way their eyes seemed to bore into him made him strangely uneasy. He looked away from them, and that was when he noticed the tarnished bronze plaque on the craggy wall. He had to pull away some of the moss sprouting over the stonework to read it.

CROWMOOR HALL.

What was this place? Some kind of stately home, he thought. Some rich guy’s place. What was Kate doing here?

Face it, Dec. You’re just not her class. She’s a solicitor’s daughter and you’re just a mechanic like your dad.

He was about to walk away, but then felt a powerful urge to go in there and have it out with her. He couldn’t let things end like this.

He started climbing the high wall.

Chapter Four

Jericho, North Oxford

Joel Solomon awoke with a gasp and jerked bolt upright in his bed. For a moment the night terror still gripped him, before he remembered where he was. This wasn’t eighteen years ago. This was here and now, and he was home in his ground-floor flat in the peaceful street on the edge of the city. Everything was all right.

The luminous hands of his bedside clock told him it was 12.34 a.m. He rubbed his face, blinking to clear away the remnants of his nightmare. When his heart eventually stopped thudding, he sank his head back into the pillow and closed his eyes, inviting sleep to return.

But it wouldn’t. He knew it couldn’t, not now.

I’ll turn. His grandfather’s voice still rang inside his head.

He’d never wanted to relive those memories again. Since the age of fifteen, after three years of counselling, psychotherapy, hypnosis, he’d thought he was free of them for good. Suddenly, the nightmare was back. Twice now, within the space of just a few days.

His fingers clenched into fists under the bedcovers as the images returned once again. The years hadn’t dulled their awful vividness. Seeing the sabre blade come whooshing down and sideways. Feeling that awful crunch as the sharpened steel went slicing through cartilage and bone.

He took a deep breath. It didn’t happen, he willed himself to believe. You imagined it. You were in shock. The brain plays strange tricks. Imagining all kinds of things that aren’t real.

That was what the doctors had persuaded him to believe – that there weren’t monsters out there, lurking and watching in the dark. That the only evil in this world was human. Like the psychopathic murderer who’d broken into the remote cottage that night and done those terrible things. That the only time Joel had ever touched the sabre was when the old man had let him play with it.

And that the rest was just the figment of a deeply traumatised child’s imagination.

It had taken a long time, but he’d eventually learned to trust the words of logic and reason repeatedly drummed into his head like a mantra by the men and women in the white coats.

At this moment, though, he wasn’t so sure. He swung his legs out of bed and looked out of the window at the mist in the streetlights outside. So much for grabbing a decent night’s sleep before his early morning start. He knew what he had to do to clear his mind.

He walked to the bathroom, took a quick shower, and then pulled on his motorcycle leathers and left the flat. Out in the misty street, he swung his leg astride the Suzuki Hayabusa sportsbike, thumbed the starter and rode off.

Chapter Five

What a place, Dec thought as he crept through the manor house grounds and the turrets and towers loomed up through the mist. The cars outside were all Aston Martins and Bentleys and Rollers. He made his way to the brightly lit windows where the music was coming from, and peered through.

What he saw inside was a huge, glittering ballroom. There had to be a couple of hundred people in there, dancing, drinking, partying. The women were all in long dresses, and the men wore tuxedos and strange black cloaks. Every face in the room was hidden by a mask.

He skirted the outside wall and peeped around the corner. The front entrance was at the top of a flight of steps and the door stood open. He trotted inside, just in time to avoid being spotted by an old guy in a butler’s uniform. Finding himself in a huge hallway, he ducked down a corridor. A door was ajar, and through it was the biggest washroom he’d ever seen. On a chair by the door was someone’s discarded cloak and a black mask; Dec grabbed them and darted away.

With the cloak over his shoulders and the mask over his face, he wandered through the ballroom and scanned the crowd for Kate. He felt desperately out of place and hoped he didn’t too obviously look it. A string quartet were playing, and dancing couples spun across the polished floor. Waiters sifted through the crowd with champagne glasses on silver trays.

Then, through a gap between the dancers at the far end of the ballroom, he caught a glimpse of Kate’s unmistakable red hair. She had her back to him, but it was definitely her. She was walking with a man towards a curtained exit. His hand was pressed to the small of her back, as though guiding her gently but firmly. Was he the guy in the Rolls, Dec wondered. He looked like the moneyed type. Expensive suit, fancy haircut. Dec couldn’t see his face, but there was something vaguely familiar about the guy. Nothing especially distinctive – he wasn’t fat, wasn’t thin, not short, not tall. But Dec was sure he knew him from somewhere. He thought he could see a certain nervousness in the man’s step as he escorted Kate through the room.

Dec suddenly realised that Kate and Rolls-Royce man were part of a larger group all heading in the same direction. Six of them in all, three men and three women, including Kate. He couldn’t help but notice how hot the other two women looked, both dressed in revealing outfits and high heels. The blonde was like something out of a magazine and the other one with wild, tousled raven hair, was just stunning even with her mask on. Her slinky crimson dress showed off the toned muscles of her shoulders and arms. Gold bracelets on honey skin. She and Rolls-Royce man seemed to know each other. When she turned to smile at him he seemed to shrink away a little from her, as though wary of her, and she gave a seductive giggle.

The two other guys in the group were eye-catching for different reasons. One looked like a tree. He was black and massive, six foot six of solid muscle under a tuxedo that looked ready to split if he moved too brusquely. The other guy’s head barely came up to his chest. Wiry, stoat-like, with eyes that darted behind his black mask.

Dec watched as they all filed through the curtained doorway. None of the other partygoers seemed to pay them any attention as they left the ballroom.

Dec pushed his way through the crowd to the doorway. He discreetly pulled the curtain aside and followed. Keeping well back, he followed the strange group through corridors and hallways. Every so often he could see Kate, still being ushered along by Rolls-Royce man. What was wrong with her? She seemed to be walking strangely, as if dazed, or in a trance of some kind.

The group of six passed through another doorway. Dec waited a moment, then crept to the door and inched it open to see a flight of stone steps spiralling downwards into shadow. He swallowed hard, and followed, hanging back to stay out of sight.

He could hear the people’s steps echoing up towards him.

Then nothing. He trotted faster down the steps and found himself on a landing that branched out in several directions, leading to more stairs. Which way had they gone?

He kept going, wandering through the maze. It was dark down here, and he was beginning to get disorientated. He bumped up against a rough wooden door and his fingers felt the cold iron ring handle. He turned it and the door creaked open.

He was in what looked like a vault or crypt beneath the manor house. It seemed to run the whole length of the building, stretching far ahead into darkness, lit only by flaming torches that cast flickering shadows across the stone floor and the forest of pillars that held up the ceiling.

Dec felt suddenly chilled.

He heard the sound of voices, and turned to see the group he’d been following. They were assembled in a circle about forty yards away, surrounded by lit candlesticks. Kate was no longer with them. Instead they’d been joined by another man, dark, elegant and stately in his tuxedo. He wore no mask and Dec could make out his slender, chiselled features in the candlelight. He exuded an air of quiet authority and even from a distance it was clear that everyone deferred to him. Almost as though they were afraid of him; especially Rolls-Royce man, who now looked even more nervous than before, a sheen of sweat on his brow. He appeared on the edge of panic, but then the man who seemed to be the leader put a hand on his shoulder and said something to him in a low, mellifluous voice. Dec didn’t catch the words.

With a noise that echoed through the vault, a trapdoor in the ceiling fell open above the group’s heads and something emerged from it. Dec strained to see, then nearly bit his tongue off when he saw that the strange object being lowered from the trapdoor was a girl. Naked. Hanging upside down from a chain, steel manacles around her ankles. She was struggling in terror, her screams muffled by a gag.

Dec crept closer. Pressed himself against a pillar, hardly daring to look. His mouth was dry, his heart hammering. Now he could see the girl more clearly. She had short brown hair and marks on her neck that looked like a spider on a web.

Dec could sense the group’s excitement as she swung overhead, sobbing, too weak to struggle. Only Rolls-Royce man looked agitated. He began trying to back away, but the two women took his arms and gently restrained him, smiling and kissing him.

The black-haired beauty had something attached to her belt, slung low at her left hip. It was a sword in a scabbard. She drew it out with a slithering whisper of metal on metal and a clinking of gold bracelets. The long, curved blade glinted in the torchlight.

The leader nodded to her.

As Dec watched in horror, the woman lashed out with the sword and cut the throat of the hanging girl. A torrent of blood splashed down over the group. They stood with upturned faces, in a frenzy of pleasure as the blood spattered down over them and trickled over their lips. The women moaned and smeared it over their faces, their bare shoulders, their breasts. The leader stood back and watched with apparent indifference as the giant black guy and the little weaselly one began greedily licking and slurping the blood from their flesh.

Rolls-Royce man was quivering – Dec couldn’t tell if it was with wild excitement or with terror. The black-haired woman sheathed her sabre and beamed at the man through the blood on her mouth. She reached out and laced her bloody fingers behind his head, drew his face towards her. Buried it in her cleavage like a mother offering milk to a baby, and threw back her head with pleasure. Rolls-Royce man’s face came away sticky with blood as she released him and he staggered back a step. He looked ready to collapse with fear and excitement.

Only the leader stood aloof, quietly licking his lips as the last squirts of blood rained down from the dying girl. She let out a gurgle, then hung limp.

Dec was barely able to focus his thoughts. Then it hit him.

Where’s Kate?

A second trapdoor fell open and then he saw her. Naked and chained, just like the other girl. Her pale body gleamed in the firelight, her hair hanging down in a mass of curls.

The black-haired woman wiped the blood from her mouth, leaving a glistening red streak of it across her face. Cruelty flashed in her eyes as she drew the sword a second time and poised herself for the strike, like a beautiful, lethal cobra. The blonde was watching in anticipation, open-mouthed.

Dec wanted to scream out but his throat was paralysed with terror. Just as the blade was about to slash Kate’s neck wide open, the leader raised his hand.

‘Stop, Lillith. Anastasia, back away. I want this one for myself.’ His voice echoed in the crypt. The woman called Lillith lowered the weapon and stared at him. The blonde froze, like a dog being given a command.

‘That’s not playing fair, brother,’ Lillith said archly.

‘Release her.’

Lillith snarled.

And Dec almost collapsed.

Not because he’d never seen a human snarl before.

But because of the teeth. They hadn’t been there before – he was certain of that. But now, suddenly, horrifically, her canine teeth looked like an animal’s. They were long and curved and sharp, protruding whitely from her bloody lips.

The leader took a brisk step towards Lillith and slapped her hard across the face. She was hurled off her feet with a scream of pain and rage. He pointed a warning finger at her. Then turned to Kate and reached out to stroke her skin.

‘She’s mine,’ he said.

Dec had seen enough. He had to get out of this place. Call the police, somebody, anybody. Get help. He turned away, barely breathing, desperately trying to control his racing pulse as he tiptoed back through the crypt as fast as he could.

Making it to the stairs, he began to run like a maniac, swallowing back the bile that kept rising up in his throat.

For a few terrible minutes he was lost inside the enormous house, stumbling through the plush corridors. Ripping open a door, he found himself inside an old-fashioned library. French windows looked out across the dark grounds. He ran over to them. They were locked. He had to get out. Looking around him in panic, he spotted a large quartz paperweight on a desk. Grabbed it and lobbed it against one of the windows, which shattered with a tinkling of breaking glass. He clambered out of the jagged hole and staggered out into the night.

He never looked back at the house. He sprinted to the wall, scrambled over it and dashed to his car. His hands were shaking so badly that he could hardly get the key into the ignition, but then the engine fired up and he took off down the country lane.

As he drove wildly away, he tore his phone out of his pocket and went to dial 999.

The battery was dead. He tossed down the phone and drove faster through the misty night. There had to be somewhere he could stop and make a call, but all he saw around him was countryside. He pressed his foot down harder on the accelerator and kept it there for five straight minutes. Was there nothing here? Where was he?

Miles passed, and then he noticed a light through the trees. A house, maybe a country pub.

Dec stared at the light for half a second too long. By the time he looked back at the road, it was already too late. The tight bend rushed up faster than he could react. The Golf ploughed into the verge, left the road and smacked straight into a tree, and the expanding airbag punched him in the face as he went flying into the wheel.

He had no idea how much time went by before he woke up in the wrecked car. He tried to move, and cried out at the excruciating pain in his left wrist. His head whirled with nausea. He felt the blackness rising.

No. No. Got to get help. Got to help Kate. Got to get—

That was his last thought before he woke up again to the glare of flashing blue lights and there were two police officers looking down at him.

Chapter Six

VIA Headquarters, central London

Next morning, 6.28 a.m.

Alex pushed through the steel and glass doors of Schuessler & Schuessler Ltd and crossed the broad foyer to the reception desk. Fresh off the plane from Bucharest, she was wearing a long dark grey Ralph Lauren cashmere coat over a merino wool polo-neck and jeans. The heels of her Giuseppe Zanotti knee-high studded boots clicked on the shiny tiles.

Kindly old Albert, the night watchman, was coming to the end of his shift, and she gave him a sweet smile as she signed in.

‘Early start this morning, Miss Bishop,’ he said.

‘Well, you know me, Albert.’

‘We haven’t seen you for a couple of days.’

‘I had some overseas business to take care of.’

‘Busy busy.’

She grinned. ‘Always.’

She skirted the plush reception area, past the leather armchairs and the tinkling fountain, headed for the lift and rode it all the way to the top.

Schuessler & Schuessler were a large legal firm and occupied the lower three floors of the building. The legal people had no idea what really went on behind the doors of the company that occupied the upper two floors.

The lift opened onto a small, bare landing and Alex stepped over to the only door leading off it. It bore the words ‘KEILLER VYSE INVESTMENTS’ in gold lettering. She took a strip card from her handbag and ran it down the slot, hearing the clunk as the lock opened for her. On the other side of the door was a long windowless corridor, walls and floor tiled in gleaming white. She passed through another door at its far end and entered a second reception.

At a desk sat an austere-looking woman in a dark suit, her hair scraped back into a bun. Alex knew there was a pistol under the desk, loaded with Nosferol-tipped rounds and aimed right at her as she walked over to the fingerprint and retinal scanner and ID’d herself to the voice recognition system. Steel doors whooshed open and Alex stepped through into a square ante-room. Inlaid into the centre of the polished granite floor was a large circular emblem bearing the VIA insignia.

This was the nerve-centre of one of the world’s most secretive organisations, operating under the auspices of a worldwide Federation whose existence was known only to a very select few.

Alex nodded greetings to familiar faces as she cut a path through the airy open-plan office space where VIA operatives talked on phones, typed at computer terminals and watched the latest developments on the giant screens that monitored the agency’s global activities.

At the far end of the upper floor was Rumble’s private office. She walked in without knocking.

Harry Rumble, medium build, slim and greying elegantly round the temples, was dressed in a charcoal pinstripe suit. He could have passed for a City businessman; he was anything but. He was the chief of the Vampire Intelligence Agency, the Vampire Federation’s security wing, set up to police its hundred thousand or more members across the world.

The Federation, embodiment of the modern age of vampirism. VIA’s role within its global empire, working under the watchful eye of the Federation Ruling Council, was to control the registration of new members and enforce the three laws that were engraved on the crystal plaque above Harry’s desk.

1. A vampire must never harm a human

2. A vampire must never turn a human

3. A vampire must never love a human

The enforcement part was Alex’s job – as a lot of renegade vampires had found out the hard way. When they stepped out of line, she moved into action.

Rumble peered up at her over his half-moon glasses as she walked in. She knew he didn’t need them but just wore them because he thought they made him look sophisticated. Vampires could see like a cat.

Xavier Garrett, Rumble’s assistant, stood across the other side of Rumble’s desk. He was tall and vulturine with a high brow and oiled black hair, wearing the same sombre, crumpled suit he always wore. He flicked a look up and down Alex’s body, and one corner of his mouth twisted up into the best rendition of a smile he could do.

‘Cool as a body on ice, hotter than a chilli pepper,’ he said. ‘Looking good this morning, Agent Bishop.’

Alex and Garrett’s relationship was a simple enough one of mutual distaste. He regarded her as insubordinate and a maverick, and hated that she had Rumble’s ear. She regarded him as something that made slimeballs look good. Neither of them made any secret of their feelings.

‘Hey, Garrett. The undertaker called earlier. He wants his suit back.’

Garrett’s smirk twisted into a sneer.

‘Did you get my report, Harry?’ she asked Rumble. She was the only VIA field agent to call the boss by his first name and not ‘sir’. That drove Garrett crazy with envy, and she enjoyed it.

Rumble nodded. He tapped a key on the laptop in front of him and the screen’s reflection lit up in his lenses.

‘You did a good job out there,’ he said. His brow was creased with worry. And that was an unusual expression for Harry Rumble. He turned to Garrett. ‘Xavier, you didn’t check those shipment dates with Slade yet, did you?’

‘I was—’

‘Now would be a good time.’

Garrett curled his lip, getting the message, and left the office.

When they were alone, Alex said, ‘What, so private even your assistant doesn’t get to hear?’

Rumble peeled off his glasses and sat back in his chair chewing at one of the stems. ‘Franklin hasn’t reported back from Budapest.’

Franklin was Alex’s senior field agent counterpart stationed at VIA’s Munich operation. After rumours of vampire attacks had started appearing on blogs in Hungary, Rumble had sent him in to investigate.

‘He arrived there Saturday. No word from him since Tuesday. I don’t like it.’

‘You think something’s happened to him?’ she asked.

‘It’s not like him to go silent on us,’ Rumble sighed. ‘But that’s not all. Look at my screen.’

Alex moved round the edge of the desk so she could peer at Rumble’s laptop. ‘Whoa.’

‘My feelings exactly.’

The screen showed a map of the world. Capital cities marked in white. VIA stations marked in blue. Little red flags marked the locations of recent illegal vampire activity. Once in a while, a vampire would defy the regulations and go rogue, feeding uncontrolled on humans in their area, failing to use their Fed-issued Vambloc supply with the result that victims frequently remembered details of the attacks, their wounds didn’t heal quickly, and they got sick. In extreme cases, where the vampire returned to the same victim for several feeds over a period of a few days, they died and were turned.

It didn’t take much for localised panic to spread and rumours to circulate like wildfire through the blogosphere. When that happened, VIA field agents were deployed to deal with it.

Which wasn’t a frequent occurrence. The Federation generally had things tightened down pretty well, and Rumble’s operations map normally didn’t feature more than one or two red flags at any given time.

But what Alex was looking at right now was a mass of them, clustered across Europe, spreading east to west.

‘That’s definitely unusual,’ she said.

‘More than unusual. It’s unprecedented.’

‘You told me we were getting a rise in rogue activity. You didn’t tell me it was this bad.’

‘I was hoping it’d level out,’ Rumble said tersely. ‘But that isn’t happening. Reports are just flying in. Dexter in Copenhagen, an hour ago. Carbone in Barcelona late last night. I don’t even want to think about what’ll happen if the human media get a hold of it.’ He paused, anxiously chewing his lip. ‘The strangest thing is—’

‘What?’

He swivelled his seat away from the desk and looked at her. ‘These attacks are happening at night. All of them. It’s as if they were avoiding the daylight. Why aren’t they using the Solazal the Federation provides them with?’

‘I’ve had a feeling for a long time this might happen,’ Alex said. ‘A Trad uprising.’

‘A what?’

‘It was only a question of time before the Traditionalists started a backlash against us, Harry. Our glorious Federation may have done its best to stamp out the old ways, but I’ve always wondered how many of the die-hards were still out there, waiting for their chance to get back at us.’

Rumble looked pointedly at her. ‘Come on. Even if you’re right, there’s no way a few scattered malcontents could organise themselves into a significant threat. Not on this kind of scale, and so fast. It’s not feasible.’

‘We were there when the Federation took over, remember? Not all vampires were happy about it, if I recall. All they needed was a leader. Maybe they’ve found one. The Trads and the Feds, fighting it out.’

‘The Trads and the Feds? Give me a break.’

She shrugged. ‘Maybe the time’s come, Harry.’

Chapter Seven

The mighty Thames river snaked through much of England, yet in places it was little more than a muddy stream crowded by banks of reeds.

Dawn wasn’t far away, and the riverbank creatures were beginning to wake. A solitary swan glided over the misty surface of the water; then swam for the refuge of the vegetation as a small rowing boat appeared.

Seymour Finch’s gnarled fists were tight on the oars, propelling the boat along through the murk with powerful strokes. The quiet, dark places were where he most loved to be, far from prying eyes. And he had a job to do, now that Mr Stone and his inner circle had retired to their rest.

Finch manoeuvred the rowing boat into the bank, so that it nestled among the rushes. He shipped the oars then reached down for the bundle that lay between his feet. He smiled as he thought about what was inside, wrapped in plastic and sacking cloth.

Mr Stone had let him do what he wanted, once the others had finished. Finch’s intense terror of his employer was matched only by his deep devotion. He was honoured to have been set the tasks he had. He would carry them out to the letter. He would have his reward.

Finch’s strong fingers closed on the folds of the sacking cloth. He hauled the bundle upright against the inside of the boat, then drew out the sheath knife from his belt and cut the rope so that the contents spilled out overboard and splashed into the water.

Finch watched the ripples, then reached for the oars. He was about to start turning the boat around to head for home, when he saw the swan a few yards away.

He stared at it. The first rays of the dawn were beginning to melt through the mist, and shone like gold on the majestic bird’s white plumage as it glided like a galleon across the water.

He wanted to tear its head off and eat its flesh.

Chapter Eight

You could cover a lot of distance very quickly on a bike like the Hayabusa, and Joel had been riding around for most of the night. His route had taken him all around Oxfordshire, and, as the fog had lifted in the hours before dawn, he’d sought out fastest, twistiest sections of country A-road where he knew the speed cameras were few and far between. His advanced police motorcycle course had made him a very quick and very safe rider. He knew exactly how far he could push the machine before he reached the very limit of his concentration and reflexes – and the faster he sliced through the countryside bends, the further from his mind he could drive the haunting remnants of the nightmare’s memory.

The first light was creeping over the horizon when he pulled up in a layby on the edge of a sleepy village. He killed the engine and sat back in the saddle, taking a few moments to soak up the tranquil silence. Feeling much better now, restful, clear headed and ready for another day, he peeled back the sleeve of his leather jacket to check his watch.

It was time to go to work. He fired the Suzuki back up and pointed it towards Oxford and Thames Valley Police Station.

As Joel walked in off St Aldates and into the station foyer, the blonde station duty officer gazed admiringly at the Detective Inspector’s lean six-foot frame. But he was too deep in thought to notice the look she was giving him. He waved distractedly as he walked past the front desk and headed for the staff canteen.

The place was nearly empty, just a few uniformed coppers coming off their late shifts and a handful of early-bird civilian personnel sitting at the plastic tables over tea and pastries. The police were always run ragged by the party mayhem and endless alcohol-related violence of Hallowe’en night. It got worse with each passing year, and today most of the officers looked pale and tired and ready for their beds.

Joel knew the feeling. He ignored the trays of doughnuts and Danish pastries, grabbed a coffee and went over to a corner table. The coffee was the same old thin, insipid brew that only came to life after the fourth sugar. He sat sipping it, gazing out of the window at the rising sun.

At a table a few yards away, three constables, two male and one female, were relaxing over a pot of tea. Joel knew them all well. The balding skinny guy was Nesbitt, the woman was Gascoigne, and the one doing all the talking was Macleod. Big Bob Macleod, two years from retirement, a pork pie of a man, a wheezing, red-faced heart attack waiting to happen. He was coming to the end of some anecdote or other that had the other two grinning broadly. Far away in his thoughts, Joel hadn’t caught a word of it.

‘Give me a break, eh?’ Macleod chuckled in his gravelly voice. ‘I mean, like we didn’t have enough bollocks to deal with in this job.’ He flipped his fat wrist over and winced at his watch. ‘Look at the time. I’m off home for some kip.’ He heaved himself up from the table, grabbed his hat and started off towards the exit.

‘Hey, Bob,’ Nesbitt called after him. ‘Watch the Count doesn’t get you.’

‘Better start eating garlic,’ Gascoigne said.

Macleod’s face twisted in disgust over his shoulder. ‘Bugger that.’ He reached the exit, then turned suddenly and did a comic snarl at them, showing yellowed teeth. ‘Yaarrghhh!’ There was no mistaking the Christopher Lee Dracula impression. The other two constables fell about laughing as Macleod left the canteen.

Joel turned to them. ‘What was that all about?’

Gascoigne stared for a moment, as though surprised that the DI was taking an interest in their jokes.

‘Nothing much, sir. Bob was just talking about the suspected drug driving incident out near Henley last night. Teenager wrapped his car around a tree, sprained his wrist. Seemed to be off his face when we found him. There were pills in the glove compartment. Looked like ecstasy to me, we don’t know yet.’

The police procedure in a case like this was pretty straightforward. The pills would be tested, along with a sample of the suspect’s blood. When the lab results came through after a week, maybe two, they’d know whether they could press forward with possession and drug driving charges. But that wasn’t Joel’s interest.

‘I don’t get it. What’s with the Dracula thing?’

Gascoigne snorted. ‘Oh, just daft. When we brought him in, he kept rambling on about ghouls and vampires. Wouldn’t stop talking about them.’

‘Vampires?’

Gascoigne looked perplexed. ‘You really want to know?’

Joel nodded.

‘Well, apparently, the reason he crashed his car was because he was running away from a vampire lair that he and his girlfriend stumbled on. She was taken by them, needless to say.’

Joel frowned. ‘Not reported missing, though.’

Gascoigne shook her head. ‘Course not, sir. Tucked up safely in bed at home in Wallingford. I talked to the parents myself.’

Joel nodded thoughtfully. Hallowe’en and ecstasy pills. A lethal combo for an overactive imagination. The drug was well known for its ability to produce all manner of wild hallucinations. But still, the mention of vampires had pricked up his ears.

And sent a tingle down his back, too. It was ridiculous, but he couldn’t fight back his curiosity. ‘Do we have him in custody?’

‘I wouldn’t waste my time on it, sir. He’s spent the night in the JR.’ JR was what Oxford locals called the John Radcliffe hospital. ‘Probably be out sometime today, if he gets the all-clear. Then all he has to worry about is whether we’re going to book the silly sod for drug driving or just for possession.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Declan Maddon. But like I said, sir, I wouldn’t waste time on it.’

Chapter Nine

VIA HQ, London

The sun was slowly rising over the city as Alex and Harry Rumble finished her debriefing. She stood up and walked over to the window. Watching the orange glow of the sunrise creeping across the skyline made her think of her Solazal. She quickly reached into the back pocket of her jeans and slipped out the tube. Popped a tablet in her mouth and felt it sizzle sweetly on her tongue.

Rumble leaned back in his chair, took another worried glance at his screen and then shuffled some notes on his desk.

‘Anyway, whatever the hell’s happening, VIA business goes on as usual. Another job’s come in for you.’

She turned away from the window, chewing the Solazal tablet. ‘I just got back from Romania, Harry.’

‘This is just routine. Shouldn’t take long. Are you carrying?’

‘Just my backup.’ She flipped back her coat to reveal the stainless steel, short-barrelled .44 Magnum Smith & Wesson riding behind her right hip.

‘You call that thing a backup piece?’ Rumble handed her a sheet of official VIA notepaper from his desk. She snatched it from his hand, scanning the words with quick green eyes. The name on the sheet was Baxter Burnett.

‘The movie star?’

Rumble nodded.

‘I didn’t even know he was one of ours,’ Alex said.

‘He was turned back in the late sixties, but it wasn’t until the nineties that he got bored and tried his hand at acting. It turned out the big moron had talent.’

‘I should have guessed. I’ve been watching his movies for years and he’s never aged a day.’

‘Yes, well, that’s exactly the problem,’ Rumble said. ‘We can’t allow him to go on drawing attention to himself. I want you and Greg to go and have a word. Nothing too strong. Just refresh his understanding of the situation.’

Alex blinked. ‘Excuse me? And who is Greg?’

‘I should have mentioned it,’ Rumble said with a sly grin. ‘Greg Shriver. That’s Lieutenant Greg Shriver, formerly US Marines, just flown in. Your new partner.’

She groaned. ‘Don’t do this to me. I work alone, for fuck’s sake.’

Rumble gave her a stern look. ‘Hey. Don’t give me that “I work alone” crap. There isn’t an agent on this team I cut more slack to, but even you shouldn’t push it.’

‘Jesus Christ, Harry.’

‘He’s a fresh recruit, so he’s going to be a little raw. Show him the ropes, train him up. I know he’ll learn fast, and he’ll be learning from the best. I’m counting on you, all right?’ Rumble slid a file across the desk at her. ‘Read it. He’s good material for us.’

Alex flipped through it. Like all vampires, she could read ten times faster than a human. ‘And when do I get to meet wonder boy?’

‘Right now.’ Rumble stabbed a button on his phone and talked to the speaker. ‘Jen, show him in, will you?’

A few seconds later Rumble’s secretary, Jen Minto, ushered the new recruit into the office. Greg Shriver was about thirty-five, lean, dark and extremely nervous-looking as he walked in.

Alex stuck out her hand as her boss introduced them.

‘Special Agent Alex Bishop.’

When they shook hands, she noticed that his palm felt a little damp with sweat. Some very fresh vampires retained those kinds of human attributes for a while.

‘They tell me you and I are going to be working together,’ Greg said.

‘Yup. Lucky me.’

‘Baxter’s taken the Trafalgar Suite at the Ritz while he’s in town promoting the new Berserker movie,’ Rumble said. ‘He’s expecting you, but you’d best get going.’

‘Is that Berserker 6?’ Alex said. ‘I saw the fifth one. Complete piece of shit.’

‘Did you see him in Raptus, though?’ Rumble said. ‘Now that was a pretty damn good movie.’

‘We’re going to see Baxter Burnett?’ Greg asked, wide-eyed.

‘Let’s move, new blood,’ Alex said.

Back down in the car park behind the S&S building, Alex bleeped the locks of her black Jag XKR. She slipped into the driver’s seat and Greg got in beside her. He moved like an overgrown puppy, clumsy and too full of energy, and slammed the door so hard it made the glass shake.

She threw him a hard look. ‘Break my car, I’ll slice your head off.’

‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I keep forgetting how strong I am now. Like the night-vision thing, too. I feel pretty weird, still kind of dazed.’

‘That’s hardly surprising,’ Alex said, allowing him a smile. ‘One minute you’re getting on fine with your human life, the next thing some vampire’s sticking their teeth in you. Kind of changes things.’ She started the car and pulled away aggressively, the acceleration pressing them back in the leather seats.

‘That how it was for you?’ he asked.

‘Etiquette lesson one. You never ask anyone how they turned. Unless it’s me, your superior, asking you.’

He mumbled an apology.

‘What’s that accent? Tennessee?’

‘Raised in Memphis. You’re good.’

‘I’ve done a lot of moving around in the last century or so,’ she said. ‘But never mind my story.’ She glanced sideways at him. His shirt was open three buttons, and she could see the slim chain around his neck and the pressed tin tags nestling against his chest. ‘Love the dog tags.’

He reached up and touched them. ‘Keepsake, I guess.’

‘So you were in the Marines. What happened?’ As she talked, she was speeding the Jaguar through the London traffic, darting through tiny gaps between buses and black cabs.

Greg took a breath. ‘Yeah, I was doing okay. Made lieutenant younger than my father did, things were looking good. There was this guy on my squad, his name was Tadd. Always screwing around with weapons, kind of obsessive about them. Anyway, one day we’re out on manoeuvres with an armoured vehicle division and Tadd is playing around with the Browning .30 cal on one of the Hummers. I was standing talking to my captain when, bang, Tadd lets off an accidental shot. Caught me right between the shoulder blades.’

‘Hero’s death. Nice.’

‘You said it, after I was decorated in Iraq and all. Anyway, I’m lying there in the military hospital and the pastor’s just read me the last rites. I haven’t got long to go. Then, when nobody’s looking, this doctor that’s been hanging around me giving me the eye comes over and whispers in my ear, “Psst! Wanna live a little longer?”’

Alex gave a short laugh.

Greg went on. ‘First I thought it was the morphine, fucking with my head. But now I see it’s for real, the guy’s telling me how he’s going to bite me and turn me into a vampire. Said something about recruiting me. I figured, why not, I’d nothing to lose. Only a jackass would turn down an offer of eternal life. Anyway, then I woke up and I was at the Federation rehab centre with my gunshot wound healed up like I’d never taken a bullet. That was two weeks ago. And here I am.’

‘I’ll bet the Feds had their eye on you the moment you were brought into the hospital,’ Alex said. ‘Good army record, no wife or kids, they’d have had you down as an ideal VIA recruit. That vampire doctor was there to pick out the right candidates. When the opportunity comes up to grab someone who looks like they’ll be an asset, they haul them on board. You know about the probation period, don’t you?’

‘A year, right?’

She nodded. ‘To see how you shape up. Then the Federation Board decides whether you can stay.’

‘And if I can’t?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

He sighed. ‘The only thing that really bugs me is that I’m never allowed to see my folks again, my sister, my friends.’

‘Yeah, well, think about it. One minute they’re weeping over their dear departed’s coffin, the next you show up on the doorstep. That’s why you were posted here to London, to keep you far out of temptation’s way. That’s how the Federation works. We can live among humans, that’s fine. But we can’t get too close to them, can’t get emotionally involved in any way. It’s too big a security risk, in case someone spills the beans. Strictly forbidden.’

‘So let me get this right,’ Greg said. ‘Since the Federation was formed in, what?’

‘Nineteen eighty-four.’

‘Since then, it’s been illegal for vampires to actually turn anyone else into a vampire, correct?’

‘Unless it’s an official recruitment, sanctioned by the Federation authorities. That’s to keep out what you might call undesirable elements. The kind of vampires that give vampires a bad name, draw the wrong kind of attention to us. The twentieth century changed everything. Internet, communications, surveillance. The world’s a pretty small place now. That’s why the Federation was created, to maintain a low profile for the community.’

‘And to protect humans?’

She glanced at him. ‘Protect humans? That’s our food resource you’re talking about. We’re not doing this because we love humans. This isn’t some politically correct thing. We’re doing this to survive.’

‘What happens to vampires that don’t play by the rules?’ Greg asked.

‘That’s where VIA comes in. Basically we go after them and kick their arses into line.’

‘We kill them?’

‘Destroy them. Already dead, remember.’

Greg made a face. ‘Right.’

‘Only if we absolutely have to, the ones that won’t listen to sense. Mostly they end up cooling their heels in the Federation Detention Centre for a while. But if they’ve done something really bad, or really stupid, sometimes the Ruling Council will vote for a termination. There was one last year. Rock star. Found out that this guy was a vampire, offered him five million quid to make him into one too. The vampire went for it. Two days later the rock star rose up as one of the Undead and the vampire walked off with the five mill.’

‘Oh, boy.’

‘Everyone’s happy, until the day after that, the rock star forgets what he’s become, walks out onto his balcony at sunrise and – whoosh. He went off like a magnesium flare. Some journo got the shot of him burning up. There was a whole thing in the press about human spontaneous combustion.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I remember that. That was Bobby Dazzler, the lead guitarist of Wild Boys.’

‘He certainly dazzled everyone that day. Of course, Bobby’s name wasn’t on the Federation register and we soon tracked down the guy who had turned him, who was now suddenly spending like a sailor and renting a yacht down in St Tropez. The Council didn’t waste time on him. He got zapped. Lethal injection of Nosferol. That’s one of the special drugs that the Federation produces. We have our own fabrication plant in Italy.’

‘I know about the drugs,’ Greg said. ‘Got the whole lecture already. Like this stuff here, for instance.’ He dug a plastic bottle out of his pocket and gave it a shake. The thick green liquid inside clung to the glass.

Alex glanced at it. ‘That’s that shitty blood substitute they give out to newbies like you who aren’t able to juice for themselves yet.’

‘Tastes pretty bad, but it seems to keep me going. What is it, anyway?’

‘Synthetic crap, kind of vampire baby food. But you can’t stay on it forever. You’re going to have to learn to feed naturally.’

He pulled a face. ‘I’m not looking forward to that part.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s easy. When you get hungry enough, it’ll come naturally. What about your Solazal? You got your supply of that too? I don’t need to be worrying about you?’

He looked blank. ‘My what? Oh, right. Those little white pills.’

‘Shit. When was the last time you took one?’

‘Uh, sometime yesterday, I think.’

Alex slammed her foot on the brake and the Jag skidded to a halt in the traffic to an angry chorus of horns.

‘You think? Have you any idea what’s going to happen when the effect wears off and you’re still out in daylight? Fizz, it’s over, just like Bobby Dazzler. And on my champagne leather seats?’ She reached into the glove box and handed him a packet of pills. ‘Get one down you right now.’

She took off again as he sucked on the pill. ‘Get this in your head. Solazal is a photosensitivity neutraliser, and it’s the centre of your life from now on. You take one every twelve hours without fail, or you’ll fry.’

‘Kind of a departure from tradition, isn’t it?’ he said sheepishly.

‘Modern age, babe. Got to keep up with the times.’

Chapter Ten

Kate Hawthorne was awoken by the sound of her mother coming into her room.

‘Come on, young lady. Can’t lie there all day. It’s nearly ten past eight and you’re going to be late for school.’

Kate groaned and crawled in deeper under the duvet. ‘Leave me alone.’

‘That’s what you get for all this late night cavorting about,’ her mother snapped. She ripped open the curtains and then marched over to the bed to yank back the edge of the duvet. Kate flinched as the pale autumn sunlight hit her in the face. It was hardly bearable. She tried to grab the duvet back from her mother but fell back, half blinded and gasping.

‘Look at you. What on earth’s the matter with you?’

‘Please, Mum. I’ve got a terrible headache.’

‘You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?’

‘I haven’t been drinking.’ But the truth was, Kate realised, she could hardly remember a thing about the night before. She vaguely recalled being with Dec, then the argument. Storming off down the road; the big posh Rolls stopping for her.

And that was it. The rest was a big, yawning blank. How had she got home? Had the man brought her back? Who was he? And where had she seen his face before?

Kate squinted up at her mother. The expression of tight-lipped disapproval made it perfectly clear that her daughter had not been driven home to 16 Lavender Close in a Rolls-Royce. That would have been cause for celebration for Mrs Gillian Hawthorne.

‘You don’t have to look so sour.’ You old cow, she wanted to add. She kept it back, but it must have shown in her eyes, because the disapproving look on her mother’s face deepened a couple of tints.

‘The police called here earlier about your boyfriend.’

‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ Kate protested.

‘That’ll be why your neck is covered in lovebites. Little tart.’

Kate put her fingers to her neck and winced. Did Dec do that? ‘What about the police?’ she murmured.

‘He crashed his car last night. Drunk, no doubt.’

Kate tried to sit up in bed, and the ache thudded through her head. ‘What? Is he all right?’

‘He’ll survive. That’s what cockroaches do, isn’t it? Why couldn’t you go out with Giles Huntley?’

‘I hate Giles Huntley. He’s a creep and he has bad breath.’

‘At least he has a good education and a future ahead of him when he goes to Cambridge. He’s not going to spend his life poking around in filthy grease under a car bonnet. Have you seen the state of Declan Maddon’s fingernails?’

Please make her shut up, Kate thought. The pain felt like a blunt chisel blade being hammered into her skull and then twisted from side to side. Her vision was exploding with it.

And still her mother went on. ‘You know what’s going to happen if you keep this up, my girl, don’t you? Pregnant. That’s what happened to Chardonnay Watson, isn’t it? Going around with lowlifes. Next thing, a bun in the oven. What a disaster. Mind you, with a name like Chardonnay it was to be expected and it’s probably all she was good for anyway…’

Kate watched her mother ranting on. The words faded out in her ears. For a brief instant she felt a rush of emotions surging up inside her, momentarily blanking out the pain in her head. Feelings she’d never had before, and a sense of power that was almost overwhelming.

Before she knew what was happening, she had her mother by the throat. Shaking her like a terrier with a rat. Screaming, ‘Shut your fucking mouth!’ Her mother’s tongue hanging out, her face turning blue as she throttled the life out of her.

But then she was back on her bed and her mother was still standing there, going on at her.

What was happening? Was she going crazy?

‘—should have done a long time ago. St Hildegard’s will be a far better environment for a young lady. You’ll make proper friends, with the right type of people.’

‘Boarding school?’ Kate burst out.

‘Didn’t you hear a word I said? Starting after the Christmas holidays. And in the meantime, you won’t be going anywhere near that family of pikeys next door, I can tell you.’

Kate buried her face in the pillow as her mother went on and on. The migraine was making her want to cry, and she felt sick to her stomach. And weak, so terribly weak, as though the energy had just been sucked out of her.

But somehow, deep inside, she knew something was different about her. Something had happened. Everything felt somehow sharper. More defined. Smells, colours, the floral pattern on the wallpaper her mother had insisted on for the bedroom.

Kate knew she had changed. How and why, she didn’t yet know.

But for some reason she couldn’t understand…

She wasn’t afraid.

Chapter Eleven

The Ritz Hotel, London

Alex walked into the grand entrance lobby and crossed the red carpet to the desk, with Greg trailing along behind her.

‘We’ve come to see Mr Burnett in the Trafalgar Suite. He’s expecting us.’

Two minutes later Alex rapped on the door of the suite. It opened and a woman in her late fifties, with a thin face and short hair, stood in the doorway giving them an icy stare.

‘Where’s Baxter?’ Alex said.

‘He’s busy at the moment. I’m his agent. You can talk to me.’

Alex’s nose twitched at the woman’s human scent.

‘I don’t think so. Out of the way.’ She shouldered past her and through the door. Greg followed, looking around him in awe at the decor. The agent tried to squeeze in after them; Alex shoved her hard out into the corridor and slammed the door in her face.

Baxter Burnett wasn’t that busy. He was settled back confidently on a plush sofa in the suite’s living room, his feet up on a table and his arms behind his head. He looked like he’d been working on his tan, and his hair was immaculately groomed. The sleeves of his white shirt were turned up just enough to show off the toned muscles of his forearms and the chunky gold watch on his wrist. He smiled a glittering Hollywood smile as Alex and Greg walked into the suite.

‘You certainly have a way with people, Miss—?’

‘Special Agent Alex Bishop. What we have to discuss with you isn’t for human ears.’

Baxter just kept on grinning his million-dollar grin. Alex motioned to Greg. ‘This is my colleague, Agent Shriver.’

‘Have a seat,’ Baxter said graciously. He turned and snapped his fingers. ‘Charlie!’ A heavyset assistant came out of the next room. His unsmiling gaze landed on the two VIA agents.

‘Charlie, get this lovely young lady and her friend a drink,’ Baxter said. Charlie stared a second longer, then went away.

‘It’s okay,’ Baxter said easily. ‘Charlie’s one of us.’

‘I can see that,’ Alex said. She and Greg sat on armchairs facing Baxter, and a few seconds later Charlie returned carrying a tray with three cut-crystal tumblers brimming with red liquid. He laid it down on a coffee table before leaving the room. Alex took a glass and sipped it. Greg sniffed uncertainly at his, pulled a face and set it back down on the coffee table.

Baxter was giving Alex admiring looks. ‘Anyone ever tell you, Agent Bishop, you have beautiful eyes?’

‘Plenty of times. Let’s get down to business. Your first big movie break was Down and Dirty, am I right?’

Baxter smiled. ‘That was a good movie. You a film fan, Agent Bishop?’

‘As a matter of fact, I am.’

‘But you didn’t come here to talk movies, I imagine.’ Baxter looked at his watch, like saying he was a busy man and didn’t have all day.

‘Of course we did,’ Alex said. ‘We take a great interest in your work. But here’s the problem. We couldn’t help but notice, Baxter – Down and Dirty was twelve years ago.’

‘Yeah, so?’

‘Our sources tell us that a week ago, you read for the part of Jake Gyllenhaal’s younger brother in the new Universal production, Firestorm. Is that true?’

Baxter reddened slightly. ‘Sure it’s true. It’s a great role for me. What’s the big deal?’

‘Baxter, you’re so fucking stupid,’ Alex said. ‘Don’t you think people will think it’s a bit peculiar, you never ageing? You think you can go on playing thirty-year-old guys for evermore?’

Baxter’s composure was slipping fast. ‘So I have boyish good looks. So did Mickey Rooney. So does DiCaprio. I work out. What the fuck is it VIA’s fucking business what I do, anyway?’ He stood up, spilling his drink over himself; a red arc across white cotton. ‘This is what you assholes came here for, to hassle me about the roles I take? Get the fuck out of here. Charlie! Show these two dipshits the door!’

Alex leapt to her feet. She was on him in two steps, grabbing him by the throat and throwing him violently back down on the sofa. Her hand snaked inside her coat and came out with the stainless steel .44 Smith & Wesson revolver. She shoved the three-inch barrel of the magnum point blank in his face.

‘What ya gonna do, shoot me?’ Baxter snorted. ‘You can’t hurt me with that thing.’

‘Let me tell you something, Baxter. I am a senior special agent of Vampire Intelligence. That means I’m authorised to use Nosferol-tipped bullets. I have six of them right here. You do know what Nosferol is, don’t you?’

Baxter’s cocky grin left him and his face fell.

‘Of course you do,’ Alex said. ‘Do not fuck with us, because if I want to terminate you right now, I have the authority to do that and nobody will ask questions.’ She lifted his chin with the barrel of the magnum and thumbed back the hammer. Baxter went pale as he felt the hard click-click resonate through his jawbone.

Alex went on. ‘This is a matter of Federation security, Baxter. You’re in the public eye and the Federation wants vampires to keep a low profile. You go on like this, you’re a risk to everyone. That makes you expendable.’

Charlie came into the room, a threatening look on his face. Keeping the gun and her eyes on Baxter, Alex called out to him, ‘Stay right there, Charlie. One more step, I blow his head off and yours next.’

Charlie wavered, his eyes wide, and backed off.

‘Okay, okay. What do you want from me?’ Baxter couldn’t take his eyes off the gun, putting his palms up, hands shaky.

Alex stepped away from Baxter, uncocking and lowering the gun. ‘Do what Irene DeBurgo did, and Jeff Caplan. You’re worth, what, eighty million? Get yourself a Pacific island hideaway. Retire, become a recluse. And if you can’t do that, get yourself a good makeup artist and start acting your age. Either way, I don’t give a shit. You know I’m a movie fan, Baxter. I see you playing Jake Gyllenhaal’s little brother, I’ll come after you and I will fucking destroy you. That’s a promise.’

Chapter Twelve

‘You wouldn’t really have shot Baxter, would you?’ Greg asked as they got back in the Jag.

Alex twisted the ignition and the car roared as she pulled out of the Ritz car park onto the street. Apart from a few gulps of Baxter’s Bloody Mary made with real blood, she hadn’t had a proper feed since before the Romania trip and she was feeling drained.

‘For being a lousy actor, I might have. But I hardly think the guy’s going to bring down the Federation single-handed, whatever Harry might say. I just wanted to put the point across.’

‘I think he got it. His face when you told him about the Nosferol bullets.’

‘Only thing we fear,’ she said. ‘Apart from decapitation.’

‘So it’s true that all the stuff about garlic is a myth?’

‘Sometime we’ll have lunch at Rudi Bertolino’s place. He makes the most amazing ragu sauce. Loaded with garlic. And you’ve probably noticed you can still see yourself in the mirror, too. As if the laws of physics don’t apply to us, just because we’re not human.’

‘And what about crosses?’

Alex popped open a button on her blouse as she drove and fished out the little gold chain she wore around her neck to show him the tiny crucifix dangling from it. ‘Frightened? On a scale of one to ten.’

‘Uh, I’d say that’s a one,’ he said, peering at it.

‘There you go. We can walk into churches, drink the damn holy water if we feel like it.’

‘So, basically, what you’re saying is all these old legends are bullshit.’

She shifted in her seat and didn’t reply.

‘What?’ he said, noticing her expression.

All but one, she was thinking. ‘Nothing. Don’t worry about it.’ She drove on, and the tingle of apprehension soon passed.

‘What’s the key for?’ he asked. She glanced at him, and saw he was looking through the open neck of her blouse at the little black antique key she wore on a thong around her neck beside the crucifix.

‘You ask too many questions. And keep your eyes out of my blouse.’

‘Sorry.’

There was silence between them for a while. Greg broke it by asking sheepishly, ‘So where to now?’

‘I’m dropping you back at HQ. You’ve got paperwork.’

He looked at her. ‘Vampires do paperwork?’

‘Every piece of fieldwork has to be written up for the official record. Harry wants me to show you the ropes; that means from now on you get to take care of the boring stuff. I have better things to do.’

After she’d offloaded Greg at the office, she headed into Soho. It was mid-morning, and the hunger was pressing. She needed someone’s blood. Now.

She knew the backstreets and alleys as well as anyone would who’d been stalking them on and off for a hundred years.

‘You,’ she muttered to herself when she spotted the guy coming out of the café. She could smell the red juice in his veins as he walked up a narrow street. There was nobody else about. Nothing but piles of rubbish bags and a scuffed yellow builder’s skip at the kerbside. She followed, gaining on her target.

She gave a little cough as she got close behind him. He turned, and his eyebrows rose as he took in the sight of the tall, attractive, elegantly dressed woman approaching him with an alluring smile.

‘You dropped this back there,’ she said, holding out a twenty-pound note.

He looked at it with a puzzled expression. ‘Did I?’

‘It fell out of your pocket.’

‘Really? Wow. I didn’t even know I had—’ He shrugged, took the money and thanked her.

The fish had taken the bait. She stood there, smiling, one eyebrow raised suggestively. He hesitated. The hand with the wedding ring slipped unconsciously into his pocket: sure sign he was interested. Alex sidled up to him, letting him feel her breasts crush up against his chest. He seemed to be up for it. She moved up as though to kiss him. In her mouth, the long curved fangs were extending into place, ready. His neck was exposed, a fat blue vein pulsing enticingly. She moved in and he didn’t back off.

It was in the bag. The blood rushed to her eyes and her predatory vampire instinct took over as she went in for the bite.

And then the phone went off in her pocket, distracting her, and the guy came to his senses and walked off, flushed and bemused and still holding her banknote.

She answered the phone.

‘Damn it, Harry,’ she said irritably. ‘You just cost me a feed and twenty quid.’

‘How fast can you get over to Oxford?’

‘Pretty fast. What’s in Oxford?’

‘There was a car accident late last night. Single driver, a teenage kid. The police took him to the John Radcliffe hospital. I’ve got a report from one of our people inside that the kid was ranting and raving. Something about a ritual blood sacrifice taking place.’

‘The V-word get mentioned?’

‘Said he found a whole nest. Apparently he was running away from it when he crashed his car.’

Alex frowned. ‘More rogue activity?’

‘It’s a possibility.’

‘Or it could be just the usual Hallowe’en hysteria. We get this every year, Harry. I’ll bet you anything this kid was on drugs.’

‘He was. But I think you should check it out nonetheless. We can’t afford to take chances here.’

‘Why does it have to be me? Can’t you send Gibson?’

‘Gibson’s in Athens.’

Alex sighed. ‘Fine. I’m on my way.’

Chapter Thirteen

Ever since the conversation he’d overheard in the canteen, Joel hadn’t been able to shut the story of Declan Maddon out of his head. Maybe he was going crazy. Maybe he’d been working too hard and his brain was going into meltdown.

But he’d just had to go and talk to this kid. After a fraught and unproductive morning of pushing paper around, he’d seen a ninety-minute window open up in his schedule and grabbed it. The John Radcliffe hospital was on the edge of the city, off the Oxford ring road. Joel rode fast. Just before midday and the sun was shining brightly now – it was turning into one of those beautiful autumnal days that seemed to be getting rarer with each passing year.

The staff nurse looked as perplexed at Joel’s request as she was by his appearance in bike leathers and boots.

‘Again? The police were here last night talking to him.’

‘I have just a few more questions,’ Joel said.

Dec Maddon was on the second floor, sharing a near empty ward with a frail old guy who looked like he was dying. The kid was propped up in his narrow bed with his left arm in a sling. His face was pale and his eyes were rimmed with red, with dark circles around them. He stared up in sullen indignation as Joel approached his bed and flashed his police ID.

‘Hello, Declan,’ Joel said cordially.

‘I told them I didn’t take the fucking pills,’ the kid said sourly. ‘And my name’s Dec. Not Declan. Nobody calls me Declan.’

Joel scraped a chair across the tiles and sat down next to the bed.

‘How about we start again? Hello, Dec. I see you’ve been in the wars.’ He glanced over at the old man at the other end of the ward, but he didn’t seem to be in a fit state to overhear much. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking you a few more questions?’

‘Haven’t we done this already?’

‘Tell me what you thought you saw last night,’ Joel said, as quietly and patiently as he could.

‘I don’t think,’ Dec said. ‘I know.’ His dark-ringed eyes were fixed on an invisible point somewhere above the foot of his bed. There was a grim set to his jaw. ‘I know what I saw, and there’s only one word to describe it.’ He sank back into the pillow and his voice trailed away to a mumble. ‘You wouldn’t believe me anyway. I tried to tell the others, but nobody wanted to listen.’

‘Try me,’ Joel said.

Dec turned to look at him. ‘I saw vampires,’ he said slowly, solemnly.

Joel met his gaze, searching his face for any signs of irrationality. He could see none.

‘It’s fucking crazy,’ Dec breathed.

‘But you believe it, don’t you?’

‘Yes. I do believe it. I’m telling you the truth. And it’s not the pills. Not what the cops think. Because I swear I didn’t take any. I wish I’d never gone anywhere near those fucking pills.’

‘You told the officers you saw these people murder your girlfriend.’

Dec’s brow creased up into a deep frown. He looked away. Shook his head, and Joel could see the dismay in his eyes.

‘I didn’t see…I ran,’ he muttered. ‘I couldn’t take any more.’ He gritted his teeth, looked back at Joel. ‘But she was there. She was…she was hanging there, and they were all standing round her.’

‘Kate’s safe at home, Dec. It’s all been checked out. She’s fine. Nothing wrong with her.’

The kid let out a long, whistling sigh. ‘Yeah, I know. They told me this morning.’ He bit his lip in agitation. ‘But you don’t understand. These people are vampires. If they bit her or something—’

Joel let out a long breath. ‘They turned her, you mean. She’s going to become one of them. She’s sitting in school right now with the rest of her classmates, and when she gets home tonight she’ll be watching TV with her parents or up in her room chatting to her friends on Facebook, but really she’s one of the Undead. That’s a heck of a story. But you know, this isn’t the movies.’

Dec’s eyes were crazed. ‘You’re just like the others. You think I’m making this up. You think I just imagined those fuckers standing there covered in blood, and the bitch with the sword—’

‘Kate wasn’t hurt. Whose blood are you talking about?’

‘Jesus Christ, I’ve been through this a hundred times,’ Dec moaned impatiently. ‘The other girl. That’s whose blood. The one they fucking killed. Like a sacrifice. That bitch just slashed her head half off and all the blood came pouring down and they were just gulping it back and I saw their fucking teeth. Get it? Big long teeth on the bastards.’ He flopped back into the pillow and shut his eyes with a moan. ‘Ah, fuck it, what’s the use?’

Joel was quiet for a long time, watching him. He could see the teenager was close to despair. He’d been there himself. He suddenly felt a pang of shame.

‘I’m not like the other coppers, Dec.’

Dec opened his eyes. ‘Meaning what? You believe me?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Huh. Of course.’

‘But I want you to tell me everything. Starting at the beginning. I want to know where this happened. Why you and Kate were there in the first place. Every detail.’

‘It was foggy. I was lost. I don’t know—’

‘Okay. Tell me the rest.’

And Dec did. As he told the story, his voice became increasingly strained and his face grew pale and moist. Joel watched and listened carefully, trying to gauge the look in his eyes. He seemed completely lucid – but then, that was the power of hallucination. Joel had seen it before. You could never really tell.

Then why was his flesh crawling this way?

Visions of the past flashed up in his mind. For an instant he could see himself sitting there in Dec’s place on the bed, aged twelve, desperately trying to persuade the authorities of what he’d witnessed. And nobody believing a word. Rationalising, always rationalising.

It’s all in your mind. How many times had he heard that?

He swallowed hard. ‘Can you describe the alleged victim?’

‘Ha. There you go again. Alleged.’

‘All right. Tell me about the girl they killed. How’s that?’

‘She was younger than me and Kate,’ Dec muttered. ‘Fifteen, maybe. Short brown hair. She had a spider on her neck.’

‘How do you mean, a spider?’

‘You know, a tattoo.’

Spider tattoo, Joel scribbled on his pad. ‘Now, what about the other people in the crypt? Would you recognise them again?’

Dec nodded. ‘There was the big massive black dude, and the little bastard that looked like a rat or something. And there was the woman with the blade. Sure, I’d know them again.’ He shuddered.

‘Tell me more about the other man. The one you think picked Kate up in his car.’

‘He seemed scared,’ Dec muttered. ‘Like he wanted to be there, you know? But shitting himself at the same time.’ He paused, chewing his lip. ‘Thing is, I could have sworn I’d seen that fucker before.’

‘That’s important. Any idea where?’

Dec shook his head. ‘Like I said, I didn’t see his face. It was just a feeling.’

‘The Rolls. You didn’t get the registration number, I take it?’

Dec looked sharply at him. ‘I didn’t exactly know I was following Kate into a fucking vampires’ nest, did I? Is this all you can do, fuck about with car registrations?’

‘I’m only trying to—’

‘You still don’t get it, do you? There are vampires out there. They’re going to kill everyone, like they killed that girl.’ Tears of emotion spilled out of Dec’s eyes. His voice was cracking with the strain. ‘I’ve had enough of answering questions. This isn’t some shit you can deal with the normal way, like you can line these fuckers up in some ID parade and stick them in jail. Don’t you understand? They drank her fucking blood! They’re vampires! That’s what I’m telling you, because that’s what I fucking saw!’ His voice had risen up to a tortured scream that filled the ward.

At that moment, the staff nurse Joel had spoken to earlier came running in.

‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but I can’t have you upsetting the patient like this.’ She glanced worriedly at Dec, who had collapsed back on the bed and was shaking and weeping hysterically. ‘I’ll fetch the doctor,’ she said, and rushed out.

Joel stood and watched the kid. He was sorry he’d caused this. The fact was, he just didn’t know what to think.

‘Quite a tale, isn’t it?’ said a voice behind him.

Joel hadn’t sensed anyone else come into the ward. He swung round. Standing a few feet away was a woman. She was smiling at him.

Chapter Fourteen

The woman’s sudden appearance, like a ghost coming out of nowhere, startled Joel. For what seemed like an endlessly drawn-out moment, he stood there speechless. There was something mesmerising about her, and it wasn’t just her stunning beauty – the thick auburn curls that tumbled about her shoulders and bounced when she moved, the willowy figure and perfect, pale skin, like porcelain. It was the wry, knowing look and the enigmatic little smile on her lips, as if somehow she could read his thoughts. That look…it just seemed to hold him there.

He forced himself to snap out of his reverie and was about to say something when the staff nurse returned in a hurry, followed by a tired-looking male doctor in a green smock. The nurse shot Joel a pointed stare as she curtained off Dec’s bed and she and the doctor attended to the agitated, sobbing teenager.

Joel turned back towards the strange woman, but she was already gone.

He trotted out of the ward and spotted her a little way down the corridor. She was hanging around as though waiting for him. As he approached, he felt his heartbeat quicken and cursed himself for it.

‘Are you a relative of his?’ he asked her. He was pretty sure he already knew the answer.

She shook her head. The smile was still there, teasing him.

‘So what were you doing in there?’

‘Listening,’ she replied coolly. ‘Interesting, don’t you think?’

‘This is a police enquiry,’ he said. ‘I was taking a statement from a witness, and I’d like to know what you were doing there eavesdropping.’

‘My name’s Alex. Alex Bishop.’ She dipped a hand in the pocket of the long, elegant coat she was wearing and handed him a business card. The momentary brush of her fingers against his was like a million volts of current jolting through his body.

‘DI Joel Solomon,’ he said. Doing his best to look composed, he glanced at the card. ‘So you’re a journalist.’ He noticed the landline number at the bottom and added, ‘London got too dull? A teenager crashing his car out in the Oxfordshire sticks isn’t exactly what I’d call a scoop for a hotshot city reporter.’

‘Except it’s not just about a teenager crashing his car, is it?’ she said.

He made no reply.

‘Are you interested in vampires, officer?’

‘What did you say?’

‘You believed him, didn’t you?’

Joel blinked. ‘What makes you so sure of that?’

‘I saw the look on your face,’ she said. ‘Have you got time for a drink? I’d like to talk to you.’

‘I can’t discuss police business with you.’

‘Like vampires are official police business now?’

He looked at his watch. ‘Fact is, I’m in a rush.’

‘Shame.’ She smiled. ‘Maybe I could have helped you.’

Before he could reply, she’d turned and was already walking away. He watched her all the way to the lifts; then she was gone, without looking back.

Chapter Fifteen

The hamlet of Sonning Eye,

near the Oxfordshire/Berkshire border

12.17 p.m.

Sandra Roberts threw the stick and watched as Bertie went hurtling after it down the leafy riverside path. It hit the ground and bounced, and the golden retriever jumped in the air to catch it in his jaws.

‘Bring it to Mummy,’ she called to him brightly. ‘Come on, Bertie. Good boy.’

Bertie trotted back to her, the stick in his mouth, and dropped it proudly at her feet, looking up at her with keen anticipation, tail wagging. She patted his head, picked up the stick and threw it again. This time her throw wasn’t quite as straight, and it landed in the reeds at the side of the water. Bertie went charging after it.

‘No, Bertie! Not in the water!’ Last time he’d gone for an impromptu swim, he’d been impossible to recall, had got absolutely filthy and completely saturated the back seat of the Volvo.

Christopher had not been at all pleased. But then again, not much pleased Christopher.

‘Bertie, you bloody dog! Get back here now!’

It was too late. Bertie completely ignored his mistress’s shouts as he went ploughing straight through the reeds, sending up a spray of mud and water. She huffed in exasperation as he hunted around in the shallows, rustling the long reeds as he sniffed excitedly here and there. Then he seemed to freeze, as if he’d found the stick. Oh, good.

‘Good boy, Bertie! Fetch now; bring it to Mummy!’

And, thank God, he was responding. She could see the yellow of his fur through the reeds as he scrabbled back onto the bank. Now she was going to get the damn animal on the lead, so he couldn’t run off again. She was sure she’d stuffed the lead into her pocket, but it wasn’t there. She tried the other pocket. There it was.

She looked back at the riverbank. Bertie was up on dry land now, still half hidden in the grass. She called him again, but he didn’t respond. She sighed in irritation, went striding over the grass to grab his collar and snap the lead on.

Bertie looked up at her as she approached. He was standing over something, his soggy tail flicking back and forth as if to say, ‘Look what I found!’

Whatever it was he’d fished out of the river, it wasn’t the stick.

Sandra took a step closer, and peered down at the thing. It was grey and bloated and horrible.

It was a couple of seconds before she realised what she was looking at. She recoiled, tasting the vomit that instantly shot up her throat.

The young girl’s face stared up at her from the grass. She had no body. All that remained attached to the head was part of the left shoulder and a section of upper trunk. The throat was slashed wide open, black with congealed blood.

Sandra began to scream.

Chapter Sixteen

St Aldates Police Station

12.39 p.m.

The ham and cheese baguette sat untouched on Joel’s desk. He’d peeled half the cellophane wrapping off it ten minutes ago, before realising that the hollow, gnawing feeling at the pit of his stomach wasn’t hunger. He couldn’t eat a bite.

He’d been sitting staring blankly at his lunch ever since; but what he was seeing in front of him wasn’t an uneaten sandwich. It was the pale face and dark-ringed eyes of a badly frightened young guy in a hospital ward, locked in a mental battle against himself. His brain tearing itself in two, striving yet dreading to believe the impossible. The only thing more terrifying than the fear that you were going crazy was the fear that the nightmare was for real.

Joel knew that. He’d been through it before, and he was fighting desperately not to start feeling that way again now. It was as if he were suddenly viewing the world through a distorting lens. Reality had shifted gears, sidestepped into a parallel dimension where the normal parameters of logic and rationality had been blown away. He was standing on the brink of the abyss, looking down.

He shoved the sandwich out of the way and snatched up his phone. Dan Cleland was Joel’s closest contact at the forensic lab. Joel asked him if there was any way they could speed up the tests on the Maddon samples.

‘That depends on what you mean by speed up.’

‘Today?’

‘Hmmm. Pushing it.’

‘It’s pretty important, Dan.’

Cleland sighed. ‘Okay, because it’s you. Leave it with me, and I’ll get back to you by the end of the afternoon.’

Joel felt better after the call. If Dec Maddon’s pills turned out to be ecstasy and the blood sample tested positive for the drug, then maybe he could breathe again. Maybe the world would return to normal. Maybe the vampires inside his head would go slinking back into the world of the imagination where they belonged, and bad dreams would remain just dreams.

Maybe.

Joel lobbed the ham and cheese baguette into his waste bin and reached for his coffee. It was cold.

The Jag was blasting down the outside lane of the motorway at just a shade under ninety, heading in towards London, as Alex talked to Harry Rumble on her phone. He listened quietly as she ran through the account of her morning. There was just one thing she left out.

‘What I don’t get,’ Rumble said after she’d finished, ‘is why a detective inspector, someone high up, a guy up to his eyeballs day to day in serious crime, even in a hick town like Oxford, would go out of his way like that to talk to some kid on a petty drugs charge who’s raving on about stuff no humans would take seriously.’

‘That’s because he believes the story, Harry.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘I could smell his fear. I saw the look in his eyes. I don’t think he wants to admit it to himself yet. He’s holding back. But trust me. He believes.’

Rumble thought for a moment. ‘He believes, even though he has nothing to go on but the testimony of a kid who might very well have dreamed the whole thing up on drugs? Then he’s either highly impressionable—’

‘Which he isn’t,’ Alex cut in. ‘He’s young, around thirty. If he’s made DI by then, it means he’s ambitious and determined and he’s no idiot. Guys like him don’t do impressionable. There’s another reason.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ she said.

When the call was over, she gripped the steering wheel and pressed a little harder on the gas, felt the surge of the Jaguar’s engine as the needle flirted with the hundred mark. Her acute senses could make out every minute detail of the rushing tarmac, computing speed and distance to a degree of accuracy that a fighter pilot could only dream of. She was completely in control, completely zoned in. Of course she was: she was a vampire.

So why was her heart fluttering like this?

That was the part she hadn’t told Harry.

As she drove, all she could think about was Joel Solomon. And she knew the reason why.

Chapter Seventeen

Joel was on his way over to the machine to get himself a fresh cup of warm coffee when he spotted Carter steaming the other way down the corridor with a phalanx of uniformed officers in his wake. He was built like a bear and when he was moving fast, like he was now, the world simply parted to make way for him or it got knocked flat on its back.

Superintendent Sam Carter was thirteen years older than Joel, and they’d been friends for ten of those years, ever since Joel had joined up with Thames Valley. Joel knew him pretty well – well enough to know that behind the gruff exterior was a guy who burst into tears at the mere sound of Dolly Parton’s voice, especially when he was drunk, which wasn’t unusual for him. And well enough to know that when he had the grim look on his face that he was wearing now, something extremely serious was up.

‘What’s happening?’ Joel asked as Carter swept past. It was like trying to catch a ride on a moving train.

‘You want to know? Come with me.’

Carter filled Joel in as the squad car sped out of Oxford and headed south towards Sonning Eye.

‘Member of the public found her half an hour ago. Or a piece of her, at any rate. Hell of a mess. The divers are still fishing bits out of the river.’

‘Do we know who she is?’

‘Not a clue.’ Carter looked at him. ‘You look like shit, Solomon.’

‘I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.’ And Joel was beginning to feel it.

The scene was already milling with personnel and vehicles by the time they got there. A quarter-mile stretch of river had been cordoned off with police barrier tape. Extra officers were being drafted in from across the county to keep back the crowd of locals that was quickly growing as word spread of the grisly find. Inflatable launches burbled up and down the river carrying frogmen and recovery equipment. As Joel followed Carter across the grassy bank towards the riverside, he could see a lot of very sick expressions on the officers’ faces. Away in the trees, where he thought nobody could see him, a young rookie constable was heaving his guts out.

The police pathologist at the scene was Jack Brier. Mutilated corpses were his stock in trade, but even he looked a little greyer than Joel had ever seen him before. He was crouched over a bodybag in the grass, pulling off a pair of surgical gloves as Joel crossed the inner cordon and walked over to him. A couple of police photographers had just finished up and were packing away their equipment.

‘Hell of a thing,’ Brier muttered to Joel and Carter. ‘Have you had lunch? Then don’t look.’

Joel stared down at the thing in the bodybag.

Brier chuckled at the expression on his face. ‘Told you. She’s seen better days, that’s for sure. We’ve recovered the head, most of the trunk, the left arm and what’s left of the right leg. The rest could have floated down into Berkshire by now.’

‘What did this?’ Carter asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Brier shrugged. ‘Hard to tell, until we get her on the slab and have a poke around inside. If this was Alaska, I’d say a grizzly had taken a bite out of her.’ He gave a dark grin. ‘But this isn’t Alaska.’

‘Jesus,’ Carter mumbled. He’d seen enough. He looked away, watching the divers and visibly trying to control his emotions.

‘The strangest thing is,’ Brier went on. ‘I mean, I can’t be sure just yet, but look how little lividity there is. And she’s still fresh, too. Not been in the water more than six, seven hours tops. Cut a long story short, it looks to me like this young lady has been completely exsanguinated, even before she was dissected.’

‘In English,’ Carter said.

Joel answered for Brier. ‘He’s saying something drained her blood.’

‘Drained her blood,’ Carter repeated flatly.

Brier nodded. ‘Every last drop of it.’

Joel was still staring at the pieces of the girl’s body as Brier got to his feet and went off with Carter to confer with some of the others. Just then, his phone started to vibrate in his pocket. He fished it out and saw that the call was from Dan Cleland.

‘And for my next miracle,’ Cleland said.

‘You got the results already?’

‘Just in. Specially for my favourite CID officer.’

Joel tensed. Dan was one of those guys who liked to string things out for effect. ‘Well?’

‘The arresting officer was right about the pills. Not top stuff, but definitely ecstasy.’

‘And the blood test, Dan?’

‘Goodness, we are in a tizzy today.’

‘If you were standing here looking at a dead girl’s head in a bag, so would you be.’

‘All right, all right. Well, if your man’s dealing, he doesn’t use from his own stash. Blood test was clean.’

‘What about alcohol?’

‘Zilch. Soberer than a Sons of Temperance convention.’

‘You’re sure about that? Quite certain?’

‘When have I ever been wrong?’

‘Never. Thanks, Dan.’

‘You owe me now, Solomon.’

‘Right.’ Joel ended the call and was about to flip the phone shut. Then he stopped. Glanced around him. Brier was deep in conversation with his colleagues and Carter was getting belligerent with someone on the police radio. Nobody was watching him.

He quickly turned on the camera function on his phone, crouched down in the grass and took two snaps of the victim. One of her face, the glassy eyes staring right into the lens.

And the other of the spider tattoo on what was left of her neck.

Chapter Eighteen

Villa Oriana, forty miles from Florence

1.50 p.m. local time

The butler in the crisp white jacket emerged into the sun carrying the tray with the chilled lemon vodka, prepared exactly the way his employer liked it. He climbed the steps to the balustraded terrace and set the drink down on the marble-topped table at the man’s side.

Jeremy Lonsdale ignored him, didn’t even glance at the drink until the butler had disappeared back inside the villa. Only then, he reached for the glass and winced as the iced vodka burned away the aftertaste of the lobster he’d eaten for lunch.

He closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair and felt the sun on his face. Soaking into him, its glow burning orange through his closed eyelids. Even in early November, it was still easily warm enough to have breakfast and lunch outside. That was one of the things Lonsdale loved most about his Tuscan bachelor hideaway. The gloom and drizzle of that piteous little island called Britain depressed him. He had no affection for the place and certainly no allegiance. He was just one of the ones lucky enough to ride the wave and enrich themselves before the remains of the dying empire imploded into the Third World country it was waiting to become. Whenever he could, he’d jump on his private jet and come out here to soak up the sun. There’d come a day when he wouldn’t return. That had always been his plan.

Lonsdale had been a multi-millionaire for twenty-seven years, which at forty-nine was well over half his life. He could have retired a long time ago, if it hadn’t been for his love of his political career. He was passionate about that whole world of lies and deceit. He loved the way he looked in the public eye when he took up some worthless cause to champion the innocent victims of…whatever. He loved the flash of the cameras and the simper of the media as he kissed babies in Manchester or Liverpool, while the arms companies that earned him millions a year in investments were churning out products to kill other people’s babies in some faraway country nobody gave a shit about, as long as they were kept sated with their television and sport and beer and infantile gadgets. It was all a big game. To win, you just needed the right attitude.

And he’d always thought he was the master of the game, until that day in February. That day had changed everything.

Lonsdale had snatched a week out of his schedule to take a skiing holiday in Lichtenstein. On the third night, as he lounged in the bar of his luxury hotel with a martini cocktail and some nameless floozy at his elbow, he’d spotted the tall figure across the crowded room. Men of wealth and taste were ten a penny in Lonsdale’s world, but this one was different. A man so effortlessly self-possessed, radiating an air of such supreme indifference that he made Lonsdale feel like a schoolboy. He seemed to draw the most beautiful women to him with mesmeric, almost uncanny ease and then dismissed them as though they were nothing. Here was a man who understood power, lived and breathed it. Was he a prince? Unable to recall his face from the society pages, Lonsdale had been desperate to talk to him, but the chance had escaped him when some paunchy dullard of an oil billionaire had appeared to pin him down in gratingly boring conversation. By the time he’d been able to wriggle away from the guy, the fascinating man had disappeared along with his female entourage.

All the next day on the ski slopes, Lonsdale had looked out for him – but no sign, nor the next night.

Finally, on the last evening of the holiday, Lonsdale caught sight of the man again. And this time, nothing was going to stop him from going up and introducing himself.

The man’s name was Gabriel Stone. They’d talked until late in the night and, when Stone had invited Lonsdale to be his guest at his mountain home in Romania, Lonsdale had been straight on the phone the next morning to advise his staff in London that he’d been struck down by a virus and wouldn’t be back in the country for another week.

Two days later, Stone’s helicopter had flown in to land at his home, with Jeremy Lonsdale on board, flanked by the two burly bodyguards his host had provided for his security. Snowy mountains stretched as far as the eye could see. The chopper banked over the towers and ramparts of the old castle, and Lonsdale had been blown away by the power and majesty of the place.

For the rest of the day, he’d been attended to by a tall, bald and cadaverously gaunt man who introduced himself as Seymour Finch, personal assistant to Mr Stone. Lonsdale found Finch’s presence uncomfortable. There was something strange and unsettling about him.

It was only after dark that Lonsdale’s host appeared, apologising that his business affairs tended to occupy his entire day. The two men had dined together in the great hall, drunk fine cognac and smoked cigars. Stone had been not only a charming and affable host, but a man of culture and intellect. Lonsdale had never met anyone able to quote so extensively from classical literature, the Bible, the Greek philosophers. He knew history as though he’d virtually lived it.

That night, Lonsdale had been woken in his luxurious bedroom by the sound of strange music. He climbed out of bed, opened his door. The music seemed to be drifting up from somewhere below. He pulled on a satin robe and followed the sound, treading quietly through the castle’s cold, dark halls and passageways. The music was like none he’d ever heard before and it seemed to lure him, as though it had some hypnotic quality that whispered in his mind.

He came to the door of what looked like a wine cellar. It creaked open to reveal steps leading down. At the bottom of the steps, another door lay half open. The music was coming from inside.

Lonsdale couldn’t help himself. He had to see what was in there. Peeking through the gap, instead of a cellar he saw a decadently opulent room richly decorated with tapestries and exotic rugs and gold-threaded cushions scattered across the floor. On a huge bed was the naked figure of Gabriel Stone, his physique lithe and muscular and perfect, surrounded by three beautiful women who were making love to him.

As Lonsdale watched from the shadows, a hand had touched his shoulder and he’d nearly screamed in terror. He’d turned to see a woman even more beautiful than the ones on Stone’s bed. She smiled and put her finger to her lips. Beckoned him away from the door. ‘Come,’ she whispered. The look in her dark eyes meant just one thing.

Lonsdale had followed her back through the passageways. She was bewitching. Her raven hair was tangled and wild like a gypsy’s, and when she glanced back at him with that smile, her lips were red and glistening. The way she moved drove him wild. Every nerve in his body tingled with lust for her as she led him back to his room. Inside, she shut the door with a smile. He was almost panting by now.

‘W-who are you?’ he stammered.

‘I’m Lillith. Gabriel’s sister.’ She walked him to the bed and shrugged the gown from her shoulders. She was naked under it.

Lonsdale tore at his robe. ‘You’re beaut—’

‘Shh. Quiet.’ Then she kissed him, and pulled him down onto the bed.

It had been a memorable night.

When Lonsdale had awoken next morning, Lillith was gone. He’d searched the castle obsessively for her. Returning to the room below, he’d found the door heavily padlocked. He’d spent the whole day thinking about her. She was like a drug, and he wanted more.

Lillith had come back to him for the next two nights. Two more nights of wild, dizzy passion. She was incredible. She did things to him that he’d never imagined possible.

Then, on the third night, just when he thought he was completely spent, Lillith opened up a whole new world for him. The candlelight gleamed on her skin as she knelt there on the bed – and flickered across the blade of the dagger she’d drawn from under the pillow. He’d watched, speechless with excitement, as she held its sharp tip to her chest and slashed herself. A rivulet of blood tricked down her breast. Her lips had opened a little wider, and Lonsdale had seen the white fangs, long and curved. She’d cupped her hands behind his head and pulled him in closer. ‘Drink me!’ She threw back her head and gasped in anticipation as he lowered his face to her breast and put out his tongue to lick up the flowing blood. Every nerve in his body had been aflame.

In that moment of enthralling wonder, Gabriel Stone had walked into the room, interrupting them. He’d shouted harshly at Lillith, and she’d retreated in fear, covering herself up with a sheet.

Then Stone had turned to Lonsdale. ‘You’re not so afraid of us, are you, Jeremy? That’s interesting.’

‘Who are you?’ Lonsdale breathed. ‘What are you?’

Stone smiled. ‘Do you not know? We are the ones with the power. The power to change your life forever. And I do mean forever. You can become one of us. Become everything that a human isn’t. You like that idea, don’t you, Jeremy?’

‘What do I have to do?’

Stone gave another smile. ‘You will be contacted.’

Then he was gone, and when Lonsdale looked around, he saw that Lillith had disappeared with him.

He hadn’t seen them again for a long time.

The following day, Lonsdale had reluctantly returned to London. Life had gone on – but it held little appeal. He’d tasted something infinitely more rewarding, and it preyed on his mind until he thought he was going to go insane with frustration.

For three long months, he’d heard nothing. Then one day in early June, the strange man called Seymour Finch had paid an unexpected visit to his London office. Inside the slim briefcase he carried with him was the agreement drawn up by his employer Mr Stone.

As contracts went, it was extremely simple. The price would be twenty million euros, to be wired to a Zurich bank account. Within hours, Lonsdale had arranged the transfer and was choking with anticipation to hear from Stone’s people again.

Nothing. As the summer turned to autumn, Lonsdale was beginning to think he’d been the victim of an elaborate con trick. He’d become so agitated that he’d been virtually unable to conduct his daily affairs.

Nothing, until late September, when the man called Finch had returned. Mr Stone’s end of the deal would soon be honoured, he said. There was to be a ceremony.

‘What kind of ceremony?’ Lonsdale asked nervously.

‘An initiation,’ Finch had replied. ‘The first stage in your induction. But first, Mr Stone requires a service from you. A ship will be arriving in London within the next few weeks. You are to use your influence to ensure that its cargo arrives safely, unexamined, unquestioned.’

And Lonsdale, helpless, hooked and counting the days to the ceremony, had seen to it.

But now, as he sat here in the warm Italian sunlight, sipping the last of his iced lemon vodka, he was beginning to have second thoughts.

The initiation had been horrible. It hadn’t only been because of what they’d done to the poor young girl they’d slaughtered. It had been the look on Lillith’s face, like a wild animal that hadn’t fed for days. He kept seeing it in his mind, and it brought a taste of revulsion into the back of his throat.

Was that really the kind of creature he wanted to become?

Sitting here gazing out at the Tuscan hills, he couldn’t stop thinking about how all this was going to change when Stone finally took him over the edge. Turned him. The turning point from which there was no return. He’d never again be able to sit outside and enjoy the golden autumnal colours of the trees. The glow of the sunshine on his face would become a distant memory. Not just for a lifetime, but for a whole eternity of darkness. Was that what he really, truly wanted? He’d have to renounce his whole career. Spend the rest of time lurking, hiding, in the shadows. Like a criminal.

Power. Limitless power. But at what cost?

Worst of all, he might never be able to visit Toby again. Lonsdale closed his eyes. Saw the boy’s bright, smiling face in his mind, heard the sound of his laughter.

When he opened his eyes, they were moist.

How could I have been so stupid?

It wasn’t too late. Stone hadn’t even told him when the next stage would take place. He could still back out. It would mean having to confront Gabriel Stone face to face at his home in Henley. The idea chilled Lonsdale utterly. But it was the only way, and he was suddenly gripped by a pressing sense of urgency.

He tinkled the little silver bell on the table in front of him, and seconds later the butler came running out of the house.

‘Roberto, have my jet prepared. I have to return to Britain as soon as possible.’

Chapter Nineteen

The John Radcliffe Hospital

4.25 p.m.

‘You again,’ the staff nurse sneered at Joel. ‘Visiting hours are over.’

‘Don’t give me that,’ he said and marched by her.

Dec Maddon was sitting up in bed reading a comic book as Joel walked into his ward.

‘What happened to the old guy next to you?’ Joel asked, pointing at the empty, neatly made bed.

Dec shut the comic with a surly look. ‘Died.’

‘How’s the wrist?’

‘Getting better, so it is. What are you doing here? More questions?’

‘Good news first,’ Joel said, sitting in the chair next to the bed. ‘Your blood tests came through negative. Which means there’ll be no drug driving charge. You’re not supposed to know that yet, so keep it to yourself, okay?’

‘Told you, didn’t I?’ Dec raised an eyebrow. ‘So what’s the bad news?’

‘The bad news is I need you to look at something for me. And again, this isn’t something you should be seeing. It’s strictly between you and me. Understood?’ Joel took out his phone.

‘What is it?’

‘Something not nice, Dec. You’re going to have to be brave.’

‘I saw a girl get her throat slashed and a bunch of vampires taking a shower in her blood,’ Dec muttered. ‘I think I can handle whatever you have to show me.’

Joel scrolled up the photo he’d taken at the recovery scene. Without another word he handed the phone to Dec. The young guy’s face drained of colour as he stared at the image on the screen.

‘Scroll down. There’s another.’

Dec thumbed the button and his face grew even whiter. He dropped the phone in his lap, then sank his head into his hands. ‘Shit. That is bad.’

Joel took the phone back from him. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah, I’m okay. Don’t think I’ll be wanting dinner, though.’

‘Well?’

‘It’s her,’ Dec mumbled through his fingers. ‘The girl from the party. The one they killed.’

‘Dec, we need to be completely sure.’

The young guy looked up sharply. ‘You don’t forget something like that. I’m sure.’

Joel nodded. He was silent for a few moments as he got his thoughts together. Confiding in Dec Maddon was going a long way out on a limb – but Dec was all he had right now.

He took a deep breath. ‘This isn’t a regular murder investigation, is it, Dec? This is something different.’

Dec looked at him. ‘Does that mean you believe me?’

Joel paused a long time before he replied. ‘We need to keep all this between us. I’m taking a big chance on you. Don’t let me down.’

Dec nodded solemnly. ‘I won’t let you down.’

‘You’re going to be discharged from here tomorrow morning, and you and I are going for a drive. I want you to help me find the house. You need to think hard.’

‘Things are coming back slowly,’ Dec said. ‘Details.’

‘Like?’

‘Like those weird birds.’

‘What weird birds?’

‘On the gateposts. Like sculptures, you know? Stone birds. Ravens or something. I can remember their claws and beaks. Ugly fuckers.’

Joel patted him on the shoulder as he rose to leave.

‘Keep it coming. Write down everything you remember. I’ll see you in the morning.’

Chapter Twenty

Evening was falling by the time Joel rode into Lavender Close on the edge of the market town of Wallingford. He cruised slowly past the gate entrances looking for number sixteen, but couldn’t find it until he realised that the Hawthornes’ place was the only house in the street with a name instead of a number. The fancy slate sign on the wall read ‘The Willows’.

He rolled the big Suzuki up onto the kerb by the gate and killed the engine. Unstrapping his helmet, he looked around him. The houses looked like they could have been made of Lego, all sitting in neat ranks in the amber glow of the streetlamps, each with its crisp little garden. Two of them even had gnomes. The house next door to the Hawthornes’ place was the only property that lacked the compulsory manicured lawn and perfect hedge, and instead of a Rover or a Volvo in the drive, there was a builder’s van and a couple of go-faster hatchbacks. That would be the Maddon place, then.

He walked in the gate of The Willows, brushed his fingers through his hair at the door, and knocked. A few seconds later a light came on in the hallway, then the door opened and a sour-faced woman appeared on the front step. She eyed the bike and his leather jacket with obvious distaste, and crossed her arms.

‘If it’s the Maddons you’re looking for, it’s the next door along.’

‘I’m not. Are you Mrs Hawthorne?’

‘I’m Gillian Hawthorne,’ she said uncertainly. Her eyes opened wide as he showed her his police ID. ‘You’re a Detective Inspector?’ She made no attempt to mask the scepticism in her voice.

‘Incredible though it may seem,’ he felt like saying. Instead he adopted his most polite tone and said, ‘It’s your daughter Kate I’ve come to see. Is she in?’

‘If this is about Declan Maddon, shouldn’t you be talking to them?’ She jerked her thumb dismissively at the house next door, keeping her eyes averted from the place as though it would turn her stomach to look at it directly. ‘The police have already been here once today. Is Kate in trouble?’

‘None whatsoever. I just want to ask her a couple of questions.’

‘Oh, very well.’ She ushered him inside the hall and made a big show of getting him to leave his helmet by the door. The house smelled of new carpets and air freshener. Gillian Hawthorne called up the stairs, ‘Ka-ate!’

No reply.

‘She’s been in bed.’

‘Is she not well?’

‘She’s just a little off-colour. Do you really need to talk to her now?’

‘It’s quite important,’ he replied.

‘I suppose you’d better come up, then.’

Gillian Hawthorne led the way up the stairs and stopped at a door.

‘Kate, dear?’ She turned the handle and Joel followed her inside. The room was dark. Gillian turned on a side light, and there was a groan from the bed. Joel could see the girl’s red hair sticking out from under the duvet. He looked around. The bedroom was just like any teenage girl’s room. Posters on the walls, TV, computer, a desk covered in magazines, hairbrush, iPod, makeup, mobile. The only odd detail he noticed was the way the floor-length curtains at the far end of the room had been tightly closed together with safety pins. He crossed the room and peered behind them. A French window led out onto a little balcony overlooking the back garden.

‘Kate, this gentleman is from the police and he’s come to talk to you about Declan.’ She spat that last word out with disgust.

Joel pulled up a chair. He smiled at the girl as she sat up in bed with a resentful scowl. Her hair was tousled. Her face was pallid, almost white.

‘Detective Inspector Solomon. Actually, Kate, it’s you I wanted to talk about.’

‘What for?’

‘I’ve been speaking to Dec Maddon about reported incidents last night at a party that he says you and he both attended. I was wondering what you could tell me about it.’

‘He’s a bloody liar,’ Gillian Hawthorne cut in irritably. ‘We’ve already been over and over this with you people. I mean, is there nobody in Thames Valley Police who can understand plain English?’

‘Please, Mrs Hawthorne.’ Joel turned back to Kate and spoke softly. ‘I’d appreciate it if we could go through it again. Just one more time, okay?’

Kate grimaced. ‘I don’t know what Dec was on about. I came straight home. I didn’t go to any party.’ She said it very carefully, as if she was reciting prepared lines.

‘You’re sure?’

She nodded.

‘How did you get home?’

‘I took a taxi.’

‘What time?’

‘I don’t remember,’ she groaned. ‘It was late.’

‘Where did you take the taxi from?’

‘Somewhere. I was walking.’

‘So you called the cab company on your phone?’

‘Yes. No.’

‘Which is it?’

‘My head’s hurting.’

‘Why are you asking her all this?’ Gillian said.

‘I’m just trying to understand what happened,’ Joel replied, keeping his tone gentle.

Gillian gave a snort. ‘What happened is that nothing happened.’

‘I called them,’ Kate said. ‘I remember now.’

‘That’s good. I can make enquiries and find out the name of the taxi firm,’ he said, watching her face. ‘That way I can find out where they picked you up from.’

She flushed at his words. ‘Oh…hang on. No. I thumbed a lift.’

The bluff had worked. ‘So you didn’t take a taxi after all.’

‘No.’

‘Who gave you a lift?’

‘I don’t know. A man.’

‘What happened to your neck?’ he asked. ‘Did someone hurt you?’

Kate immediately covered her neck with the collar of her pyjama top. Something flashed in her eyes. Not a look of embarrassment, the way a self-conscious teenager might have reacted. It was a flash of hard white anger, animal rage.

‘I fell,’ she said in a strange voice.

‘It looks like a bite.’

‘I’m telling you that I fell. Against a barbed wire fence.’ The tone in her voice was suddenly harsh.

‘Maybe you should let a doctor see that. It looks nasty.’

‘I don’t need a doctor,’ she shot back.

‘If there’s anything you’d like to tell me about what happened at the party,’ Joel said, ‘remember you won’t be in any trouble.’

‘Nothing happened at the party.’

‘So you were at the party. Dec was telling the truth.’

‘No!’

‘But you just said you were. I need to know where the party was, Kate. Exactly what happened, and who else was there. It’s very important.’

‘You’re confusing me! I don’t understand what these questions are about!’

‘Why are you making up stories, Kate? Are you trying to protect someone?’

Kate glared at him. The rage in her eyes burned intensely. For a second it was like being face to face with a snarling dog, and Joel almost backed away.

‘Go fuck yourself,’ she spat. Then burst into tears. She fell down onto the pillow, shaking and sobbing. Her mother rallied to her side, glaring indignantly at Joel.

‘You’re upsetting my daughter, Inspector. I’d also like to know what these questions are in aid of. Is this an official police line of enquiry? Because if it’s not, I think you should be aware that my husband is a very senior solicitor and that we know our rights.’

Joel stood up. ‘I’m sorry if I upset you,’ he said to Kate. ‘I’ll leave you in peace now. Thanks for talking to me.’

Gillian Hawthorne couldn’t see him out the front door fast enough. Outside, it was getting colder and the night fog was settling in again, wisping like smoke around the streetlamps.

Joel stopped on the doorstep. ‘Out of interest, Mrs Hawthorne, did you put the safety pins on her curtains?’

‘If it’s any of your business, she did it herself. She says the light hurts her.’

‘We had the lights on in her room.’

‘Not those,’ she said impatiently. ‘Just the sunlight.’

‘Since when?’

‘Just this morning. She’ll be fine. She probably has a touch of that new type of flu that’s going round.’

‘I’m sure you’re right, Mrs Hawthorne. I hope she gets well soon.’ He turned to go, conscious of her glare following him. He already knew what his next move was going to be. What it could only be. He stopped and turned back. She was still glowering at him.

‘One last question, Mrs Hawthorne. Do you own a dog?’

‘A dog?’ She frowned. ‘Of course I don’t bloody own a dog. Why would you ask me that?’

‘Thanks for your help,’ he smiled, and started walking back to the bike.

Chapter Twenty-One

After his hurried trip back from Italy to the UK, Jeremy Lonsdale had called Seymour Finch with great trepidation. The appointment to see Mr Stone had been set for eight thirty that same evening.

It was only now, as he sat hunched in one of the leather armchairs in Stone’s library watching the logs crackle in the fire, that the real fear was beginning to take him. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and a twitch in his left leg was making his knee bounce up and down uncontrollably. He needed a drink, but Finch had ushered him in with barely a word and had offered him nothing. Did they somehow know what was in his mind? That was a terrifying thought.

‘You wanted to see me.’ Stone’s voice came from behind him, calm and soft.

Lonsdale started and whipped round. The vampire was standing there in a long silk robe over black trousers. The robe was open enough at the chest to show his toned pectoral muscles.

‘What a surprise, Jeremy, to see you back so soon from Italy. To what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?’

‘There’s something we have to discuss,’ Lonsdale blurted out.

Stone walked slowly across the room and leaned on the mantelpiece. A smile crept over his lips, and the twinkle in his eye was more than just the reflection of the firelight. ‘You sound nervous, Jeremy. Is something wrong?’

‘I’ve been reconsidering my options,’ Lonsdale said.

Stone raised an eyebrow. ‘What options would you be referring to, my friend?’

Lonsdale let out a deep sigh, and came straight out with it. ‘The deal’s off. I want my money back.’

Stone was quiet for a moment. ‘So you no longer wish to join our circle.’

‘No. Frankly, on reflection, the idea horrifies me.’ Lonsdale cleared his throat and tried desperately to hide the quaver in his voice. ‘Now, if you will be good enough to wire the funds back into my private account, minus a ten per cent administration fee which I’m more than happy to pay you, that will be that and we’ll say no more about it. I’ve been pleased to be able to help you by using my contacts and influence. I hope we can remain on cordial terms, and perhaps do business together in the future.’

He stood up and put out his hand.

Stone looked at the hand. He didn’t move.

‘Now, I should be on my way,’ Lonsdale said briskly. ‘There are people expecting me back in London. They know I’m here,’ he added.

Stone chuckled. ‘That’s your way of telling me no harm must come to you. Really. What do you take me for, a monster?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

Stone walked over to his desk and pressed a button. ‘Please sit down, Jeremy. I’d hate for you to leave without a farewell drink.’

Lonsdale hesitated, bit his lip, made a show of glancing at his watch. ‘Just a quick one. I think I have time.’

Finch entered the library carrying a tray with two glasses and a bottle of Krug. He laid the tray down, solemnly filled the glasses and left. Stone handed Lonsdale a glass.

‘To the future,’ he said, raising his own.

‘To the future,’ Lonsdale echoed uncertainly. He slugged down his champagne and went to stand up again. ‘That was lovely. Now—’

‘Why such a hurry?’ Stone said smoothly. ‘Have another. It’s a very good vintage, don’t you think?’ He paused as he refilled Lonsdale’s glass. ‘You see, Jeremy, I knew what it was you wanted to tell me tonight. That’s why I arranged an entertainment for us.’ He slipped a little remote from the pocket of his robe. He aimed it at the bookcases to the right of the fireplace and the carved wood shelves suddenly parted and slid open, revealing a giant screen. ‘You and I are going to watch a little film.’

‘I don’t have time for a film.’

‘I think you’ll like this one,’ Stone replied, with a flare in his eyes that forced Lonsdale helplessly back in his chair.

‘I trust the scene looks familiar to you,’ Stone said as the screen lit up. The warning look had melted from his face and now he looked almost jovial.

Lonsdale gaped. It was himself he was seeing on the screen, on Hallowe’en night, the occasion of his initiation ceremony. He watched in horror as the nightmarish images unravelled. The girl hanging from the chains. The blade slashing through her neck like something on a butcher’s slab. The blood cascading down, soaking his hair, sticking his shirt to his body. And all through the orgiastic frenzy, the camera was right on him.

‘Stop it,’ Lonsdale wheezed. His heart was hammering dangerously now. ‘Stop it.’

Stone raised the remote and the image onscreen froze into a close-up of Lonsdale’s blood-slicked face and his white, rolling eyes behind the mask.

‘You see, Jeremy, the fact is, as you now see, that you have no options. The deal must be honoured. Like it or not, you’re already part of our family.’

‘That could be anyone in a mask,’ Lonsdale exploded in outrage. ‘Nobody could prove it was me.’

‘Jeremy, Jeremy, do you take us for complete idiots? What I am showing you is merely an excerpt. The best bits, if you will. We filmed you coming into the house. Walking in from the car with the delectable Kate Hawthorne. Putting on your mask. Oh, I think people would have little trouble believing it was you. Then there’s the footage of your bedroom escapades with Lillith. No mask there, if my memory serves me well.’

Lonsdale gulped back rising bile. ‘You could never use this. You’d be incriminating yourself, and your whole bunch.’

Stone laughed. ‘That is of little consequence. None of us exist. Nobody can touch any of us, Jeremy. We are free to vanish. You, on the other hand…’ He shrugged. ‘If I may be permitted to use the vernacular: you’re fucked.’

Lonsdale opened his mouth to protest, but there was nothing to say. He’d been set up. The initiation ceremony, the whole thing, had been concocted just to entrap him. Stone had never intended to make good on his promise of eternal life and unlimited power. He was trapped, and there was no going back. He slumped in the armchair, defeated.

‘Humans are utterly repugnant to me,’ Stone said softly, watching him. ‘But the creature whose verminous ways offend me most deeply of all is a politician. I’m disappointed in you, Jeremy. I had hopes that you might have been different.’

‘Keep the money,’ Lonsdale breathed. ‘Keep every penny. I don’t care. Just let me go on with my life. Please. I beg you.’

‘Your life?’ Stone smiled. ‘That belongs to me now. When I want you, you’ll be ready for me. You are at my bidding, and will provide me with anything I require, at any time, without question or hesitation. Fail me in any way, and every television station and newspaper in Europe will receive a copy of the film. Let the serfs who voted for you know the truth about their future leader.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Now get out of my sight.’

Jeremy Lonsdale staggered from the library and found his way to the marbled hallway. Outside, he drew in huge gulps of the cold night air. It wasn’t until he was sitting at the wheel of the Rolls, fumbling with the key, half blinded with sweat, that his guts heaved all the way over and the vomit burst down his front.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Canary Wharf, London

9.29 p.m.

‘Thanks, Rudi. See you later.’ Alex snapped her phone shut. The night breeze ruffled her hair as she leaned on the rail of her apartment balcony. A human would have been shivering in the November chill, but she loved the freshness of the air. She lingered for a moment, watching the city lights dance on the river. The sadness that had been hovering over her all day was descending now. She turned from the balcony and walked barefoot in through the sliding glass door of her living room. Philip Glass piano music was playing softly on her stereo system. She padded across the plush carpet of the modern, open-plan living room, then went up the spiral staircase to her bedroom.

As she passed the bed, her sadness sharpened. At the foot of the bed was an oak chest. She stopped, kneeled. While everything else in her apartment was ultra-modern, the chest was pitted with age, splits in the wood patched here and there with metal plates. She and that old chest went back a long way. It had been a while since she’d last opened it.

She reached for the little key she wore around her neck and unclipped it from its leather thong. It was made of the same pitted black metal as the lock of the chest. It slid smoothly into the lock and sprung the mechanism with a tiny click. She carefully lifted the lid until it rested against the foot of the bed.

Inside were her memories.

The diamond and sapphire engagement ring was still as bright and sparkling as the day William had given it to her. She smiled sadly at it, then closed the scuffed, battered little box and replaced it at the bottom of the chest. There was the bundle of letters, still tied with the same yellow ribbon. The lock of his golden hair. The one photograph she had of him, long ago faded to a dull sepia tone.

She gazed at it. Such a long time ago, but she could still remember every moment they’d had together. She could recall the touch of his skin against hers, the softness of his voice, the infectiousness of his laugh.

I’ll come back to you one day, my love.

Those had been his last words to her. A day she didn’t like to remember, but whose memory she couldn’t chase. Not in a hundred and thirteen years.

I’ll come back.

But she was still waiting.

Or was she? As she caressed the faded image with her thumb, she thought about Joel Solomon. It was uncanny. They could have been brothers, twins.

Alexandra Bishop, born 1869, turned 1897, would never have believed in such a thing as reincarnation, as William had. But then, back in those days, she’d never have believed in vampires, either.

She gazed at the picture a while longer, then laid it back inside the chest and shut the lid.

The far wall of the bedroom was one huge solid expanse of mirror. She walked towards it, snatching a remote control off a table as she went. She didn’t slow her pace and, just as she was about to walk straight into the glass, she pressed the button on the remote and the partition instantly slid aside to reveal the hidden room beyond. She stepped inside, aimed the remote behind her and slid the wall shut again.

She was in her weapons room.

The place was as utilitarian as it could be. On a steel wall rack were a pair of assault rifles, a cut-down shotgun and two ex-MOD submachine guns. Beside those, another rack holding four identical .50-calibre Desert Eagle pistols. The opposite wall was covered in industrial shelving, and in between was the workbench where she handloaded her own ammunition. She’d never trusted the stuff that VIA issued the agents. Bolted to the bench was a reloading press with a rotating platform that housed half-a-dozen empty glittering brass cartridge cases at a time. Mounted on top, a clear plastic hopper was filled with peppery gunpowder. It was Alex’s little personal production line.

She sat at the bench and worked the lever on the press. Ker-chunk. One pull to fill up each case with powder. Another pull to ram home the fat half-inch hollowpoint bullets and seat them firmly in the mouths of the cases. After five minutes, she had a batch of thirty .50 Action Express rounds ready – or they would have been, for use on a normal target. For Alex’s purposes, there was one more stage to perform.

She sat the cartridges upright in a row on the bench. Pulled on thick rubber gloves and a surgical mask, then took a plastic flask from one of the shelves. The label was marked ‘Nosferol’. Beside the name was a little skull and crossbones. If you looked closely, the skull had tiny fangs. Some joker at the Federation pharma plant’s idea of humour.

She carefully unscrewed the top. One whiff of the fumes would be enough to destroy her. She hated working with the stuff, but it was her job sometimes to do things she hated.

The level in her flask was getting low. She made a mental note to put in an order for some more. Then, using a squeezy disposable pipette, she dripped five drops into the hollow tip of each bullet, working her way along the line until all thirty were charged with the poison. Still wearing the gloves and mask, she lit a church candle and delicately sealed over the end of each bullet with molten wax. That was the most critical part of the operation. If the Nosferol wasn’t completely sealed in, even a tiny leakage could be disastrous to her.

She waited a few minutes for the wax to set, then loaded the cartridges into a batch of spare magazines, ready for use. Job done. She closed up the weapons room, taking the mags and the most worn and comfortable of the Desert Eagles with her.

She was finishing getting changed to go out when she heard the doorbell. The security monitor in the hallway showed Greg standing outside, shifting nervously from foot to foot. She smiled to herself, then put on a stern face and answered the door.

‘Right on time,’ Greg said.

‘Amazing. Let’s go.’

Chapter Twenty-Three

‘So where is it we’re going?’ Greg asked as she wove the Jag at top speed through the night traffic. ‘Jesus, do you always drive like this?’

‘To see Rudi Bertolino,’ she said. ‘He called me to say he’s got some information.’

‘The ragu sauce guy. I remember.’

‘Rudi’s a little more than that. He owns the famous Last Bite Bar and Grill on St James’s. Wait till you see it. He’s also one of my prime informers.’

‘He’s…’

‘You’re so coy. Why don’t you just say it? Yes, he’s one of us, he’s a vampire. You’ll like him, too. Everyone does. A lot of us hang out there. It’s kind of a vampire restaurant.’

‘Right. So vampires can actually eat, like, real food?’ he asked, looking hopeful. The back of a bus was looming up alarmingly fast. ‘Watch—’

She twisted the wheel smartly and missed the bus by an inch. ‘Sure, we can eat. It’s a social occasion, and human food tastes pretty good. Especially if it comes out of Rudi Bertolino’s kitchen. Thing is, though, you could pig out on it every day and still starve. There’s no nutrition in it, not for us.’

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