Copyright

HarperCollins Children's Books

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Will Hill 2010

Will Hill asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780007354450

Ebook Edition © 2013 ISBN: 9780007354474

Version: 2017-09-19

I have been one acquainted with the night.

I have walked out in rain – and back in rain.

I have outwalked the furthest city light.

Robert Frost

We want no proofs. We ask none to believe us.

Abraham Van Helsing

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

MEMORANDUM

PROLOGUE

TWO YEARS LATER

Chapter 1 - TEENAGE WASTELAND

Chapter 2 - SINS OF THE FATHER

Chapter 3 - ATTACK ON SUBURBIA

Chapter 4 - SEARCH AND RESCUE

Chapter 5 - INTO THE DARKNESS

Chapter 6 - THE LYCEUM INCIDENT, PART 1

Chapter 7 - IT’S HARD TO BREATHE WITH A HAND AROUND YOUR THROAT

Chapter 8 - THE LYCEUM INCIDENT, PART II

Chapter 9 - A HARD DAY’S NIGHT

Chapter 10 - THE LYCEUM INCIDENT, PART III

Chapter 11 - THE MORNING AFTER

Chapter 12 - A CRIMSON KINDNESS

Chapter 13 - FIRST DATE

Chapter 14 - SPLINTER CELL

Chapter 15 - THE SCHOOL OF HARD KNOCKS

Chapter 16 - EVERY BOY’S DREAM

Chapter 17 - THE BLACK SHEEP

Chapter 18 - IN THE MOUTH OF MADNESS

Chapter 19 - BLOOD AND LETTERS

Chapter 20 - THE CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS, PART I

Chapter 21 - THE WRONG SIDE OF THE TRACKS

Chapter 22 - THE CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS, PART II

Chapter 23 - ROUND TWO

Chapter 24 - THE CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS, PART III

Chapter 25 - HE WAS MY FRIEND, AND I LOVED HIM

Chapter 26 - THE BEGINNING OF THE END

Chapter 27 - THREE’S A CROWD

Chapter 28 - ALL THE FUN OF THE FAIR

Chapter 29 - A CALCULATED RISK

Chapter 30 - VALHALLA

Chapter 31 - ONE RULE FOR EVERYONE

Chapter 32 - WHOSE SIDE ARE YOU ON?

Chapter 33 - ON THE WAY TO THE GALLOWS

Chapter 34 - THE HUNTING PARTY

Chapter 35 - YOU REAP WHAT YOU SOW

Chapter 36 - THE SECOND INVASION OF LINDISFARNE

Chapter 37 - AT THE ROOF OF THE WORLD

Chapter 38 - LOVE BURNS

Chapter 39 - A FORMAL INVITATION

Chapter 40 - BREAKING POINT

Chapter 41 - THE EASTERN FRONT

Chapter 42 - UNHOLY ISLAND

Chapter 43 - THE STUFF OF NIGHTMARES

Chapter 44 - IN THE HOUSE OF GOD

Chapter 45 - THE TRUTH HURTS

Chapter 46 - STAND, AND BE TRUE

Chapter 47 - THE HUMAN HEART IS A FRAGILE THING

Chapter 48 - THE END OF THE TUNNEL

FIRST EPILOGUE

SECOND EPILOGUE

Keep Reading

About the Author

About the Publisher

MEMORANDUM

From: Office of the Director of the Joint Intelligence Committee

Subject: Revised classifications of the British Governmental departments

Security: TOP SECRET

DEPARTMENT 1 Office of the Prime Minister

DEPARTMENT 2 Cabinet Office

DEPARTMENT 3 Home Office

DEPARTMENT 4 Foreign and Commonwealth Office

DEPARTMENT 5 Ministry of Defence

DEPARTMENT 6 British Army

DEPARTMENT 7 Royal Navy

DEPARTMENT 8 Her Majesty’s Diplomatic Service

DEPARTMENT 9 Her Majesty’s Treasury

DEPARTMENT 10 Department for Transport

DEPARTMENT 11 Attorney General’s Office

DEPARTMENT 12 Ministry of Justice

DEPARTMENT 13 Military Intelligence, Section 5 (MI5)

DEPARTMENT 14 Secret Intelligence Service (SIS)

DEPARTMENT 15 Royal Air Force

DEPARTMENT 16 Northern Ireland Office

DEPARTMENT 17 Scotland Office

DEPARTMENT 18 Wales Office

DEPARTMENT 19 CLASSIFIED

DEPARTMENT 20 Territorial Police Forces

DEPARTMENT 21 Department of Health

DEPARTMENT 22 Government Communication Headquarters (GCHQ)

DEPARTMENT 23 Joint Intelligence Committee (JIC)

PROLOGUE

BRENCHLEY, KENT 3RD NOVEMBER 2007

Jamie Carpenter was watching TV in the living room when he heard the tyres of his dad’s car crunch across the gravel drive much, much earlier than usual. Jamie looked at the clock on the wall above the TV and frowned. It was quarter past five. Julian Carpenter had never, to the best of Jamie’s memory, arrived home from work before seven o’clock, and even that was only on special occasions like his mum’s birthday or when Arsenal were playing in the Champions League.

He hauled himself off the sofa, a tall, slightly awkward fourteen-year-old with a skinny frame and unruly brown hair, and went to the window. His dad’s silver Mercedes was parked where it always was, in front of the garage that stood apart from their house. Jamie could see his father in the glow of the car’s brake lights, pulling something out of the boot.

Maybe he’s sick, Jamie thought. But as he looked closely at his dad, he didn’t think he looked ill; his eyes were bright and wide in the red light and he was moving quickly, putting things from the boot into his pockets. And Jamie noticed something else; he kept looking over his shoulder towards the road, as if he thought—

Something moved in the corner of Jamie’s eye, near the oak tree at the bottom of the garden. He turned his head, gooseflesh breaking out suddenly along his arms and back, and he realised he was scared. Something is wrong here, he thought. Very wrong.

The tree looked the same as it always did, its gnarled trunk tilted to the left, its huge roots rippling the lawn and bending the garden wall out towards the road.

Whatever Jamie had seen, his father had seen it too. He was standing very still behind the car, staring up into the branches of the tree. Jamie looked closely at the tree and the long black shadows the moonlight cast across the grass. Whatever had moved wasn’t moving any more. But as he stared, he realised that there was something different.

There were more shadows than there should be.

The tree’s leaves were gone for the winter and the shadows should have been the straight lines of empty branches. But the dark patterns covering the lawn were thick and bulky, as though the branches were full of—

What? Full of what?

Jamie looked back to his dad. He suddenly wanted him in the house, right now. His father was still staring at the tree, holding something in his hand, something that Jamie couldn’t quite make out.

Movement, again, by the tree.

Fear rose into Jamie’s throat.

Come inside, Dad. Come inside now. There’s something bad out there. The shadows on the lawn began to move.

Jamie stared, too scared to scream, as the dark patterns began to unfold. He looked up into the tree and now he could see the branches shifting as whatever was in there began to move, could hear the rustling of the bark as something – lots of things, it sounds like there’s lots of them – started to move through the boughs of the oak.

He looked desperately at his father who was still staring into the tree, lit by the red lights from the car.

Why are you just standing there? Come inside, please, please.

Jamie turned his head to look at the tree. On the other side of the window a girl’s face, pale, with dark red eyes and lips drawn into a snarl, stared through the glass, and he screamed so loudly he thought he would tear his vocal chords.

The face disappeared into the darkness and now there was movement as Jamie’s father ran up the drive towards the house. The front door slammed open and Julian Carpenter burst into the living room at the same time his wife ran in from the kitchen.

“Get away from the windows, Jamie!” he shouted.

“Dad, what’s—”

“Just do what I tell you and don’t argue! There isn’t time.”

“Time for what, Julian?” asked Jamie’s mum, her voice tight and high-pitched. “What’s going on?”

Julian ignored her, taking out a mobile phone that Jamie didn’t recognise. He punched numbers into the handset, and held it to his ear. “Frank? Yeah, I know. I know. What’s the ETA? And that’s accurate? OK. Take care of yourself.”

He hung up the phone and grabbed Jamie’s mum’s hand. “Julian, you’re scaring me,” she said, softly. “Please tell me what’s happening.”

He looked into his wife’s pale, confused face. “I can’t,” he replied. “I’m sorry.”

Jamie watched in a daze. He didn’t understand what was happening here, didn’t understand it at all. What was moving through the darkness outside their house? Who was Frank? His dad didn’t have any friends called Frank, he was sure of it.

The window behind Jamie exploded as a branch from the oak tree came through it like a missile and smashed their coffee table into splinters. This time his mum screamed as well.

“Get away from the windows!” bellowed Julian again. “Come over here next to me!”

Jamie scrambled up from the floor, grabbed his mum’s hand and ran across the room towards his father. They backed up against the wall opposite the window, his dad placing an arm across him and his mother, before putting his right hand into his coat pocket and taking out a black pistol.

His mother squeezed his hand so tightly that he thought the bones would break. “Julian!” she screamed. “What are you doing with that gun?”

“Quiet, Marie,” his father said, in a low voice.

In the distance, Jamie heard sirens approaching.

Thankyouthankyouthankyou. We’re going to be all right.

Outside in the garden a grotesque high-pitched laugh floated through the night air.

“Hurry,” Julian whispered. “Please hurry.”

Jamie didn’t know who his father was talking to, but it wasn’t him or his mum. Then suddenly the garden was full of light and noise as two black vans, sirens blaring and lights spinning on their roofs, screeched into the drive. Jamie looked out at the oak tree, now lit bright red and blue. It was empty.

“They’ve gone!” he shouted. “Dad, they’ve gone!”

He looked up at his father, and the look on his face scared Jamie more than everything else that had happened so far.

Julian stepped away from his family and stood facing them. “I have to go,” he said, his voice cracking. “Remember that I love you both more than anything in the world. Jamie, look after your mother. OK?”

He turned and headed towards the door.

Jamie’s mum ran forward and grabbed his arm, spinning him round. “Where are you going?” she cried, tears running down her face. “What do you mean, look after me? What’s happening?”

“I can’t tell you,” he replied, softly. “I have to protect you.”

“From what?” his wife screamed.

“From me,” he answered, his head lowered. Then he looked up at her and, with a speed Jamie had never seen before, twisted his arm free from her grip and pushed her backwards across the living room. She tripped over one of the smashed legs of the coffee table and Jamie ran forward and caught her, lowering her to the ground. She let out a horrible wailing cry and pushed his hands away, and he looked up in time to see his father walk out of the front door.

He shoved himself up off the floor, cutting his hand on the broken table glass, and ran to the window. Eight men wearing black body armour and carrying submachine guns stood in the drive, the barrels of their weapons pointed at Julian.

“Put your hands above your head!” one of the men shouted. “Do it now!”

Jamie’s dad took a few steps and stopped. He looked up into the tree for a long moment before glancing quickly over his shoulder at the window and smiling at his son. Then he walked forward, pulled the pistol from his pocket and pointed it at the nearest man.

The world exploded into deafening noise and Jamie clamped his hands over his ears and screamed and screamed and screamed as the submachine guns spat fire and metal and shot his father dead.

TWO YEARS LATER

Chapter 1

TEENAGE WASTELAND

Jamie Carpenter tasted blood and dirt and swore into the wet mud of the playing field.

“Get off me!” he gurgled.

A shrieking laugh rang out behind his head and his left arm was pushed further up his back, sending a fresh thunderclap of pain through his shoulder.

“Break it, Danny,” someone shouted. “Snap it off!”

“I just might,” replied Danny Mitchell, between gales of laughter. Then his voice was low and right next to Jamie’s ear. “I could, you know,” he whispered. “Easy.”

“Get off me, you fat —”

A huge hand, its fingers like sausages, gripped his hair and pushed his face back into the dirt. Jamie squeezed his eyes shut and flailed around with his right hand, trying to push himself up from the sucking mud.

“Someone grab his arm,” Danny shouted. “Hold it down.” A second later Jamie’s right arm was gripped at the wrist and pressed to the ground.

Jamie’s head started to ache as his body begged for oxygen. He couldn’t breathe, his nostrils full of sticky, foul-smelling mud, and he couldn’t move, his arms pinned and fifteen stone of Danny Mitchell sitting astride his back.

“That’s enough!”

Jamie recognised the voice of Mr Jacobs, the English teacher.

My knight in shining armour. A fifty-year-old man with sweat patches and bad breath. Perfect.

“Mitchell, get off him. Don’t make me tell you again!” the teacher shouted, and suddenly the pressure on Jamie’s arm and the weight on his back were gone. He lifted his face from the mud and took a huge breath, his chest convulsing.

“We were just playing a game, sir,” he heard Danny Mitchell say.

Great game. Really fun.

Jamie rolled over on to his back and looked round at the faces of the crowd who had gathered to watch his humiliation. They looked down at him with a mixture of excitement and disgust.

They don’t even like Danny Mitchell. They just hate me more than they hate him.

Mr Jacobs hunkered down next to him.

“Are you all right, Carpenter?”

“I’m fine, sir.”

“Mitchell tells me this was some kind of game. Is that true?

” Over the teacher’s shoulder Jamie saw Danny looking at him, the warning clear in his face.

“Yes, sir. I think I lost, sir.”

Mr Jacobs looked down at Jamie’s mud-splattered clothes. “It certainly looks like it.” The teacher held his hand out and Jamie took it and pulled himself up out of the mud with a loud sucking noise. A couple of people in the crowd giggled, and Mr Jacobs whirled round, his face red with anger.

“Get out of here, you vultures!” he shouted. “Get to your next lesson right now or I’ll see you all for detention at the end of the day!”

The crowd dispersed, leaving Jamie and Mr Jacobs standing alone on the field.

“Jamie,” the teacher began, “if you ever want to talk about anything, you know where my office is.”

“Talk about what, sir?” Jamie asked.

“Well, you know, your father, and… well, what happened.”

“What did happen, sir?”

Mr Jacobs looked at him for a long moment, then dropped his eyes. “Let’s go,” he said. “You need to get cleaned up before next lesson. You can use the staff bathroom.”

When the bell rang for the end of the day, Jamie made his way slowly up the school drive towards the gate. His instincts were normally sharp, especially where danger was concerned, but somehow Danny Mitchell had crept up behind him during afternoon break. He wasn’t going to let that happen again.

He slowed his pace, drifting in and out of groups of children ambling towards buses and waiting cars, his pale blue eyes darting left and right, looking for an ambush.

His chest tightened when he saw Danny Mitchell off to his left, laughing his ridiculous laugh and waving his arms violently around as he made a point to his adoring gaggle of sycophants.

Jamie slipped between two buses and across the road, waiting for the shouts and running feet that would mean he had been seen, but they didn’t come. Then he was into the neat, identical rows of houses that made up the estate he and his mother lived in, and out of sight of the school.

The Carpenters had moved three times in the two years since Jamie’s dad had died. Immediately after it happened the police had come to see them and told them that his father had been involved in a plot to sell intelligence to a British terrorist cell, classified intelligence from his job at the Ministry of Defence. The policemen had been kind, and sympathetic, assuring them there was no evidence that either he or his mother had known anything, but it didn’t matter. The letters had started to arrive almost immediately, from patriotic neighbours who didn’t want the family of a traitor living in their quiet Daily Mail-reading neighbourhood.

They had sold the house in Kent a few months later. Jamie didn’t care. His memory of that awful night was hazy, but the tree in the garden scared him and he couldn’t walk across the gravel drive where his father had died, choosing instead to walk around the edge of the lawn, keeping as much distance between him and the oak as possible, and jumping across the gravel on to the doorstep.

The face at the window, and the high, terrifying laugh that had drifted through the smashed window of the living room, he didn’t remember at all.

After that they had moved in with his aunt and uncle in a village outside Coventry. A new school for Jamie, a job as a receptionist in a GP’s surgery for his mother. But the rumours and stories followed them, and a brick was thrown through the kitchen window of his aunt’s terraced house the same day Jamie broke the nose of a classmate who made a joke about his dad.

They moved on the following morning.

From there they caught a train to Leeds and found a house in a suburb that looked like it was made of Lego. When Jamie was expelled from his second school in three months, for persistent truancy, his mother didn’t even shout at him. She just handed in their notice to their landlord, and started packing their things.

Finally, they had ended up in this quiet estate on the outskirts of Nottingham. It was grey, cold and miserable. Jamie, an outdoor creature, a country boy at heart, was forced to roam the concrete underpasses and supermarket car parks, his hood up and pulled tight around his face, his iPod thumping in his ears, keeping to himself and avoiding the gangs that congregated on the shadowy corners of this suburban wasteland. Jamie always avoided the shadows. He didn’t know why.

He walked quickly through the estate, along quiet roads full of nondescript houses and second-hand cars. He passed a small group of girls, who stared at him with open hostility. One of them said something he couldn’t quite hear, and her friends laughed. He walked on.

He was sixteen years old, and miserably, crushingly lonely.

Jamie closed the front door of the small semi-detached house he and his mother lived in as quietly as possible, intending to head straight to his room and change out of his muddy clothes. He got halfway up the stairs before his mother called his name.

“What, Mum?” he shouted.

“Can you come in here, please, Jamie?”

Jamie swore under his breath and stomped back down the stairs, across the hall and into the living room. His mother was sitting in the chair under the window, looking at him with such sadness that his throat clenched.

‘What’s going on, Mum?” he asked.

“I got a call from one of your teachers today,” she replied. “Mr Jacobs.”

God, why can’t he mind his own business? “Oh yeah? What’d he want?”

“He said you got in a fight this afternoon.”

“He’s wrong.”

Jamie’s mother sighed. “I’m worried about you,” she said.

“Don’t be. I can look after myself.”

“That’s what you always say.”

“Maybe you should start to listen then.”

His mother’s eyes narrowed.

That hurt, didn’t it? Good. Now you can shout at me and I can go upstairs and we don’t have to say anything else to each other tonight.

“I miss him too, Jamie,” his mother said, and Jamie recoiled like he’d been stung. “I miss him every day.”

Jamie spat his reply around a huge lump in his throat. “Good for you,” he said. “I don’t. Ever.”

His mother looked at him and tears formed in the corners of her eyes. “You don’t mean that.”

“Believe me, I do. He was a traitor, and a criminal, and he ruined both our lives.”

“Our lives aren’t ruined. We’ve still got each other.”

Jamie laughed. “Yeah. Look how well that’s working out for us both.”

The tears spilled from his mother’s eyes, and she lowered her head as they ran down her cheeks and fell gently to the floor. Jamie looked at her, helplessly.

Go to her. Go and hug her and tell her it’s going to be all right.

Jamie wanted to, wanted nothing more than to kneel beside his mother and bridge the gap that had been growing steadily between them since the night his father had died. But he couldn’t. Instead he stood, frozen to the spot, and watched his mother cry.

Chapter 2

SINS OF THE FATHER

Jamie woke up the next morning, showered and dressed, and slipped out of the front door without seeing his mother. He walked his usual route through the estate, but when he reached the turning that led to his school he carried straight on, through the little retail park with its McDonald’s and its DVD rental shop, across the graffiti-covered railway bridge, strewn with broken glass and flattened discs of chewing gum, past the station and the bike racks, down towards the canal. He wasn’t going to school today. Not a chance.

Why the hell did she get so upset? Because I don’t miss Dad? He was a loser. Can’t she see that?

Jamie clenched his fists tightly as he walked down the concrete steps to the towpath. This section of canal was perfectly straight for more than a mile, meaning Jamie could see danger approaching from a safe distance. But although he kept his eyes peeled, the only people he saw were dog-walkers and the occasional homeless person, sheltering under the low road bridges that crossed the narrow canal, and he gradually began to let his mind wander.

He could never have articulated to anyone, least of all his mother, the hole his father’s death had left in his life. Jamie loved his mother, loved her so much that he hated himself for the way he treated her, for pushing her away when it was obvious that she needed him, when he knew he was all she had left. But he couldn’t help it; the anger that churned inside him screamed for release and his mum was the only target he had.

The person it deserved to be aimed at was gone.

His dad, his cowardly loser of a dad, had taken him to London to watch Arsenal, bought him the Swiss Army knife he could no longer bear to carry in his pocket, let him fire his air rifle in the fields behind their old house, helped him build his tree house, and watched cartoons with him on Saturday mornings. Things his mum would never do, and he would never want her to. Things he missed more than he would ever have admitted.

He was furious with his father for leaving him and his mum, for making them leave the old house he had loved and move to this awful place, leaving his friends behind.

Furious for the glee he saw in the faces of bullies at every new school he was forced to start, when the whispers began and they realised they had been presented with the perfect victim: a skinny new kid whose father had tried to help terrorists attack his own country.

Furious with his mum, for her refusal to see the truth about her husband, furious with the teachers who tried to understand him and asked him to talk about his dad and his feelings.

Furious.

Jamie emerged from his thoughts and saw the sun high in the sky, struggling to push its pale light through the grey cloud cover. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and saw that it was nearly midday. Ahead of him a flattened trail led up the embankment into a small park, surrounded by tall birch trees. The park was always empty; it was one of his favourite places.

He sat down in the middle of the grass, away from the trees and the short shadows they were casting in the early afternoon sun. He hadn’t picked up his packed lunch because he would have had to go into the kitchen and deal with his mother, so he had filled his backpack with a can of Coke and some chocolate and sweets. The Coke was warm, and the chocolate was half-melted, but Jamie didn’t care.

He finished eating, tucked his bag under his head and lay down and closed his eyes. He was suddenly exhausted, and he didn’t want to think any more.

Fifteen minutes. Just a nap. Half an hour at the most.

“Jamie.”

His eyes flew open and he saw black night sky above him. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes and looked around at the dark park. He trembled in the cold of the evening and his skin began to crawl as he realised he was sitting at the point where the shadows cast by the trees met one another.

“Jamie.”

He whirled around. “Who’s there?” he shouted.

A giggle rang through the park.

“Jamie.” The voice was lilting, like his name was being sung and allowed to echo through the trees. It was a girl’s voice.

“Where are you? This isn’t funny!”

The giggle again.

Jamie stood up and did a slow turn. He couldn’t see anyone, but beyond the first ring of trees the park was pitch black, and the trees themselves were wide and gnarled.

Plenty of room for someone to hide behind.

Something was tapping at the back of his mind, something to do with a girl and a window, but he couldn’t remember.

Something crunched underfoot, behind him.

He spun round, heart pounding.

Nothing.

“Jamie.”

The voice was closer this time, he knew it was.

“Show yourself!” he yelled.

“OK,” said a voice right beside his ear and he screamed and turned, fists flailing. He felt his right hand connect solidly with something and adrenaline roared in his veins, then froze.

On the ground in front of him was a girl, about his own age, holding her nose. A thin stream of blood was running on to her lip, and he saw her tongue flick out and lick it away.

“Oh God,” Jamie said. “I’m so, so sorry. Are you OK?”

“You dick,” the girl sniffled from behind her hand. “What did you do that for?”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “Why did you creep up on me?”

“I was just trying to scare you,” she said, sulkily.

“Why?”

“For fun. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Something else was rattling around Jamie’s mind, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

“Well, you did scare me. So, congratulations, I guess.”

“Thanks,” snorted the girl. She held out her hand. “Help me up?”

“Oh, sorry, of course,” Jamie replied, and reached down and pulled her to her feet. She brushed herself down, wiped her nose with the back of her hand, and stood in front of him.

Jamie looked at her. She was very, very pretty, dark hair tumbling down her shoulders, pale skin and dark brown eyes. She saw him looking and smiled, and he blushed.

“See anything you like?” she asked.

“Sorry, I wasn’t staring, I was just, er…”

“Yes you were. It’s OK. I’m Larissa.”

“I’m…”

Tumblers fell into place in Jamie’s mind and fear overwhelmed him.

“You used my name,” he said, taking a step backwards. “How did you know my name?”

“It doesn’t matter, Jamie,” she said, and then her beautiful brown eyes turned a dark, terrible red. “It doesn’t matter any more.”

She moved like liquid, covering the distance between them in an instant. She took his face in her hands, with a grip that felt horribly, immovably strong.

“Nothing matters any more,” she whispered, and he looked into her red eyes and was lost.

Chapter 3

ATTACK ON SUBURBIA

“I can’t do it.”

The voice sounded like it was coming from a hundred miles away. Jamie struggled to open his eyes. He was lying on the grass, the girl called Larissa sitting next to him. He tried to crawl away but couldn’t move. His limbs ached, and his head was full of cotton wool.

“Damn it, I just can’t,” she said, apparently to herself. “What’s wrong with me?”

He forced his eyes open, and looked at her. Her eyes were brown again, and she was looking down at him, a gentle expression on her face.

“Who… are… you?” he managed. “What did you do to me?”

She lowered her head.

“You were supposed to be mine,” she said. “He said so. But I couldn’t do it.”

“Your… what?”

“Mine. In every way.”

With a huge effort Jamie forced himself up to a sitting position.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“It doesn’t matter.” She looked up at the sky. “You should go,” she said, looking back at him with sadness in her face. “They’ll be there by now.”

A tidal wave of adrenaline crashed into Jamie’s system. “Who? Where?” he demanded.

“My friends. You know where.”

Jamie leapt to his feet and looked down at Larissa.

“I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?” he asked, his voice trembling. In his mind’s eye he saw a face at a window.

She nodded her head.

Jamie turned and sprinted out of the park, running as though his life depended on it.

Please not my mum. Please don’t let them hurt my mum.

When Jamie reached the end of his road his heart was pounding so loudly in his chest he though it might explode. His vision was greying, the muscles in his legs screaming, but he pushed through the pain and sprinted the last fifty metres to his house and pulled himself round the gate post and towards the front door.

It was wide open.

He ran into the hallway. “Mum!” he yelled. “Are you here? Mum!”

No answer.

He ran into the living room. Empty. Through into the kitchen. Empty.

No sign of her.

He ran up the stairs and pushed open the door to her bedroom. The window above her bed was open to the dark sky, the curtains fluttering in the evening breeze. Jamie ran across the room and put his head out of the window.

“Mum!” he screamed into the inky blackness. His right hand slipped on something on the ledge and he looked down and pulled it away. Red liquid dripped down his wrist.

He looked at the windowsill. There were two small pools of blood on the white surface, and more smeared across the glass of the open window.

Jamie stared in horror at his hand, then something came loose in his head as he realised that his mother was gone, and he put back his head and wailed at the sky.

And miles away, high in the dark clouds, something heard his cry and turned back.

Time passed. Jamie had no idea how long.

He couldn’t stay in his mother’s room, couldn’t look at the blood, horribly bright against the white paint and the clear glass. Somehow he made it downstairs to the living room. He was sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the wall, when he heard something come through the front door and close it softly behind them.

He was beyond fear now. He was numb. So he just watched as the tall, thin man in the grey suit walked into the room and smiled at him with teeth like razorblades, his dark red eyes shining in the gloom.

“Jamie Carpenter,” the man said. His voice was like treacle. “It is a supreme pleasure to finally meet you.”

The man bared his teeth and took a step towards Jamie, and then the front door exploded into sawdust and an enormous figure, holding what looked like a huge pipe, stepped into the living room doorway.

“Get away from him, Alexandru,” the massive newcomer said, in a voice that shook the entire house.

The thing in the grey suit hissed, and arched its back. “This is not your concern, monster,” it spat. “There is unfinished business here.”

“It will stay unfinished,” the figure replied, then pulled the trigger hanging below the pipe. There was an enormous bang, like a giant balloon being burst, and something sharp exploded out of the weapon and flew across the room so fast it was a blur, trailing a metal cord behind it. Alexandru leapt into the air, impossibly quickly. The projectile smashed a hole in the wall of the living room, before retracting as rapidly as it had been fired, spiralling back into the end of the pipe.

The creature in the grey suit hung in the air, its eyes blazing with anger. It snarled at the figure in the doorway, then smashed through the big window at the front of the house and accelerated into the sky.

Jamie hadn’t moved.

The giant darted to the window and craned its enormous neck in the direction the thing called Alexandru had disappeared.

“He’s gone,” it said. “For now.”

It turned to Jamie and in the light of the living room he got his first look at his saviour, and cried out.

The huge figure was a man, at least seven and a half feet tall and almost as wide. He had mottled greyish-green skin, a high, wide forehead and a shock of black hair above it. He was wearing a dark suit and a long grey overcoat. A wire ran up his sleeve from the end of the pipe he was holding and disappeared somewhere over his shoulders.

He walked forward, and as fear and loss started to shut down Jamie’s mind, he saw two wide metal bolts sticking out of the sides of his neck. The man extended his hand towards him.

“Jamie Carpenter,” he said. “My name is Frankenstein. I’m here to help you.”

Jamie’s eyes rolled back white and he fainted into sweet, empty darkness.

Chapter 4

SEARCH AND RESCUE

STAVELEY, NORTH DERBYSHIRE FIFTY-SIX MINUTES EARLIER

Matt Browning was sitting at his computer when it happened.

He was working on an essay for his English literature class, a comparison of the speeches by Brutus and Mark Antony in Julius Caesar, typing quickly into his aging laptop, when something thundered out of the sky and crashed into the small garden behind the terraced house he shared with his sister and his parents, throwing dirt and brown grass into the evening air.

Downstairs he heard his mother shriek and his father slur at her to shut up. In the bedroom next door his little sister Laura started to cry, a high wail full of confusion and determination.

Matt saved his work and got up from his desk. He was small for his sixteen years, and skinny, his brown hair flopping across his high forehead and resting against the tops of his glasses. His face was pale and close to feminine, his features fine and soft around the edges, as though he were slightly out of focus. He was wearing his favourite crimson Harvard T-shirt and dark brown cords, and he slid his feet into a pair of navy Vans before walking quickly across the small landing and into his sister’s bedroom.

Laura was lying in her cot, her face a deep, outraged red, her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth a perfect circle. Matt reached into the crib and picked her up, resting her against his shoulder and quietly shushing her, bouncing her gently in his arms. There was a glorious moment’s silence as she took a deep breath, then the cries began again. Matt crossed the tiny room, pulled the door open and headed downstairs.

In the kitchen at the back of the house his mother was frantic. She was wearing her cream dressing gown and a pair of pale blue slippers and flitting back and forth beneath the two windows above the sink, peering into the dark garden and telling her husband over and over to call the police. Greg Browning stood unsteadily in the middle of the room, one hand pressed against his forehead, a can of lager in the other. He looked round as Matt walked into the kitchen.

“Shut your sister up, would you?” he grunted. “She’s giving me a headache.” Then he turned back to his wife. “Will you stop flapping and take the damn baby?” he said, his voice starting to rise.

Matt’s mother quickly took Laura from Matt and sat down with her at the table.

“Get the phone for your mother.”

Matt lifted the phone from its cradle on the wall next to the door and passed it to his mum. She took it with a confused look on her face.

“Now you can call the police while me and Matt go and take a look in the garden.”

“No, Greg, you shouldn’t…”

“Shouldn’t?”

Matt’s mother swallowed hard.

“I mean, don’t go out there. Please?”

“Just shut the hell up, OK, Lynne? Matt, let’s go.”

Greg Browning opened the door to the back garden and stopped in the doorway, listening. Matt walked over and stood behind him, looking over his father’s shoulder into the darkening sky.

The garden was silent; nothing moved in the cool evening air.

Matt’s father took a torch from the shelf beside the back door, turned it on and stepped out on to the narrow strip of patio that ran below the kitchen windows. Matt followed, scanning the dark garden for whatever had fallen past his window. Behind him in the kitchen he could hear his mother trying to explain what had happened to the police.

His dad shone the torch in a wide arc across the flowerbeds that bordered the narrow strip of lawn. At the edge of the grass the beam picked out a flash of white.

“Over there,” said Matt. “In the flowerbed.”

“Stay here.”

Matt stood on the patio as his father walked slowly across the threadbare lawn. He inhaled sharply as he reached the edge of the grass.

“What is it?” Matt asked.

No reply. His father just kept staring down into the dark flowerbed.

“Dad? What is it?”

Finally, his father looked round at him. His eyes were wide.

“It’s a girl,” he said, eventually. “It’s a teenage girl.”

“What?”

“Come and look.”

Matt walked across the lawn and looked down into the weed-strewn flowerbed.

The girl was lying on her back in the dirt, half buried by the force of her landing. Her pale face was smeared with blood, and her eyes and mouth were grotesquely swollen. Black hair fanned out around her head like a dark halo, matted with mud and clumped together in bloody strands. Her left arm was obviously broken, her forearm joining her elbow at an unnatural right angle. Her light grey shirt was soaked black with blood, and Matt realised with horror that there was a wide hole in her stomach, along the line of her abdomen. He saw glistening red and purple, and looked away.

“It looks like someone tried to gut her,” his father said quietly.

“What is it, Greg?” shouted Matt’s mother from the kitchen doorway. “What’s happening?”

“Shut up, Lynne,” Greg Browning replied automatically, but his voice was low, and for once he didn’t sound angry.

He sounds scared, thought Matt, and crouched down beside the girl. Despite the damage to her face, she was beautiful, her skin so pale it was almost translucent, her lips a dark, inviting red.

Behind him his father was muttering to himself, looking from the sky to the ground and back again, searching for an explanation for why this girl had fallen into their garden.

Matt placed his hand on the cool skin of her neck, checking for a pulse, knowing he wouldn’t find one.

Who did this to you? he wondered.

The girl opened her swollen right eye and looked straight at Matt. He screamed.

“She’s alive!” he yelled.

“Don’t be stupid,” shouted Greg Browning. “She’s—”

The girl coughed, a deep spluttering rattle that sent new streams of blood running down her chin. She turned her head towards Matt and said something he couldn’t make out.

“My God,” said Matt’s father.

Matt pushed himself up off the grass and slowly approached his father’s side. He looked down at the stricken girl, who was moving her head slowly from side to side, her lips curled back in a grimace of pain.

“We have to do something, Dad,” said Matt. “We can’t leave her like this.”

His father turned on him, his face full of anger.

“What do you want me to do?” he shouted. “The police are on their way, they can deal with it. We shouldn’t even touch her.”

“But Dad—”

Greg Browning’s face twisted with rage and he raised a fist and took a step towards his son. Matt cried out, covering his face with his forearms and turning away.

“You’ll be quiet if you know what’s good for you,” his dad grunted, lowering the fist.

Matt looked at his father, his cheeks flushed red with shame and impotence, his brain alive with hatred. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, when a deafening roar filled the evening air and a squat black helicopter appeared over the trees that stood at the bottom of their suburban garden.

Matt covered his face and did his best to remain upright as the helicopter’s rotors churned the dust and dirt of the garden. He could see his dad shouting but could hear nothing over the thunder of the engines and the shriek of the wind. He craned his neck, his hands shielding his eyes, and watched the helicopter disappear over the roof of their house.

Matt turned and raced towards the house, past his mother who was standing motionless at the back door, through the kitchen and the narrow corridor and towards the front door.

Behind him he could hear his dad shouting his name, but he didn’t slow his pace. He flung the front door open in time to see the black helicopter lowering itself on to the grey tarmac of the road, its rotors whirring above the parked cars that lined their street.

Matt’s dad appeared behind him in the corridor, grabbed his son’s shoulder and spun him around.

“What the hell do you think you’re…”

Greg Browning’s voice trailed off as he stared out into the street. Matt turned and watched as a door slid open in the side of the helicopter and four figures emerged.

The first two were dressed all in black and looked like riot policemen, their uniforms covered with plates of black body armour, their faces hidden beneath black helmets with purple visors.

Both were carrying submachine guns in their gloved hands.

Behind them followed a man and a woman in white biohazard containment suits, their faces visible behind the thick plastic of their masks. Between them they were carrying a white stretcher.

They cleared the helicopter and quickly approached Matt and his father. The first of the figures – soldiers, they look like soldiers – stopped in front of them.

“Was an emergency call made from this house?” it asked. The voice was male, and didn’t sound much older than Matt’s.

Neither he nor his dad answered.

The soldier took a step forward.

“Was an emergency call made from this house?”

Terrified, Matt nodded his head.

The black figure turned to the others and beckoned them towards the house, then pushed past Matt and Greg Browning and disappeared into the hallway. The rest of the new arrivals followed, leaving Matt and his father in the doorway. They stood there, staring at the helicopter with no idea what to do, until Matt’s mother started to scream and they turned and ran into the house.

They found her in the kitchen, holding Laura in her arms, the two of them screaming in unison. Greg Browning ran across the room and took his wife in his arms, whispering to her, telling her everything was going to be OK, telling her not to cry. Matt left them by the table and walked out into the garden.

The two soldiers were standing either side of the girl, their guns lodged against their shoulders and pointing at the sky. On the ground, the man and woman in the biohazard suits were examining her.

Matt walked towards them, but before he was close enough to see what they were doing the nearest soldier turned towards him and levelled the black submachine gun at his chest. Matt froze on the spot.

“Please stay where you are, sir,” the soldier said. “For your own safety.”

“What’s going on here?” said a small voice from behind Matt. He was too scared to move, but he craned his head over his shoulder and saw his dad standing on the narrow patio. He looked like someone had deflated him.

“Take your son into the house, sir,” the soldier said.

“I want to know what’s going on,” Matt’s father repeated. “Who are you people?”

“I’m not going to tell you again, sir,” the soldier replied. He sounded as though he was reaching the limit of his patience. “Take your son inside. Now.”

Greg Browning looked like he was going to reply, but thought better of it.

“Come inside, Matt,” he said, eventually.

Matt looked from his father to the soldier pointing the gun at his chest. Behind him he could see the other soldier and the biohazard team watching him. He was about to turn and do as his father said when the girl lifted her head from the flowerbed and sank her teeth into the arm of the man in the white plastic suit.

All hell broke loose.

The man screamed and wrenched his arm out of the girl’s mouth. Blood pumped out of the ragged hole in the plastic, and splashed across the lawn.

The second soldier swung his gun. The heavy stock of the weapon crashed across the girl’s chin, and she instantly stopped moving, as though she had been turned off.

The soldier who had been facing Matt lowered his gun and turned to his colleagues.

“How bad is it?” he yelled.

The woman in the biohazard suit had knelt down next to her partner and was examining the wound. She looked up at the sound of the soldier’s voice.

“It’s bad,” she replied. “We need to get him out of here.”

“Bag the subject,” the soldier said. “Do it quickly.”

“There isn’t time. He needs clean blood, right now.”

“He’ll get it. Bag the subject.”

The woman stared at the soldier for a fraction of second, then let go of her colleague and laid the white stretcher flat on the lawn.

“Help me,” she said to the other soldier.

The soldier crouched down and took hold of the girl under her shoulders and pulled her out of the flowerbed. Matt gasped as he saw the damage to the lower half of the girl’s body.

Both her legs were snapped mid-thigh, the white bones piercing the blood-soaked black skirt she was wearing. Her left foot was horribly twisted at the ankle, and the right was missing three toes, the red stumps bright in the fading light.

Matt ran towards her. He didn’t know what he was going to do, just that he had to do something. He heard his father shout at him, but ignored him. The soldier who had hit the girl with his gun turned, saw him crossing the lawn, and started to move, a shout of warning issuing from his lips. But he wasn’t quick enough; Matt slid on to his knees beside the broken girl and looked at the woman in the biohazard suit.

“Can I hel—”

The girl’s arm flashed out and slid across his throat. Matt felt a millisecond of resistance as her fingernails dug into the smooth skin of his neck, then it was gone, and an enormous spray of something red burst into the night air, soaking his chin and his chest.

There was no pain; just surprise, and a suddenly overwhelming tiredness. Matt stared at the dark liquid squirting into the air, and only realised it was his own blood as he fell gently backwards on to the patchy grass of the lawn. It pattered thickly on to his upturned face, and as his eyes closed he felt hands pressing against his neck, and heard one of the soldiers telling his father that this had never happened.

Chapter 5

INTO THE DARKNESS

Jamie Carpenter dreamt of his father.

When he was ten his dad came home from work, holding his hand under his coat, and disappeared upstairs without saying hello to his son. Jamie’s mother was visiting her sister in Surrey, and after a moment he followed his father, treading on the balls of his feet, taking the steps one at a time, slowly.

Through the half-open bathroom door he saw his father standing with his right hand in the sink. There were spots of red on the mirror and the white porcelain.

Jamie crept across the landing. His father was running the hot tap over his hand, grimacing at the temperature. He turned the tap off and reached for a towel and Jamie saw his hand. There was a long bloody cut running from his wrist to his elbow, and in the middle of the gash something dark was sticking out, dirty brown against the red.

His father dabbed the blood away from the cut and slowly reached into the wound. He gritted his teeth, then pulled the dark object out of his arm, letting out a sharp grunt as it came free. Jamie stared. It looked like a fingernail, more than an inch long, sharp and curved like a talon. A chunk of ragged meat hung from the thick end of the nail, glistening white in the bright light of the bathroom.

He gasped. He hadn’t meant to. His father looked round sharply and Jamie stood rigid, speechless. His father opened his mouth as if to say something, then kicked the bathroom door shut, leaving Jamie standing on the dark landing.

Jamie drifted awake. He was moving, a loud car engine rumbling somewhere behind him, the sound of rain hammering against glass close to his head. He slowly opened his eyes and found himself looking out of a window at a dark forest, the trees blurring as they passed, water tumbling from the sky in sheets. He turned his head to the driver and cried out. Instinctively he reached for the passenger door handle and turned it, not caring what would happen if he jumped from a moving car, just knowing he had to get out, get away from the horror in the seat next to him.

“Don’t bother,” said the driver, his voice so loud that it drowned out the engine. “It’s locked.”

Jamie pressed himself against the door.

In the seat next to him was Frankenstein’s monster.

This is a dream. Isn’t it? It has to be, this can’t be real.

“It’s not polite to stare,” the monster said, and Jamie thought he heard the faintest hint of a laugh under the booming, granite voice.

“Who are you?” Jamie managed, his mind screaming warnings at him. Don’t talk to it! Are you stupid? Just shut up!

“My name is Victor Frankenstein. I did introduce myself. I assume you don’t remember?”

Jamie shook his head, and Frankenstein grunted.

“I suspected as much. Good thing I locked the doors.”

He laughed, a huge sound like a clap of thunder.

“There is only a certain amount I am permitted to tell you,” he continued. “I’m taking you to a safe place. My superior will tell you whatever else he decides you need to know.”

“Who is your superior?” asked Jamie.

No reply.

“I asked you a question,” he repeated, his voice rising. “Did you hear me?”

Frankenstein turned his enormous head and looked at Jamie.

“I heard you,” he said. “I chose not to answer.”

Jamie recoiled, and then the image of the blood on the bedroom windowsill crashed into his head, and he remembered.

“My mother,” he said, his eyes wide. “We have to go back for her.”

Frankenstein shot him a look of concern.

“We can’t go back,” he said. “She’s gone. You know that.”

Jamie fumbled his mobile phone out of his pocket, scrolled through his contacts until he found his mother’s number, keyed the green button and held it to his ear.

Nothing happened.

He pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at the glowing screen. The network logo that usually shone in the middle was gone, as was the bar that indicated the strength of his signal.

“Phones don’t work around here,” said Frankenstein.

Jamie grabbed again at the door handle, wrenching it until the plastic began to bend in his grip.

“Stop that!” roared Frankenstein. “You will be of no help to her if I have to scrape you off the tarmac!”

Jamie turned on the monster, his eyes blazing. “Stop the car!” he yelled. “Stop it right now! I have to help my mum!”

The car didn’t slow, but the huge man in the driver’s seat looked over at him.

“Your mother is gone,” he said, softly. “You may or may not believe me when I tell you I find that fact almost as distressing as you do. But the fact remains; she’s gone. And running around in the dark will not bring her back.”

Jamie stared angrily at the bolts in the huge man’s neck and, not for the first time, his mouth got the better of him.

“I thought Frankenstein was the creator, not the monster,” he muttered.

The brakes of the car squealed, the wheels locked and they slid to a halt. Frankenstein took a deep breath.

“Victor Frankenstein made me,” he said, his voice like ice. “And for a time I was a monster. But after Frankenstein died, I took his name. To honour him. Now, do you have any more impertinent questions, or should I get us to safety?”

Jamie nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said, quietly.

Frankenstein didn’t respond.

“I said I’m sorry.”

“I heard you,” grunted the monster. “I accept your apology, as I accept the fact that you’re worried about your mother, and worry can make people say unwise things. I need you to accept that I share your concern about Marie, and that I’m taking you to the only people in the country who may be able to bring her back to you. And most of all, I need you to shut up and let me drive.”

Jamie turned away, and watched the road they were travelling on snake through the quiet forest. The trees were thick on all sides, blurred by the pounding rain, and the headlights of the car illuminated little more than the road itself, a single lane of concrete that looked oddly well-maintained in this deep countryside.

Every few minutes he looked over at the man in the driver’s seat. Frankenstein’s eyes were glued to the road, and he didn’t so much as glance in Jamie’s direction.

Around the car, the woods seemed to be thickening. Jamie leant forward and craned his neck upwards. He could no longer see the night sky; the trees had arched over the road from both sides and fused into an impenetrable ceiling of wood and leaves.

This didn’t just happen. This is a tunnel. Someone made this.

The car rounded a sharp corner, and Jamie gasped.

In front of them was a huge dark green gate. It stretched across the width of the road and disappeared into the canopy above them, leaving no edges in sight. In the middle of the gate hung a large white sign, illuminated by a strip light above it. Rain lashed against the bulb, sending running shadows across the sign, on which four lines of bright red text had been printed.

MINISTRY OF DEFENCETHIS IS A RESTRICTED AREAUNDER THE PROVISIONS OF THE OFFICIAL SECRETSACT NO TRESPASSING

Smoothly, and utterly silently, the enormous gate slid open. Beyond it was absolute darkness. There was a pause, then an artificial voice sounded through the rain.

“This is a restricted area. Please move your vehicle into authorisation.”

Frankenstein eased the car forward, and for a brief moment panic gripped Jamie.

Don’t go in there. Take me home. I want to go home.

The gate slid shut behind the car, cutting off the faint light from the woods.

“Place your vehicle in neutral,” the voice ordered, and Frankenstein did so.

Machinery whirred into life underneath their car and they began to move. They stopped after an unknowable distance, and then the car was enveloped by a pressurised cloud of white gas that billowed from beneath them, the noise of its release deafening in the enclosed space.

Jamie instinctively reached out and grabbed Frankenstein’s arm.

“What’s that?” he cried.

“It’s a spectroscope,” Frankenstein replied. “It detects the vapours released by explosives. It’s making sure we aren’t booby-trapped.”

He gently lifted Jamie’s hand from the sleeve of his coat and placed it back in the boy’s lap. The artificial voice spoke again.

“Please state the names and designations of all passengers.”

Frankenstein rolled down the driver’s window and spoke loudly and clearly into the darkness.

“Frankenstein, Victor. NS302-45D. Carpenter, Jamie. No designation.”

Two halogen spotlights exploded into life, enveloping the car in a circle of blinding white light.

“Non-designated personnel are not permitted access to this facility,” the artificial voice said.

This time Frankenstein roared through the window.

“Non-designated personnel present on the authority of Seward, Henry, NS303-27A.”

There was a long, pregnant pause.

“Clearance granted,” the voice said. “Proceed.”

The spotlights disappeared, replaced with warm electric light, and Jamie’s eyes widened in amazement. They were in a tunnel at least fifty metres long and ten metres wide. Covering most of the floor was a dark grey treadmill, in the middle of which sat their car. Two white concrete paths ran the length of the tunnel, on either side. The walls were immaculate white, stretching up to a ceiling that had to be at least six metres high. Where the walls and ceilings met, lights of numerous shapes and sizes pointed down at the treadmill. Jamie could see the wide circles of spotlights, and rows of thick rectangular boxes with purple lenses.

Frankenstein breathed out heavily, filling the car with warm air, and drove forward, along the treadmill. As they neared the end of the tunnel, another gate, as silent as the first, slid open. They drove through the gate, and Jamie got his first look at a world very few people knew existed.

Light bathed the car, purple and yellow, creating an atmosphere that was both cold and warm. Ahead of the car, at the end of a strip of tarmac lit by lights that stood at five-metre intervals, a wide, low grey dome rose out of the ground, like the visible part of a ball buried in the earth. To the left of the car, and far to the right, a pair of enormous red and white radar dishes revolved slowly atop squat grey buildings. Beyond the dishes lay a long runway, lights flashing at intervals along its length, two huge beacons shining at one end. Sitting on this runway, partially hidden by the low dome, was a white airliner with a red stripe running the length of its fuselage. As Jamie watched, a steady stream of men and women, dressed in civilian clothes, appeared from behind the dome and walked up a ladder truck to the plane’s door. He could hear voices and laughter, carrying on the night air.

Frankenstein pressed the accelerator and the car moved slowly forward. As it did, Jamie craned his neck, looking for the tunnel they had emerged from. He saw it, a wide black semi-circle disappearing as the gate they had passed through slid back into place, but what lay to the sides of the tunnel caused him to gasp, audibly. A road, branching off the one they were slowly travelling along, curved back and ran parallel to the tunnel, the exterior of which was a flat, nondescript grey. Fifteen metres before the tunnel disappeared into the tree line it curved again, this time into a long, shallow arc that ran parallel to a huge metal fence. Jamie’s eyes widened.

“Wait,” he said. “Stop the car. I want to see.”

Frankenstein grunted, and shot him a look of annoyance, but he drew the car to a halt. Jamie threw open the door and stepped out. His head was spinning as he tried to take in what he was looking at.

The inner fence was at least fifteen metres high, made of thick metal mesh and topped with vicious snarls of razor wire. Set into the fence at one hundred metre intervals were guard towers, cubes of metal on top of sturdy-looking pylons. There were no lights in them, but Jamie’s eyes caught movement in the one nearest to him. He turned to look at the next tower, a hundred metres further away, and the next, and the next. The fence ran for as far as he could see, in what appeared to be a vast circle. It passed the end of the runway before it disappeared from view beyond a series of low rectangular buildings on the far side of the landing strip. He turned slowly, taking everything in.

Past the low buildings his view was obscured by the dome. Further to the right, a large building sat flush against the runway, its huge metal doors closed. Beyond it Jamie again picked up the path of the fence, the towers evenly distributed along its incredible length. He continued his turn, ignoring Frankenstein, who was looking at him with a certain amount of gentle bemusement. The road running along the inside of the fence continued until it met the tunnel again, then curved back to join the central road no more than twenty feet from where he was standing.

Beyond the inner fence was a wide strip of dirt, crisscrossed with hundreds of thousands of red laser beams; the complexity of the patterns would have made the world’s greatest jewel thief weep. This strip of no-man’s-land was bordered on the other side by a second fence, almost as high as the one by the road. Beyond it lay the woods, a wall of twisted branches and leaves, running a perfectly even distance from the outer fence. Every square inch of the space between them, a dirt run five metres wide, was illuminated by bright purple ultraviolet light, shining down from black boxes set at three-metre intervals along the outer fence.

Excitement surged through Jamie as his eyes drank in the sheer strangeness of what he was seeing.

What is this place? Why are there so many fences and lights and towers? What are they keeping out?

As his eyes adjusted to the brilliant red and purple illumination before him, he saw that set in between the flickering laser grid was a series of giant spotlights, the wide round lenses pointing into the sky. He looked up, and his mouth fell open.

“Oh my God,” he whispered.

There were no visible beams rising from the spotlights, but their purpose was clear as soon as he tilted back his head. Above him, shimmering gently in the night air, an enormous canopy of trees hung in the sky, extending seamlessly from the edges of the woods and covering the whole of whatever this place was. From underneath the image was flat, and faintly translucent, like a film of oil on a puddle of water, but he could see erratic shapes and uneven rises bristling the upper side. The effect was disorientating.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice full of wonder.

“It’s a hologram,” Frankenstein answered. “It keeps away prying eyes.”

He fought off the urge to ask who those eyes might belong to, and instead asked how it worked.

“There’s a suspended field of reflective particles that lies over the whole base. The spotlights project a moving image on to it from underneath.”

“Like a big cinema screen?”

Frankenstein laughed, a strange barking noise that did not sound as though it came naturally to him.

“Something like that,” he replied. “From above, all anyone sees is the forest. Have you seen enough?”

Jamie hadn’t, nowhere near enough, but he told his companion that he had, knowing it was what the giant man wanted to hear.

“Good,” Frankenstein said, not unkindly, and got back into the car. Jamie did the same, and they moved forward, towards the low grey dome.

In front of the building were several military vehicles, a heavy-looking truck with an open rear, a row of jeeps and a surprising number of civilian cars. Between one of the jeeps and a 3-series BMW that had seen better days, a parking bay was stencilled on the tarmac in white paint. Frankenstein guided their car into it and pulled it to a halt. The giant man and Jamie stepped out of the car and walked back around to a flat indentation where the dome faced the road they had just driven along. Set into the grey material of the building was a door. It stood open, waiting for them.

Frankenstein motioned for Jamie to enter, then followed him in when he did so. They were standing in a white corridor, featureless except for a sculpted crest that looked down at them from high on the wall opposite them.

“What now?” asked Jamie.

“We wait,” replied Frankenstein.

Jamie studied the crest as he did so. A crown and portcullis sat above a wide circle, in which had been carved six flaming torches encircling a plain crucifix. Beneath the circle three words of Latin were etched into the wall.

Lux E Tenebris

“What does that mean?” asked Jamie, pointing up at the crest.

“Light out of darkness,” translated Frankenstein. “It was the favourite phrase of a great man.”

“Who?”

The door closed behind them, sliding silently until it met the opposite wall, where it thudded into place with a loud clunk. There was a sound like spinning gears moving heavy machinery, then a quieter, yet somehow ominous second clunk. Instantly, the wall at the far end of the corridor slid aside to reveal a silver metal lift.

“Not now,” said Frankenstein, and walked down the corridor. After a moment’s hesitation, Jamie followed him.

The lift car had no buttons, and as soon as they stepped inside the door closed and they began to descend. It was such a familiar, mundane feeling, the shift in his stomach, the vibrations in his legs, that the mild hysteria Jamie realised he had been feeling ever since the thing in the grey coat had walked through the door of the house he shared with his mother threatened to pitch him into a fit of laughter. He steadied himself, and waited for the door to reopen. As they settled to a halt and it began to slide open, his mind raced with the possibilities of what he might see next.

It was a dormitory.

A long, wide room, lined on both sides with thin beds covered in olive-green sheets and blankets. The beds were pristine, as though they had never been slept in, and the metal lockers that stood between them shone like new.

“What is this place?” he asked Frankenstein.

The monster opened his mouth to reply, but a deafening siren drowned out the words. Jamie pressed his hands to his ears, and when the siren paused, Frankenstein looked at him with a worried expression. “You’re about to find out,” he said.

Chapter 6

THE LYCEUM INCIDENT, PART 1

THE STRAND, LONDON 3RD JUNE 1892

The carriage clattered to a halt on Wellington Street, in front of the tall pillars of the Lyceum Theatre. A fine rain was falling, and the driver pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders as he waited for his passenger to disembark.

“Bring my bags, boy, both of them,” said the old man, impatiently. He stood in the cobbled road, the brim of his wide hat low over his face as he watched the sun descending towards Trafalgar Square. “Yes sir,” replied his valet, lifting a black leather surgeon’s bag and a tan briefcase down from the back of the carriage.

The aging black horse that had pulled them through London shifted as the weight was removed and took a step backwards into the valet, sending the man down to one knee on the wet cobblestones and the tan briefcase to the ground. A sharpened wooden stake rolled out and settled at the feet of an overweight man in evening dress, who stooped down, grunting at the effort, and picked it up.

“You, boy,” he said, in a superior, goose-fed voice. “Have a care, would you? A man could go full-length with blasted logs rolling around his ankles.”

The valet picked the briefcase out of the road and stood up.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said.

“See that you are,” said the man, and handed the stake back to the valet while his equally large wife giggled at her husband’s wit.

The valet watched them totter away towards the Strand, then handed the bags to his master, who had watched the exchange with an expression of impatience on his face. He took them without a word, turned, and strode up the steps. The valet waited a respectful second, then followed.

Inside the rich red lobby of the theatre the old man waited for the night manager to greet them. Looking around, he took in the wide staircases that led up to the left and the right, the posters for previous productions that lined the walls, the majority of which showed the face of the man who had called him here; the actor Henry Irving.

The handsome, pointed face of the great Shakespearean was as well known as any in London, and his rich baritone voice equally so. The old man had seen his Othello, two seasons previous, and deemed it entirely satisfactory.

“Professor Van Helsing?”

The old man awoke from his musings and regarded the stout, red-faced fellow who was standing before him.

“That is correct,” he replied. “Mr Stoker, I presume?”

“Yes sir,” the man replied. “I’m the night manager here at the Lyceum. Am I right in thinking that Mr Irving explained why your presence was requested?”

“His message told me that a showgirl was missing, that he suspected foul play, and that I may have some expertise of the type of foul play in question.”

“Quite,” said Stoker. “But this isn’t just any showgirl. There’s...”

He trailed off. Van Helsing regarded the night manager more closely. His face was a deep beetroot red, his eyes watery and his head enveloped in a gentle cloud of alcoholic vapour. He had clearly sought the courage for this night’s work at the bottom of a bottle.

“Mr Stoker,” Van Helsing said, sharply. “I have travelled from Kensington at the request of your employer, and I wish to be about this business before the sun is long beyond the horizon. Tell me everything that I do not already know.”

Stoker looked up as though stung. “I apologise, sir,” he began. “You see, the girl who has vanished, a chorus girl by the name of Jenny Pembry, is a favourite of Prime Minister Gladstone himself, who has been kind enough to visit us no less than four times this year already. Her absence was mentioned by the Prime Minister after he attended our production of The Tempest, two days past, and Mr Irving promised to find out what had become of her. When he reported back to the Prime Minister that he had been unable to do so, he was told that a telegram to the famous Professor Van Helsing of Kensington might prove useful.”

“And so here we are,” boomed Van Helsing, drawing himself up to his full bearing, his voice suddenly loud and deep. “Standing in an empty theatre, with no reason to believe that this missing girl has done anything more mysterious than tire of the stage and choose a more dignified line of work for herself, and certainly nothing to suggest that this affair merits my attention. I fail to see what you expect me to do here, Mr Stoker.”

The night manager had taken a step backwards. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and furiously dabbed his forehead with it.

“Sir, if you would spare the time to examine the dressing rooms,” he said, his voice catching in his throat. “Mr Irving informs me that the Prime Minister is most upset by this business, and I do not wish to tell him I have not exhausted all avenues of enquiry. Ten minutes, sir, I beseech you.”

Van Helsing looked at the small red-faced man before him, and felt his anger subside, replaced with a deep frustration. Nine months had passed since he and his friends had returned from the mountains of Transylvania, and although none of them had spoken publicly about what had happened, rumour of what had taken place beneath the stone peaks of Castle Dracula had spread, and he had found himself deluged with requests for help, with everything from creaking floorboards to ghostly apparitions and, it now appeared, missing chorus girls.

He longed for the quiet of his surgery, where his research into what he had seen in the East could continue. But there were worrying stories emerging from the Baltic, tales of blood and shadow. Thankfully though, nothing yet suggested that the evil condition which had caused the deaths of two of his friends had found its way back to London, and God was to be praised for that, if for little else.

“I apologise to you, Mr Stoker,” he said. “If you will lead the way, I will examine the dressing rooms, as you suggest.” He turned and spoke to his valet. “You may return to the carriage, boy. There is nothing here that will require your assistance.”

“Nonetheless sir, I will accompany you so long as it does not offend.”

Van Helsing waved a hand at him, dismissively. “Do as you wish.”

*

Stoker led them through the theatre, past the long rows of red velvet seats and the orchestra pit, through a door and into the backstage area. The narrow passages were piled high with props and set furniture from old productions – a wooden tower from Verona, a broken Faerie throne, ermine cloaks, rusting helmets and crowns, row upon row of daggers and swords, silver paint peeling from the wood and collecting in small drifts on the floorboards. As the night manager led Van Helsing and the valet through the dusty corridors, he talked non-stop, his confidence refuelled by the Professor’s apology and the contents of the small hip flask from which he was now openly taking regular sips.

“… of course Mr Irving is a great man, a truly great man, as fine an employer and as gracious a companion as he is skilled an actor. He has always encouraged the players to excel, to… improve, has given his time to tutor those with promise, and to always gently, most gently, discourage those without. My own small ambitions have always found a sympathetic ear with him, although of course he has so many more important claims upon his time, a great man, truly. He has promised me, one man to another, that he will read my play, should I ever complete the cursed thing. What kindness! What generosity! Although I fear I may never be able to accept his kind offer. The confines of the play confound me endlessly, and I am close to accepting that it may not be the medium to which I am best suited. Perhaps the novel holds the answer? I think it may do. Perhaps I should write of a theatre, from which people keep disappearing without a trace? That may entertain, if only for a short while. I may even presume to base the hero on Mr Irving, such a great man, such a—”

“Keep disappearing?” Van Helsing interrupted, his voice low.

They had reached a stop. The door in front of them led to a nondescript dressing room, barely larger than a pantry, in which stood three small desks, each facing a dusty mirror, and three hard wooden chairs. In the corners were piled costumes and pages of lyrics and dialogue.

“Sir?”

“Keep disappearing, you said. Are you telling me that this girl Pembry is not the first to vanish from the Lyceum without explanation?”

Stoker mopped his brow, the confusion clear in his face. “Well, yes, sir. There have been others. But as you yourself said, the theatrical life is not for everyone. Many choose to pursue their fortune elsewhere.”

“How many others?”

“In total, sir, I do not know. In recent months, four others, to the best of my knowledge. A trumpet player, an understudy to Titania, and two chorus girls whose names I must confess I do not remember.”

“Four others!” bellowed Van Helsing, cowering Stoker back against the open doorframe. “You are the manager of this theatre, five of your employees disappear in quick succession without an explanation between them, and you do not consider this unusual? And not worthy of mentioning to me, even after I was summoned here to investigate the most recent of them, even now not by you, but rather to satisfy the whim of a politician! Are you an imbecile, sir?”

Stoker stared back at him, his mouth hanging open. He closed his mouth, and muttered something too quietly to hear.

“What’s that, man? Speak up if you have something to say,” demanded Van Helsing.

“I’m only the night manager,” replied Stoker, in a small voice.

“That is no kind of excuse, no kind at all, and well you know it. Attend to me now: has anything notable occurred in recent months that coincides with these disappearances? Think now.”

Stoker turned away from Van Helsing, who looked over at his valet standing several feet away, his face expressionless. They waited for the night manager.

Eventually he turned back to them. His eyes were redder than ever, and a gasp in his breathing suggested he was close to weeping.

“I cannot recall anything of significance, other than the sad business of our conductor, Harold Norris.”

“What business?”

“Mr Norris suffered from a nervous disposition, sir. Six months ago Mr Irving granted him a leave of convalescence, in the hopes that an absence from the bustle of London would help with his condition. As I said, sir, Mr Irving’s generosity knows no—”

Van Helsing cut him off impatiently.

“What happened?”

“Sadly, Mr Norris died. He returned no better for his absence, complaining of fever and hunger, and then no more than two weeks after his return we received word from his brother that he had passed away. We have only just found a permanent replacement this past month.”

“Where did this Norris take his convalescence?”

“In Romania.”

The valet drew in breath. Van Helsing spoke in a voice full of menace. “Where did this conductor live?”

Stoker looked at him with open confusion.

“Sir, Harry Norris was a kind, gentle man of more than sixty years, and was with the Lyceum for at least twenty of them. He would not have hurt a fly, sir, I assure you. And even if I am wrong, the poor man is dead, and cannot possibly be involved with the disappearance that occupies us tonight.”

Van Helsing’s hand shot out from the folds of his cloak and gripped the night manager around his upper arm. Stoker cried out. “Where did he live?” the old man said.

“I don’t know!” the night manager pleaded. “Truly I don’t. He was always the last to leave the theatre, and he lived alone. Now, please, sir, release my arm, I beg you!”

Van Helsing let go of Stoker, who immediately grabbed his arm with his hand and looked at the old doctor with a look of pure terror.

“What is underneath this building?” Van Helsing asked.

“I do not know,” whispered the night manager, still clutching his arm.

“Perhaps it is time you found out. Take us to the orchestra pit, quickly now.”

“It’s this way,” Stoker said, his voice still low and full of fear and pain, and led them into the bowels of the theatre.

Their second journey through the backstage of the Lyceum was silent.

The night manager led them through corridors of dressing rooms, past a large door separate from the others upon which was written Mr H. Irving in elegant script, past doors marked MAKEUP, ATELIER, BRASS, WIND, PERCUSSION and PRIVATE, down a narrow staircase and finally through a door that opened into the rear of the orchestra pit. Van Helsing placed a hand on Stoker’s shoulder and entered the pit first, walking quickly through the neat arrangement of chairs and stands, up two shallow wooden steps to the entrance to the conductor’s box. He stayed on the top step, not entering. The valet and the night manager stood behind him on the floor of the pit.

In the box was a circular red rug that covered the floor, an ornate music stand holding the score for The Tempest, and nothing else. Van Helsing ordered Stoker and the valet to stand back. He reached in and gripped the edge of the red rug and then pulled it violently out of the box.

“Sir, I must protest!” cried Stoker. “This is most—”

“Come up here,” interrupted Van Helsing. “And see if your objection still holds.”

Stoker and the valet stepped up into the conductor’s box. In the middle of the floor was a heavy wooden trapdoor.

Van Helsing turned to the night manager and the valet.

“Be very, very careful from here on,” he said.

Chapter 7

IT’S HARD TO BREATHE WITH A HAND AROUND YOUR THROAT

The lighting in the dormitory switched to a purple ultraviolet as the alarm hammered into Jamie’s skull. Frankenstein pulled a radio from his belt and keyed in three numbers. He held the radio to one ear, placed a giant hand over the other, and listened.

“What’s going on?” Jamie yelled. Frankenstein held a hand out towards him and turned away, his ear hunched into his shoulder, trying to hear what was being said on the radio.

Jamie looked around. There was a door in the wall to his left, and he ran towards it, desperate to get away from the noise that was making his head swim and his stomach churn, desperate to get away from this place and find his mother. Frankenstein reached out and grabbed for him but Jamie saw it coming, slipped around the outstretched fingers, shoved the door open and ran through it.

He had just enough time to register that he was in a long grey corridor before something crashed into him and he sprawled across the smooth floor. His head cracked the ground hard, and he saw stars as a voice shouted at him, and he sat up.

“What the hell are you playing at?” A short, overweight man in a white doctor’s coat was standing over him with a look of extreme annoyance on his face. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“I’m Jamie Carpenter,” he shouted. “Can you tell me where I am? Please?”

“What did you say your name was?” the doctor yelled, his eyes wide.

Jamie repeated it.

“Christ. Oh Christ.” The doctor looked around, as if he hoped there would be someone to tell him what to do. “You’d better come with me,” he eventually yelled, extending a hand towards Jamie. “Seward’ll skin me alive if anything happens to you. Come on, on your feet.”

Jamie hauled himself upright.

“Where are we going?” he yelled.

“Arrivals,” the doctor yelled back. “Something’s inbound, so it’s the safest place for you to be.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s where the guns are.”

Jamie ran down endless corridors, his head ringing with the relentless wail of the alarm and the thumping strobe of the purple lights. The doctor was short and round but he ran with a grim determination, his jaw clenched, his eyes staring into the middle distance, and Jamie found himself sprinting just to keep up.

The doctor finally stopped running in front of a wide lift platform, little more than a steel frame striped black and yellow. Jamie stepped on to it, the doctor pushed a button set into one of the metal columns, machinery far above them ground into life, and the platform began to ascend. Its passengers doubled over, hands on their knees, trying to catch their breath.

Jamie pulled air into his lungs and stood up straight. As he did so, they passed a cavernous open floor, in the middle of which hulked a vast angular shape, purple track lighting on the walls and floor illuminating tantalising details: three huge sets of wheels, a dark triangular fuselage, and two wide wings that stretched almost to the walls. Jamie crouched down as they rose towards the ceiling, but the shape disappeared below him as the lift continued its ascent.

“What was that?” Jamie asked.

“Don’t you worry about that,” wheezed the scientist in reply. “You keep your eyes in this lift.”

Jamie looked at him, then shrugged and turned away.

Fat idiot. Don’t tell me where I can’t look.

Gears crunched above his head and the lift started to slow. They were rising through a dull grey shaft, which suddenly opened out into a wide room, full of movement and noise.

One whole side of the vast semi-circular room was open on to a wide tarmac area that led out to the middle of the long, brightly lit runway. Inside, two lines of black-clad figures, eight wide, were stood facing the huge open doors, submachine guns set against their shoulder, pointing out into the darkness. A chill ran up Jamie’s spine when he saw them.

I’ve seen people like this before. They look like soldiers, they look like the men who—

He couldn’t let himself finish the thought. He looked away from the dark figures, and saw the round crest he had seen in the white corridor, stencilled high on the huge hangar wall. The same three Latin words were stamped below it, running almost the entire length of the vast surface.

Lux E Tenebris

Behind the rows of soldiers, dozens of white-coated men and women bustled across the vast concrete floor of the room – hangar, it’s a hangar, they don’t make rooms this big – shuttling stretcher trolleys and IV drips back and forth, shouting instructions and questions to one another. A steel shutter door slid upwards to Jamie’s right and four figures in full biochemical hazard suits pushed a pair of metal trolleys covered in plastic oxygen tents into the hangar.

In the distance, Jamie heard the heavy thud-thud-thud of an engine.

“Incoming!” yelled one of the soldiers.

“How much time?” asked a tall, skeletally thin man stood behind a portable computer array on a heavy steel trolley.

“Ninety seconds!”

The activity in the hangar accelerated, doctors and scientists and soldiers running in every direction, the heels of their shoes and boots drumming on the concrete floor.

A huge crash boomed out to Jamie’s left, and he jumped. A heavy metal door had thumped open, slamming against the wall with a deafening clang. Frankenstein thundered through the door, his huge head surveying the room. His eyes locked on Jamie’s; he smiled a smile with absolutely no humour in it, and came towards him.

Jamie stood frozen to the spot as Frankenstein crossed the hangar in a dozen of his giant strides, grabbed him by the neck of his T-shirt and lowered his enormous head down so they were face to face. His mouth was set in a spirit-level-straight line, his jaw clenched, deep breaths blasting out of cavernous nostrils and blowing the hair from Jamie’s forehead.

It’s trying hard not to kill me. Really, really hard.

Frankenstein’s wide misshapen eyes, the pupils slate grey, stared into Jamie’s. Eventually, the monster spoke. “That will be the last time you run away from me,” it said. “Do you understand?”

“I—”

“Say nothing,” Frankenstein roared. “Not a word. Nod if you understand. I don’t want to hear your excuses. Do you understand?”

Jamie nodded, then turned his head away, tears of shame and humiliation coming to the corners of his eyes. Several of the troops and doctors had stopped what they were doing and were watching the confrontation, even as the blinding lights of a helicopter illuminated the wide landing zone beyond the hangar doors; Jamie could no more meet their stares than he could that of the giant in front of him.

Movement in the corner of the hangar caught his eye. A section of the blank concrete wall slid aside, and four black-clad figures emerged. They wore large black machine pistols on their right hips, short black tubes on their left, from which wires ran to shallow square tanks on their backs. Jamie recognised the tubes immediately – they were a smaller version of the weapon he had seen Frankenstein fire in the living room of his mother’s house.

My God, this is all really happening. I’m not going to wake up.

My mother is really gone.

The four soldiers emerging from the hidden corridor took up positions, two on either side of the door, and a figure strode quickly out of the darkness, through their guard, and headed towards the giant open side of the hangar. The newcomer was dressed in the same sleek black gear as the others, but without the deep purple visor. Jamie saw a flash of grey hair, swept back from the man’s forehead. As he strode across the concrete floor he cast his eyes quickly around the hangar, and they met Jamie’s. Surprise rippled across the man’s face. He turned to one of the soldiers, said something, then marched across the hangar towards Jamie.

“Victor!” the old man shouted, crossing the distance rapidly. Frankenstein looked round, saw him coming, and swore under his breath. Then he looked back down at Jamie, his eyes clearing, as though he had forgotten he was holding a teenage boy by the neck of his T-shirt, and swore again, loudly this time.

He’s not really angry with me. It’s something else. He looks scared.

Frankenstein released Jamie and told him to stand up straight. Jamie did so, grudgingly, as the old man arrived before them.

“Victor,” he said again. “Can you explain to me why there is a civilian teenage boy inside the most classified building in the country? I hope you can, for your sake.”

Frankenstein stood straight as a board, towering over both Jamie and the old man.

“Admiral Seward,” he said, from above their heads. “This is Jamie Carpenter. I pulled him out of his house as Alexandru was about to tear out his throat, sir. His mother is missing, sir. And I didn’t know where else to take him, sir.”

Seward did not appear to have heard anything after Jamie’s name. He had recoiled, visibly, when he heard it, and now he was looking at the boy with a look of complete surprise.

“Jamie Carpenter?” he said. “Your name is Jamie Carpenter?”

“Yes,” replied Jamie. He was beyond confusion now, and when Frankenstein barked at him to say sir, he added “Yes, sir” without objection.

Admiral Seward was rallying, his composure returning.

“Ordinarily, I would tell you it was a pleasure to meet you,” he said to Jamie. “But this is not an ordinary night, nor has it been an ordinary day by the sounds of it. And you...” He trailed off, then regrouped. “I would like to see you in my quarters, Mr Carpenter, when this matter is resolved. Victor, will you escort him?”

Frankenstein agreed that he would, and then the helicopter landed outside the hangar doors and everything started to happen very quickly.

*

As its rotors began to wind down a door slid open in the sleek metal side of the chopper and a black-clad figure jumped down on to the concrete and waved an arm, beckoning the scientists forward. As white coats rushed across the landing area, the soldier reached up into the belly of the helicopter and helped a man in a biohazard suit down to the ground. The hood of the suit had been removed, and the arm was torn open. Blood, sickeningly bright under the yellow-white lights of the helicopter, shone through the hole. The soldier threw the man’s other arm around his shoulders and half walked, half dragged him towards the hangar.

Admiral Seward strode out to meet them, his voice loud above the rapidly declining helicopter.

“Report,” he demanded.

“Sir, his pulse is weak, his leukocyte count is through the floor. Sir.”

As the soldier gave his summary the scientists in their biohazard suits arrived beside him, pushing a stretcher. They unwound the injured man’s arm from the soldier’s shoulder and lifted him on to it.

Admiral Seward turned and watched as the scientists, almost running, wheeled the stretcher back across the hangar and through a heavy metal door marked with yellow warning triangles, then turned his attention back to the helicopter, from which more figures were emerging.

A second soldier and a woman in a biohazard suit leapt down from the chopper and pulled a plastic-covered stretcher out after them, extending its wheels and rolling it towards the hangar door. Even from his vantage point at the back of the hangar, Jamie could see that this stretcher wasn’t empty. There was a dark shape lying under the plastic, spotted with red.

“Stand aside,” Seward yelled as the stretcher approached the crowd of gawping men and women. “Clear a path, for God’s sake.”

He strode around in front of the stretcher and led it towards a pair of double doors, directly past Jamie. He stepped forward to take a look, and felt his heart lurch. Lying beneath the plastic sheeting was a teenage boy, his skin pale, his breathing so shallow it was almost nonexistent, a huge wad of bandages pushed gruesomely deep into a wide hole in his throat.

Jesus, he’s my age. What happened to him?

Then the boy was gone, rushed towards the hangar exit by running doctors. Jamie stared after the stretcher, fear crawling up his spine as reality crashed into him.

That could have been me.

There was a commotion out by the helicopter. A second stretcher was being unloaded from the chopper’s belly, and this one was also occupied.

Jamie pushed forward through the crowd of soldiers and scientists, meeting the stretcher as it arrived at the vast open hangar doors. He looked down, then took a stumbling step backwards, his heart in his mouth.

Staring straight up at the distant ceiling of the hangar, her face set in a grimace of pain, was the girl from the park, the girl who had attacked him only hours earlier.

The girl whose face he had seen in the window the night his father died.

He gasped with shock, and she turned and saw him. She smiled. “Jamie... Carpenter,” she said, her voice cracking, but sounding oddly as though she were trying to smile through the pain. The stretcher lurched to a halt, and the scientist pushing it stared at Jamie.

“How does she know you?” he asked, his voice dripping with suspicion, and more than a little fear. “Who the hell are you?”

Jamie looked blankly at him, trying to think of how to answer such a question, but then the girl spoke again, in a voice too low for Jamie to hear.

He leant down towards the plastic tent.

“What did you say?” he asked. Behind him he heard Seward’s voice asking what was happening, and then Frankenstein saying his name, his voice loud and urgent. He didn’t care. There was something beautiful about the girl’s brown eyes, even through the heavy plastic sheeting, and he leant even closer, and repeated his question.

“Your... fault,” the girl said, then broke into a wide smile, all traces of pain suddenly gone from her face.

A hand gripped his shoulder, and he knew without looking that it belonged to Frankenstein. But before he had time to move the girl sat upright, dizzyingly fast, with the plastic tent still covering her, and threw herself at Jamie.

She crashed into him, chest high, and he was knocked flat on his back. His head thudded against the concrete floor, sending a bright pillar of pain shooting into his brain. The girl landed on him, straddling his waist, the awful smile still on her face. Jamie saw Frankenstein grab for her neck with his gloved hands, but she swung a plastic-coated arm and sent the huge man sprawling backwards. The backs of his legs collided with the fallen trolley that had been occupied by the girl and he went over it, his head smacking hard on to the ground.

Jamie saw this happen through a thick fog of pain, his eyes trying to close, a deafening high-pitched sound ringing through his head. The girl lunged forward, still covered in the plastic sheet, opened her mouth, then buried her face in his neck.

Jamie felt the sharp points of her fangs through the plastic sheet, felt her mouth squirming for purchase , and opened his mouth and screamed, until the girl sat up and placed her hands around his throat, cutting off the air supply to his lungs.

I can’t breathe. She’s going to strangle me.

He looked up dimly at the hideous plastic-coated apparition that was killing him. The girl was bleeding again, dark red spots pattering the inside of the sheet, and she was howling and screaming and tightening her grip on his neck with every passing second. He could hear voices yelling from a long way away, and he saw two more figures – he couldn’t make out whether they were soldiers, scientists, or something else – grab the girl and try to pull her off him. Both were sent sprawling by casual flicks of the girl’s left arm, which left his throat for a millisecond before returning to exert its deadly pressure.

“Shoot her,” he heard someone shout in a voice that sounded like it was coming from underwater, and there were a series of loud cracks, like fireworks. The girl bucked and jolted, and blood soaked the inside of the plastic sheet, some of it spraying through the holes the bullets had torn and landing on Jamie’s face in a fine mist. But still she did not release her grip.

Jamie’s head was pounding, his vision darkening, his chest burning. He needed air now, or it would be too late.

As he felt his eyes beginning to close, something huge flew across his narrowing field of vision. There was a loud crunching sound, and suddenly, blissfully, the pressure on his throat was gone. He opened his mouth and took a giant, terrified breath, his chest screaming, his pounding head thrown back as oxygen flooded into his desperate lungs.

There was an incredible commotion in the hangar above and around him, but he barely registered it as he realised with savage, victorious elation that he wasn’t going to die.

Not now, at least.

His vision was clearing, the thumping noise in his head starting to recede, when a dark shadow appeared above him, and knelt down. Jamie looked up at the shape crouching over him; the image came into focus and he stared into the face of Frankenstein.

“Can you sit up?” he asked, his voice surprisingly gentle, and Jamie nodded.

He pushed himself up with his elbows and looked around the vast hangar. Scientists and doctors were clustered around the fallen soldiers, but almost everyone else was staring at him, concern and fear mingled on their faces. A rush of panic shot through him and he looked for the girl that had attacked him.

“Don’t worry about her,” Frankenstein said, as though he could read Jamie’s mind. “They’ve got her.”

He pointed to the left, towards the open doors. Jamie turned his head to look, and smiled weakly at what he saw.

Two soldiers were holding up the girl. The whole left side of her face was swollen, her arms and legs dangling limply above the ground. As Jamie watched, a scientist slid a hypodermic needle into her neck and depressed the plunger, sending a bright blue liquid into her jugular vein. Two doctors picked the stretcher up from the ground, righted it, and wheeled it over to the soldiers, who lowered the girl on to it. The doctors zipped the plastic sheet back into place, as Jamie stared at the figure beneath it. The girl’s chest was slowly rising and falling.

“She’s not dead,” he said, softly. “But they shot her. I saw the bullets hit her.”

“She’s not dead,” confirmed Frankenstein. “She’s something else.”

Chapter 8

THE LYCEUM INCIDENT, PART II

BENEATH THE LYCEUM THEATRE, LONDON 3rd JUNE 1892

The valet descended first, hand over hand down a rope, a lamp hanging from his belt. The hole was pitch black, but the flickering gas light was strong enough to pierce the edges of the darkness, and he touched down gently.

“Twelve feet, no more,” he shouted up to his master. He heard the old man instruct Stoker to find fifteen feet of ladder, smiled, then surveyed the area with his lamp.

He was standing in a round chamber, built of large white stones that had been turned a speckled grey by years of dust and darkness. Four arches were set into the walls of the chamber, the stone crumbling in places but holding steady. The same could not be said for the passages that led away from three of the arches; the roofs had long since given way, collapsing into piles of broken masonry that blocked the way completely. The fourth passage was clear, and its stone floor was scuffed with footprints.

The wooden feet of a ladder thudded to the ground behind him, then Van Helsing and Stoker made their way down one after the other, holding lamps of their own.

“What is this place?” asked Stoker, his eyes widening as they adjusted to the gloom.

“Catacombs, or cellars, or possibly something else entirely,” replied Van Helsing, peering at the stone walls, and the valet felt a shiver dance up his spine. He had never heard his master sound uncertain, not at any point in the two years he had served him.

The old professor approached the arch of the one passable corridor and looked down at the footprints in the dust.

“This way,” he said, as he stepped into the passage.

The space between the stone walls only allowed for single file, so Stoker followed Van Helsing and the valet followed them both, his hand buried in his jacket pocket, gripping something tightly.

Van Helsing led them through the stone corridors, pausing at junctions and tipping small pools of flaming oil on to the dusty floor, markers that would hopefully lead them back to the ladder.

The passages were pitch black, lit only by the flickering orange of the lamps. At the edges of the light, rats scurried into cracks in the ancient stone, their pink tails leaving thin lines in the thick dust. Heavy, intricate webs hung between the walls, ropy strands of silk that caught in the men’s hair and brushed their faces. The dark brown spiders that had woven them squatted in the highest spirals, thick-bodied creatures that Van Helsing didn’t recognise, although he kept this information to himself. The stone floor was uneven, cracked and subsiding, and the going was slow. Twice the valet had to reach out and grab Stoker’s shoulder when a slab moved under his feet, preventing the night manager from turning an ankle, or worse.

This was no place to be carrying an injured man.

It was difficult to gauge the passage of time in the darkness, but after a period that could have been as much as an hour or as little as ten minutes, the glow of light became visible in the distance, beyond the arc of their lamps. The three men headed towards it.

The light grew brighter and brighter, illuminating more details on the stone walls as they approached. At head height, carved into the wide slabs of the narrow passages, were the grotesque faces of gargoyles, their mouths open wide, forked tongues protruding between triangular teeth, their eyes staring out from wrinkled, finely worked skin. Stoker muttered to himself as they passed them, his hip flask now almost permanently attached to his lips. The valet watched with mixed emotions. He did not want to have to rely on a drunken man if, as seemed increasingly likely, they found trouble at the end of this labyrinth. But nor did he have any desire to answer the night manager’s questions, or placate his fears. If the brandy was keeping him quiet and putting one foot in front of the other, the valet supposed that was sufficient.

As they neared the source of the light, it became clear that it was shining through an ornate arch, much larger than the passage they were travelling along. Indeed, as he looked, the valet could see that the walls and ceiling were now tapering gently outwards, widening the corridor in a way that was extremely disorientating. Stoker stumbled, yet again, and the valet gripped the man’s shoulder and righted him. The night manager murmured thanks, and they pressed on, until they walked under the towering arch, and entered hell.

The arch opened into a square cavern, lit on each side by pairs of two flaming torches. The lower walls were covered in carvings: gargoyle faces, humanoid figures and long rows of text, chipped out of the stone in a language the valet had never seen before. On a stone slab in the middle, her arms and legs bound with rope, her skin so pale it was almost translucent, was a girl.

“That’s her,” whispered Stoker. “Jenny Pembry.”

Van Helsing quickly crossed the room and began examining the girl, while Stoker and the valet stood frozen under the arch, taking in the horror that surrounded them.

In the four corners of the room were the missing employees of the Lyceum theatre.

To their left was the trumpet player, the fraying remains of his dinner suit hanging from his decaying corpse, which had been propped against the stone corner. His legs and arms were missing, and the skin that remained on his face was a green so dark it was closer to black. Stoker turned back into the passage and retched, his hands on his knees, while the valet approached the body. As he neared it, he saw pages of sheet music had been crammed into the dead man’s mouth.

In the next corner was the understudy, clad in what remained of her Queen Titania costume. Her tiara, rough metal painted gold, shone horribly above the decomposing flesh of her face. Her legs had also been removed and her ballet shoes placed on the floor before the ragged stumps, a practical joke of vicious cruelty. Her eyes were gone, although the valet could not tell whether this had been deliberate or the inevitable consequence of her final resting place.

In the final two corners were the missing chorus girls, arranged so they faced each other. They were less decayed than the others, and their death agonies were still visible on their faces, their teeth bared, their eyes wide. Both girls were naked, their torsos grotesque patchworks of cuts and stitches, done with what the valet realised to his horror were pieces of horse gut from a violin bow that lay between them. They were horribly, unnaturally pale, their veins invisible.

All four of the bodies, the valet realised, had a pair of ragged puncture wounds on their necks.

“She’s still alive,” said Van Helsing.

At his master’s voice the valet turned away from the horrible fates that had befallen the chorus girls and approached the altar. Stoker followed, unsteady on his feet.

On the slab, Jenny Pembry was barely conscious, moaning and turning gently against the ropes that held her fast. The valet pulled his knife from his belt and sliced through the ropes. Van Helsing gently lifted the girl down and passed her to Stoker, who held her at arm’s length, his face blank with terror.

“Hold her, damn you!” barked Van Helsing. Stoker flinched and drew the chorus girl tight against him.

“She’s been bled almost dry,” Van Helsing told the valet. “Recently, too. The jugular blood is still warm.”

“Where’s the conductor?” asked the valet, his voice low.

“I don’t know,” replied Van Helsing. “If he’s in one of other tunnels we will need more light, and many more men. If he’s—”

A drop of blood landed on the valet’s shoulder.

The valet examined the dark material of his jacket, then slowly both men looked up into the roof of the cavern.

Harold Norris hung upside down from the stone roof of the chamber, twenty feet or more above them, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes closed, like a grotesquely swollen bat. His mouth and chin were dark with Jenny Pembry’s blood and as the three men stared upwards, drops of crimson fell softly on to the dusty floor between them.

“Be absolutely quiet,” whispered Van Helsing. “We must not wake him.”

“What… what has happened to him?” asked Stoker, his whisper slurred by alcohol.

“There is not sufficient time to explain it to you now. We must leave here at once, and return better prepared. We are no match for him if he wakes.”

The valet was still looking up at the conductor. The face that hung above him was gentle, kind even, lined with wrinkles and topped with a mane of grey hair. Norris was wearing his evening suit, the jacket spreading out around him like wings, the white collars of his shirt stained brown with blood.

“Boy!” hissed Van Helsing.

The valet looked around, shaken from his thoughts. His master and the night manager were standing under the great arch that led into the chamber, waiting for him. He crossed the cavern slowly, anxious not to make any sound that might awake the sleeping monster swaying gently above his head. He had almost reached his companions when Stoker, his eyes wide with fear and incomprehension, turned and ran down the passage.

He made it only two steps before a stone slab shifted beneath him and he pitched sideways. Van Helsing made a futile grab for his jacket but gripped only air. The night manager thumped into the wall of the corridor, which collapsed around him in a shower of rubble and a great cloud of choking dust. And in the roof of the cavern, Harold Norris opened his crimson eyes and let out a deep, animal growl.

The conductor was upon them before any of the men had chance to react. He fell like a dead weight into the middle of the cavern, pivoting impossibly barely inches from the ground to land in a deep crouch. He burst forward from this position with dizzying speed, crossing the distance to the arch in the blink of an eye, barrelling into them like a snarling hurricane. He gripped Van Helsing around the throat, and threw the old man into the middle of the chamber. Van Helsing crashed to the floor, skidded into the side of the altar, and lay still. The valet made to pull his hand from his pocket, but was much, much too slow. The conductor descended on him, a dark thing from hell, his eyes a deep red flecked with black and silver, his face splashed with Jenny Pembry’s blood, two long fangs standing out from his mouth.

The valet felt himself lifted from his feet and then he was in motion, soaring through the air into the cavern. He saw his master lying below him, blood pooling beneath his head, and had time to regard the onrushing stone wall with something approaching dispassion.

I’m going to hit that, he had time to think.

And then he did.

Stoker lay among the crumbled stone of the wall. His back was agony where he had fallen across the section of the wall that had remained standing, and his nose and mouth were thick with foul-tasting dust. He felt hands reach through the hole in the wall and grasp the lapels of his tunic, and breathed a sigh of relief as he was pulled forward into the passage. Then the dust cleared and he found himself looking into the smiling, inhuman face of Harold Norris and he threw back his head and screamed.

“Quiet your screeching, you drunken wretch,” hissed the conductor. Stoker was horrified to hear that this monster spoke in the same gentle voice that Norris had used night after night to conduct his players. “If I tear the tongue from your head, you will wish you had done as I say.”

Stoker forced himself to stop screaming, clenching his teeth together, even though the face inches from his own made him feel as though he were teetering on the edge of madness. He forced himself to speak, to say something, anything that might see him escape the same fate that had befallen the others who had found themselves in this old place of dust and death.

“Harold… it’s me, Bram. Don’t hurt me, please. Please.”

The conductor laughed and opened his mouth to reply when his eyes suddenly snapped wide and a sharp wooden point emerged through the fabric of his dress shirt. Norris looked down for a fraction of a second before he exploded in a fountain of blood, spraying the night manager from head to toe and covering the cloak and hat of the valet who was standing where the conductor had been, his arm thrust forward, the hand at the end of it clutching a pointed wooden stake.

“What should be done with him?”

“I don’t know, exactly. It is possible he will not remember any of this.”

“Is that a chance we can afford to take?”

Van Helsing and the valet sat in a dark booth in the corner of the Lyceum Tavern, deep glasses of brandy on the table before them. The valet had supported Stoker, and dragged him back through the tunnels and out into the orchestra pit, while Van Helsing did the same for Jenny Pembry. The valet had collapsed the passage before climbing the ladder out of the ground for the final time.

It had been slow going; Van Helsing had received a deep cut to his head when he collided with the altar stone, and he needed to stop twice to rest on the journey back to the surface. Thankfully, the chorus girl was mercifully light and although she seemed almost catatonic she had been capable of putting one foot in front of the other.

They had put her in a carriage and instructed the driver to deliver her to the house of a physician friend of the Professor’s, with a note Van Helsing had scrawled on the back of a discarded programme for the evening’s performance of The Tempest.

The night manager had mumbled and muttered to himself as they hauled him back through the stone corridors, and was now sitting between them on a red leather bench, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling steadily as he slept.

“You realise what this means, boy?” asked Van Helsing.

“Yes, master. I do.”

“It means that Transylvania was not the end of this business.”

The valet said nothing.

“You played your part extremely well tonight,” Van Helsing continued. “Without you, this matter may have ended very differently.”

The valet watched as his master’s lined, weathered face broke into a rare smile.

“It is possible,” he continued, “that we may make more of you than just a valet, Carpenter.”

Chapter 9

A HARD DAY’S NIGHT

Frankenstein walked Jamie down a long grey corridor until they reached a white door with INFIRMARY stencilled on it in red letters. There was a rush of cold air as the giant man pushed it open and led Jamie inside.

Rows of empty beds ran down one side of the spotlessly clean room. Lying unconscious on one of them was the man who had been carried from the helicopter. The wound in his arm gaped horribly wide, and his face was ghostly pale. A steady stream of blood ran down a plastic tube from a hanging bag, and disappeared into his uninjured arm.

At the far end three frosted glass doors were set into the wall, marked X-RAY, CT SCANNING and THEATRE. Through the one marked THEATRE Jamie could see a frenzy of movement, and hear raised voices and a steady mechanical beeping. There was a figure lying on a table, surrounded by white shapes and blocky rectangles of machinery. As he watched, a spray of blood, bright, garish red, splashed against the glass of the door, and Jamie’s stomach turned.

Then the door marked X-RAY was flung open and a middle-aged man in a white coat hurried towards them, his face red and flustered. When he reached them, he stopped, took a PDA from his pocket and poised the stylus over it.

“Name?” he asked.

Jamie looked up at Frankenstein, who nodded.

“Jamie Carpenter,” he replied.

Surprise flashed across the doctor’s face, and Jamie wondered absently why his name seemed to provoke a startled reaction in everyone who heard it.

But it was a question for another time. He was so tired he could hardly see straight, his legs felt like they were made of wet clay, and it had taken an enormous effort to simply say his own name correctly.

“What are your symptoms?”

Jamie opened his mouth, but could shape no further words. He looked helplessly up at Frankenstein, who took over.

“He is suffering from post-traumatic shock, his throat is severely bruised from attempted strangulation, and he is physically and mentally exhausted. He needs to rest. Immediately.”

The doctor nodded at this and, with surprising gentleness, took Jamie’s arm and led him to the nearest bed. Jamie sat on the starched white sheet, staring up at Frankenstein, dimly aware that he was complying with the doctor’s requests to open his eyes for examination, to follow a finger from left to right, to breathe in, hold it, and breathe out as the cold metal of the stethoscope was placed on his chest. The doctor examined his neck, where purple bruising was starting to rise in ugly, violent ridges, then placed a needle in his arm, attached a saline drip, and asked Frankenstein for a word in private. The two men walked quickly over to the door, and began to converse in rapid whispers, Frankenstein casting his eyes over at Jamie every few seconds.

Jamie stared at him, his sluggish mind trying to frame the questions he wanted to ask the huge man. He found he was unable to do so; the words ran away from him like sand through his fingers. When the two men finished their conversation and made their way back towards him, he was only able to manage two.

“What happened?”

Frankenstein sat down on the bed next to him. Jamie heard the steel of the frame creak, and felt himself slide an inch towards the monster as his huge weight tilted the bed. The doctor was attaching a second bag to the IV drip as Frankenstein spoke to him.

“Now is not the time for explanations,” he said. “You need to rest, and there are things I need to do. I will tell you as much as I can tomorrow.”

The doctor turned the valve on the second bag and Jamie felt a glorious calm settle over him, like a warm blanket.

“You... promise?” he whispered, his eyes already closing, and as he drifted into gentle oblivion he heard Frankenstein say that he did.

Frankenstein stood, silently watching the teenager. Jamie’s chest rose and fell in the slow rhythm of deep sleep, and his face was peaceful. The doctor had told him that the boy would be out for at least twelve hours, but Frankenstein had ignored him. He found himself unable to look at the swollen purple of Jamie’s neck; it ignited a familiar rage inside him, a rage that, were he to give in to it, could only be satisfied by violence.

He pushed it down, and continued to watch the boy. He had been doing so for a long time when there was a tap on the glass of the door behind him.

He turned to see Henry Seward looking in at him. The Admiral beckoned him with a pale finger, and Frankenstein pushed open the infirmary door and stepped into the corridor.

“Walk with me to my quarters, Victor,” Seward said. His tone made it clear that it was not a request.

The two men walked down a series of grey corridors until they reached a plain metallic door. Seward placed his hand on a black panel set into the wall and lowered his face to the level of a red bulb just above it. A scarlet laser beam moved across the Admiral’s retina, and the door opened with a complicated series of unlocking noises.

Henry Seward’s quarters could not have been more incongruous with their grey, military surroundings. As the metal door opened the scent of hardwood drifted out into the corridor, mingled with the aromas of Darjeeling tea and rich Arabica coffee. The two men stepped inside.

This was only the third time that Frankenstein had visited the Admiral’s private rooms since Seward had taken up residence. He had spent many afternoons and evenings in them when they had been occupied by Stephen Holmwood, and occasions too numerous to mention when the great Quincey Harker had been in charge. But Seward was different from those open, gregarious men; he kept his own counsel, and guarded his privacy.

The door opened on to a wood-panelled drawing room, furnished in a style that was elegant and yet unmistakably official; worn leather armchairs flanked a fireplace that was no longer in use, separated from a mahogany desk by a beautiful Indian rug, now fraying slightly at the edges, that depicted a meditating Shiva, his vast form swathed in clouds. Two doors led from the rear of the room into what Frankenstein knew were a small kitchen and a modest bedroom.

Admiral Seward lowered himself into one of the armchairs and motioned for Frankenstein to do likewise. Frankenstein squeezed himself into the seat, the leather creaking as he did so. He declined when Seward offered him an open wooden box of Montecristo’s, and waited for the Director of Department 19 to light his cigar with a wooden match. Seward drew hard until the tapered end was glowing cherry red, and exhaled a cloud of smoke into the air. Finally, he looked at Frankenstein.

“How did you know where the Carpenters were?”

Frankenstein bristled. “The boy is fine, sir, if that’s what you meant to ask.”

“I’m glad to hear it. But, no, it’s damn well not what I meant to ask. I meant to ask how you knew where the Carpenters were.”

“Sir—”

Seward cut him off. “I didn’t know where they were, Victor. Nor did anyone else on this base. Do you know why?”

“I think—”

“Because not knowing where they were was the best possible way of keeping them safe!” Seward roared. “If one person knows, then very quickly two people will know, then four, and so on, and so on. If no one knows, nothing can happen to them. That’s how it works, Victor.”

“With all due respect, sir, it didn’t work tonight,” Frankenstein replied, evenly.

He was looking directly at the Director, refusing to defer to him by looking away, and as he watched he saw the anger in Seward’s eyes fade; he suddenly looked very tired. “Marie is really gone?” he asked.

“Yes sir.”

“Alexandru has her?”

“It’s safe to assume so at this point, sir. Although I would still recommend we attempt to get confirmation.”

And find out if she’s still alive.

Seward nodded. “It may be difficult,” he said, slowly. “There will be a great reluctance to assist Julian’s family, in any way. It won’t matter that Marie and Jamie played no part in what happened.”

Anger flashed through Frankenstein. “It should matter, sir,” he said. “You know it should.”

“Perhaps it should. But it won’t.”

The two men sat in silence for several minutes, the Admiral smoking his cigar, the monster wrestling with his anger, a task to which he devoted many of his waking hours. Eventually, Seward spoke again.

“What have you told him?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Frankenstein replied. “Yet.”

“What are you going to tell him?”

“I’m going to tell him what I think he needs to know. Hopefully that will be enough.”

“And if it isn’t? If he asks to be told everything? If he asks about his father? What will you do then?”

Frankenstein looked at the Admiral. “You know where my loyalties lie,” he replied. “If he asks me, I will tell him whatever he wants to know. Including about his father.”

Seward stared at the huge man for a long moment, then abruptly stubbed out his half-smoked cigar and stood up.

“I have a report to write for the Prime Minister,” he said, his voice clipped and angry. “If you’ll excuse me?”

Frankenstein levered himself out of the armchair, which groaned with relief. He walked towards the door and was about to hit the button that released it when Seward called to him from next to his desk. He turned back.

“How did you know where they were, Victor?” Seward asked. He was obviously still angry, but there was the ghost of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “It will go no further than this room. I just need you to tell me.”

Frankenstein smiled. He had a huge amount of respect for Henry Seward, had fought back to back with him in any number of dark corners of the globe. And though he would not compromise the oath he had sworn, as snow fell from the New York sky and 1928 turned into 1929, he could allow the Director this one mystery solved.

“Julian chipped the boy when he was five, sir,” he said. “No one knew he’d done it, and I was the only person he gave the frequency to. I’ve known where he was every day for the last two years.”

Seward grinned, a wide smile full of nostalgia, which abruptly turned into a look of immense sorrow. “I suppose I should have expected nothing less,” the Admiral replied. “From you, or from him. Goodnight, Victor.”

Chapter 10

THE LYCEUM INCIDENT, PART III

EATON SQUARE, LONDON 4TH JUNE 1892

Jonathan Harker, Dr John Seward and Professor Abraham Van Helsing sat with their host in the drawing room of Arthur Holmwood’s townhouse on Eaton Square, waiting for Arthur’s serving girl to dispense coffee from a silver tray. She was dressed all in black; Arthur’s father, Lord Godalming, had passed away several months earlier, and the house was still in mourning.

In the middle of the table lay the letter that had been delivered to Van Helsing early that morning, summoning him to an emergency meeting with the Prime Minister at Horse Guards.

“Thank you, Sally,” said Holmwood, when the coffee was served. The girl curtsied quickly, then backed out of the drawing room, closing the doors behind her.

The men poured cream into their cups, took biscuits from the plate, sipped their coffees, and sat back in their chairs. For a contented moment no one spoke, then Jonathan Harker asked Van Helsing about the previous night’s business.

The old professor set his cup back on the table, and looked round at his three friends. They had been through so much together, these four men, had stared into the face of pure evil and refused to yield, chasing Count Dracula across the wilds of eastern Europe to the mountains of Transylvania, where they had made their stand at the foot of the ancient castle that bore their quarry’s name.

One of their number had not made it home, murdered on the Borgo Pass by the gypsies who had served the Count.

Ah, Quincey, thought Van Helsing. You were the bravest of us all.

“Professor?” It was Harker who spoke, and Van Helsing realised that he had been asked a question.

“Yes, Jonathan,” he replied. “I’m sorry, last night’s exertions have left me tired. Forgive me.”

Harker gave him a gentle look that told him clearly that forgiveness was unnecessary, and Van Helsing continued.

He told them of his adventure beneath the Lyceum, the orator in him taking satisfaction as their eyes widened at his telling of the tale. When he was finished, silence descended on the drawing room as the men digested the Professor’s story. Eventually, Harker spoke.

“So it’s as we feared,” he said, his face displaying a calm that his voice was not quite capable of matching. “The evil did not die with the Count.”

“It would appear not,” replied Van Helsing. “As to how, I confess the answer escapes me. I can only presume that poor Lucy was not the first to have been transformed by the Count’s vile fluids.”

Seward and Holmwood flinched. The mere mention of Lucy Westenra’s name was still a source of great pain to both men.

“Why now, though?” asked Harker. “Why is the evil spreading only now, after the creature itself is dead?”

“I don’t know, Jonathan,” replied Van Helsing, truthfully. “Perhaps the Count guarded his dark power, hoarded it, if you will. Perhaps such restrictions have been lifted with his death. But I merely speculate.”

He looked at his friends.

“And I must ask the same of you all,” he continued. “I ask each of you to tell me whether you think the poor business of Harold Norris was an aberration, or a harbinger of things to come. I shall depart for Whitehall shortly, a summons I am compelled to obey, and I will be expected to provide the Prime Minister with answers.”

Silence settled uncomfortably over the drawing room.

Tell me it was an isolated incident, thought Van Helsing. One of you tell me that. The alternative is too horrible.

“I fear this is only the beginning.”

It was Arthur Holmwood who spoke, his voice even and firm. “I believe that the situation is only likely to worsen. I wish I could honestly say otherwise, but I cannot. Can any of you?”

His face did not betray the fear that the old professor knew he must be feeling, nor the great sorrow with which the death of his father had filled him. Van Helsing felt an immense warmth for his friend, who had been dragged unwillingly into the terrible events of the previous year for no greater a crime than proposing marriage to the girl he loved, but had conducted himself with enormous courage and dignity as the matter had taken its course.

“I cannot,” said Dr Seward.

“Neither can I,” said Jonathan Harker.

The Professor nodded, curtly, trying not to show the dread that had settled in the pit of his stomach. “So we are in agreement,” he said, gripping the arms of his chair and pushing himself to his feet. “It is my sincere hope that we are wrong, but I feel it in my heart that we are not. I will convey our conclusion to the Prime Minister. Let us hope that he surprises us with wisdom enough to heed our warning.”

The valet brought the carriage to a halt outside the grand Horse Guards building, dismounted and helped Van Helsing down on to the pavement. Two soldiers of the Household Cavalry, resplendent in their blue tunics and gold ropes, immediately approached and asked them their business. The valet produced the letter from inside his top coat and passed it to the soldiers, who examined it carefully before standing aside.

Inside the arched entrance to the building an elderly butler, clad in immaculate morning dress, informed them that the Prime Minister would receive them in the study of the Commander-in-Chief of the British Army on the first floor. He hovered respectfully as Van Helsing removed his coat and handed it to his valet.

“Wait here, boy,” the old man said. “I doubt I shall be long.”

The valet nodded and took a seat in a high-backed wooden chair by the entrance, folding his master’s coat across his knees.

Van Helsing followed the butler up a wide staircase, his footsteps muffled by a deep red carpet, the oil-painted eyes of the greatest heroes of the British Empire staring silently down at him from the walls.

He was led along a wide corridor on the first floor, turning left and right and left again, until they reached a large oak door, which the butler pushed open. He stepped inside and the Professor followed.

“Professor Abraham Van Helsing,” the butler announced, then backed silently out of the study. The old man watched the servant close the door, then turned and looked at the six men gathered at the far end of the room.

Seated at an enormous mahogany desk was William Gladstone, the Prime Minister, looking expectantly at Van Helsing. Flanking him to the left and right were five of the most powerful men in the Empire; Earl Spencer, First Lord of the Admiralty; Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman, Secretary of State for War; George Robinson, Secretary of State for the Colonies and 1st Marquess of Ripon; Herbert Asquith, Home Secretary; and Archibald Primrose, Foreign Secretary and 5th Earl of Rosebery.

What a rogues’ gallery this is, thought Van Helsing.

He walked across the study. The wall to his left was dominated by a tall row of windows, through which could be seen the green expanse of St James’s Park. To his right an open fire roared in an ornamental marble fireplace. Lying on the floor between him and the desk was an immaculate tiger skin, the head, paws and tail still attached and forming a six-pointed star on the dark floorboards. Beyond the rug was a wooden chair, positioned directly in front of the one in which the Prime Minister was sitting.

Van Helsing stepped around the tiger skin with a look of distaste on his face, and stood next to the chair.

“Won’t you sit, Professor?” asked Gladstone, his voice higher and more feminine than Van Helsing had expected.

“No thank you, Prime Minister,” he replied curtly. “I prefer to stand.”

Even though the pain in my hip feels like there is a branding iron being pressed against it. Let it hold up for as long as this takes, grant me that much.

Gladstone continued. “I saw you admiring the tiger. Isn’t he beautiful?”

“She,” said Van Helsing pointedly, “would be more beautiful were she still alive in the forests of Siberia, in my opinion. Sir.”

Secretary Robinson uttered a short laugh. “Professor, you are mistaken,” he said, his voice booming from a mouth partially concealed behind a vast beard that reached below his bow tie. “Not about the sex of the beast, as female she surely is, but about her provenance. She’s a Bengal, sir. I shot her myself outside of Yangon, two summers ago.”

Van Helsing turned and looked down at the animal skin, taking in the size of the head and the length of the tail, both still intact.

“I think not, sir,” he replied. “Panthera tigris altaica. The Siberian, or Amur, tiger.”

Robinson’s face darkened red. “Are you calling me a liar, sir?” he asked, his voice low.

He bought it, realised Van Helsing, with cruel enjoyment. Probably in Singapore or Rangoon. Bought it and brought it home as a hunting trophy. How wonderful.

“I am not suggesting that,” he replied, relish creeping into his voice. “I am, however, suggesting that it is you who is mistaken. The thickness of the coat, the pale orange of the fur, the lighter concentration of the stripes, all are unmistakable characteristics of the Amur, as is the fact that she must have stood more than eight feet in length. Perhaps you have been hunting on the Siberian plains in recent years, as well as in Bengal, and merely forgotten from which trip you brought her home? Because, if that it not the case, there is only one conclusion I am able to draw.”

He left the accusation unspoken, hanging pregnantly in the air of the drawing room, and after favouring him with a look of pure murder Secretary Robinson admitted that his son had taken camp in Siberia two summers previously, and had brought home a number of fine wild specimens, and it was likely that he had mixed up his Bengal trophy with one of these.

Still you lie, to the faces of your peers. Gilded fools. Preening bookkeepers. Let us be about this business.

The Prime Minister cleared his throat and took a sip of water from the half-full glass on the desk.

“Professor Van Helsing,” he said, his tone warm and rich now, the oily voice of a born politician. “I wish to thank you personally for your endeavours last night, and to pass on to you the gratitude of Jenny Pembry’s mother and father. The girl is now recuperating with them in Whitechapel, and appears to be doing well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“However, the incident, although blessed with a satisfactory ending, raises some unusual questions, does it not?”

Van Helsing allowed that it did, and Gladstone nodded.

“Could you therefore, Professor, explain to us the nature of the creature you encountered last night, and your experience in such matters? We are not beyond the reach of gossip in Whitehall, and I’m sure we have all heard rumours of the business with Carfax Abbey and its Transylvanian occupant, but I would like to hear the truth, from you.”

The old man looked steadily at the Prime Minister, then up at the ministers who were gathered around him.

Like a gaggle of vultures. Looking for a way to turn blood and death to their advantage.

“Very well, sir,” he said, and began to talk.

He spoke for no more than ten minutes, but as he finished it was obvious that his tale had divided the men in the room into two camps. Primrose, Robinson and Campbell-Bannerman were looking at him as though he were utterly mad, their faces contorted with obvious outrage that they had been forced to listen to such foolishness. Asquith, Spencer and Gladstone were ashen-faced, their eyes wide with horror, and Van Helsing knew that these three men believed what he had told them.

“Are there any questions?” he asked, looking squarely at the Prime Minister.

Gladstone opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by Secretary Robinson. The Prime Minister gave him a look that suggested he was going to regret having done so at some point in the near future, but allowed the Marquess to speak.

“This is preposterous,” Robinson said, his voice trembling with indignation. “You’re asking me to believe in men who can fly, have superhuman strength, drink blood and live forever, and moreover you’re suggesting that there is going to be some form of epidemic of these behaviours? Behaviours that can only be destroyed by exsanguination or the obliteration of the heart?”

“Exactly, sir,” Van Helsing replied.

Robinson turned to Gladstone. “Prime Minister, this has surely gone beyond a joke. I fail to see what—”

“Shut up, George,” Gladstone said, evenly.

The Colonial Secretary looked as though he might burst. Primrose opened his mouth to protest but the Prime Minister waved a derisory hand at him.

“Not another word, from any of you,” he said. “I appreciate that what Professor Van Helsing has just told us is unsettling, horrifying, even. And I can also appreciate why some of you, perhaps all of you, might have trouble believing his tale. But I have it on good authority that events beneath the Lyceum took place exactly as he describes, and we’ve all heard the stories about the journey he and his companions made to Transylvania last year. So I confess my inclination to believe him.”

It is possible I had this man wrong, Van Helsing thought. There is an intelligence at work here that I had not given credit for.

“And as Prime Minister,” Gladstone continued. “It is my responsibility to do what I believe to be in the best interests of the Empire, especially where potential threats to its security are concerned. And that is what I will do. Unless anyone wishes to object?”

He got up from behind the desk and looked closely at each of the men stood behind him, daring them to speak against him. Van Helsing watched, fascinated, as Robinson, literally shaking with righteous indignation, made as if to do so, until Campbell-Bannerman placed a restraining hand on his arm and the Colonial Secretary looked away.

“Very well,” said the Prime Minister, stepping out from behind the desk and approaching Van Helsing. “Professor,” he said. “Popular opinion would suggest that you are our finest authority on the matters you have just outlined. Would you agree?”

The old man allowed that there was some truth in that particular rumour, and Gladstone nodded.

“In which case,” he continued. “I am prepared to make your expertise an official position in Her Majesty’s Government. Clandestinely, of course. Are you interested?”

“What would the position entail?”

“The investigation and elimination of the condition that you have just explained to us so compellingly. With authority recognised by every appropriate governmental department, annually budgeted expenses, and co-operation guaranteed by all agencies of the Empire. That’s what it would entail.”

The Prime Minister looked at Professor Van Helsing and smiled. “So,” he said. “Does that interest you?”

*

Dr Seward extinguished a Turkish cigarette that smelt to Van Helsing as if it had been lightly laced with opium.

“And?” he asked. “What did you tell him?”

The men were sitting in the red leather armchairs that dominated the comfortable, wood-panelled study of Arthur Holmwood’s father. Van Helsing’s valet had driven his master back to the townhouse on Eaton Square as soon as the meeting at Horse Guards had ended, and Arthur had led them upstairs to the room in which his father, Lord Godalming, had spent much of the later years of his life. The men had lit cigarettes and pipes and the old man had just finished telling them about his meeting with the Prime Minister when John Seward asked his question.

“I told him I needed time to think it over,” Van Helsing replied. “I asked for twenty-four hours, which he granted me. I am to deliver my reply by noon tomorrow, in writing.”

“What do you intend your answer to be?” asked Harker. He had a deep bell pipe in his hand that had gone out. He was holding it absently, as though he had forgotten about it.

“In truth, I do not know,” Van Helsing confessed. “I think in all likelihood I will accept his proposal, but my happiness at doing so will rather depend on the question I am about to ask you all.”

The Professor set a wide tumbler of cognac on to a shelf beside his seat. He had returned from Whitehall with his mind racing at the possibilities Gladstone’s offer might afford him, but also shaken deeply by the responsibilities it would bring, and he had gratefully accepted Arthur’s offer to open his father’s drinks cabinet a little earlier than was usual.

“Gentlemen,” he began. “We have all witnessed with our own eyes more of the darkness that inhabits this world than most, and more than any sane man would care to have seen. I flatter myself we did a fine thing in the Transylvanian mountains, something we can all be proud to have played a part in, and if any of you wishes to let your involvement in these matters end there, let me promise you that neither I, nor anyone else, will think even the slightest bit less of you for it. Each of us has more than paid our dues, and a peaceful life, untainted by blood and screams, is not something to give up lightly.”

He paused and looked around the study.

“Part of me believes that to ask more of you is a cruelty on my part, one that none of you deserves. But that is what I am going to do. Because I believe a plague is coming to this nation, to all nations, and that Harold Norris was only the prototype. This morning you all claimed to believe this as well, but I ask you to consider how firmly you believe it, for a very simple reason. If we are right, then we are the only men in the Empire with any experience of what is to come. And I cannot stand by and see innocent blood spilled, innocent souls polluted for eternity, knowing that I could have saved even one of them. We swore that we would be vigilant, that were the Count ever to return we would deal with him once more. He has not, and I don’t believe he ever will. But the evil that inhabited him has survived, and is abroad.”

Van Helsing reached for his tumbler with a shaking hand, and drained the glass.

“I will accept the Prime Minister’s offer tomorrow. But when I asked for a period of time to consider it, I also informed him that were certain people to agree to be involved, they would be allowed to do so. I informed him that this was not negotiable. So I am asking for your help, as you once asked for mine. I wish I could offer you longer to think it through, but I can only—”

“I accept,” interrupted Jonathan Harker. His face was pale, but a determined smile played across his lips. “I don’t need time to consider.”

“Nor do I,” said Dr Seward. He had lit another cigarette, and his handsome face was wreathed in smoke.

“And neither do I,” said Arthur Holmwood, firmly. He had set his cigar and his glass aside, and was looking directly at Van Helsing. “Not a single minute.”

Thank you. Oh, thank you.

“Please take one anyway, Arthur,” he replied. “All of you. Because there can be no going back if we embark on this journey. You will never be able to tell anyone beyond this room of the existence of our organisation. Not even Mina, Jonathan. Are you prepared for that?”

Harker flinched, but nodded his head. “Are you all?” Van Helsing asked.

Seward and Holmwood both agreed that they were.

“In which case,” Van Helsing said. “I see no reason to make the Prime Minister wait. I will despatch our answer immediately.”

Chapter 11

THE MORNING AFTER

Jamie woke shortly before dawn.

He raised his groggy head from the pillow and saw an IV drip running down to a needle that had been placed in his forearm. He didn’t remember its insertion; didn’t remember much of how the previous day had ended, after the girl had attacked him in the hangar.

He pushed back the sheets and blankets and swung his legs off the bed. He was wearing a white medical robe, and was scanning the room for his clothes when a wave of nausea rolled through him and he thought for a horrible second that he was going to vomit. His throat hurt and it was painful to breathe. He raised a hand to his neck, felt a swollen ridge of flesh tender to the touch, and winced. He closed his eyes and lowered his head between his knees, and after a minute or two the sick feeling passed. He was about to get down from the bed when the door at the end of the room opened and a doctor walked briskly into the infirmary.

“Mr Carpenter,” the doctor said. “Please lie back down.”

The man’s voice was familiar and full of authority, and Jamie did as he was told. The doctor examined his bruised throat, pricked his finger and drew blood, shone a small flashlight in his eyes, then slid the needle out of his arm and pronounced him much improved.

“How do you feel?” he asked Jamie.

“I feel OK,” he replied, rubbing the neat circular bruise left by the needle. “I don’t really remember how I got here. Did Frankenstein bring me?”

The doctor nodded.

“Brought you in, then stayed with you most of the night. He only left a couple of hours ago. He asked me to remind you when you woke up that you are to go and see him before you talk to anybody else. He asked me to make sure you understood that. Do you?”

“I suppose so.”

The doctor drew a PDA from his pocket and tapped a number of keys with the plastic pen.

“I want you to come back and see me this afternoon,” he said. “The bruising is down, and you’re no longer dehydrated. You may still be suffering from a degree of post-traumatic stress, but under the circumstances I’m going to discharge you. Is that what you wish?”

Jamie nodded.

“OK then. Rest here as long as you like, and when you’re ready you can get dressed and go and find your friend. He asked me to give you this.”

The doctor reached into his pockets again, withdrew a piece of paper and handed it to Jamie. On it, written in a beautiful cursive handwriting, were two short lines of text.

Level E Room 19

Jamie took it from the doctor’s hand without a word. The man hovered for a moment, as if slightly unsure of what to do next, then favoured Jamie with a smile and a brief nod of his head and walked back out of the infirmary.

Jamie lay still for a few minutes, then sat back up, grunting at the pain in his neck and arm, and pushed himself off the bed. He wobbled, his legs unsteady beneath him, and reached out and gripped the top of the white cabinet. As his equilibrium returned, he looked around and saw his clothes, neatly folded on a low shelf on the other side of the infirmary. He walked gingerly over to them and dressed himself, slowly, searching for the memories of the previous night. Then he looked around the infirmary, and gasped as his faltering memory was jolted into life.

A man was lying in one of the beds on the other side of the room, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling slowly. Jamie walked over and stood beside him, watching the man breathe. His skin was brighter than it had been the previous night, but it was still pale. His right arm was swathed in bandages, and blood ran steadily from an IV hung above his bed. Jamie watched, fascinated, as the crimson liquid crawled down the plastic tube and slid into the man’s vein.

There was someone else. There was a boy.

The memory hit him hard, and he looked over at the door marked THEATRE. A dark shape lay beyond the frosted glass, and he walked towards it. He hesitated, standing in front of the door, then pushed it slowly open.

The teenager lay in a single bed in the middle of the room. Beside him, a tall array of equipment beeped and flashed steadily, and a green line spiked slowly, over and over. Wires ran from the machines and were attached to the boy’s chest and arms. His eyes were closed, and his skin was ghostly white. Jamie stood by the door, frozen, staring at him.

He’s my age. He’s just a kid.

Slowly, he crossed the room and stood beside the starched white bed.

“What happened to you?” he whispered.

“He was bitten,” replied a voice from behind him, and Jamie’s heart leapt in his chest. He spun around, and saw the doctor who had examined him standing in the open doorway. “What are you doing in here?” the man asked.

“I remembered seeing him in the hangar,” replied Jamie. “Is he going to be all right?”

“Did you touch anything?” asked the doctor, ignoring Jamie’s question.

He shook his head. “Is he going to be all right?” he repeated, his voice rising ever so slightly.

The doctor walked to the end of the bed, pulled a metal chart from a clip, scanned it quickly, and replaced it. Then he rubbed his eyes, and looked at Jamie.

“It’s too early to say,” he said, softly. “He lost an enormous amount of blood, and his heart stopped as we were transfusing. We resuscitated him, but his brain may have been damaged by the lack of oxygen. We induced a coma, to give him the best chance. Now we just have to wait.”

Jamie stared blankly at the doctor.

His heart stopped. We induced a coma. His heart stopped.

“How long?” he managed. “How long until you know if he’s all right?”

The doctor shrugged.

“A few days, maybe longer. Once the swelling on his brain has gone down, we’ll wake him up. And then we’ll see.”

The man shook his head quickly, and when he looked at Jamie again he was all business.

“Go on, get out of here,” he said. “Go and find Colonel Frankenstein. And don’t come in here again without permission. This boy is in a very delicate condition, and the next twenty-four hours are vital.”

Jamie backed towards the door, unable to tear his gaze from the teenager’s blank, pale face. There were no lines on his skin, no wrinkles or blemishes; he looked like a mannequin.

“What’s his name?” he asked, as he reached the open door.

“Matt,” said the doctor, who was consulting the chart for a second time. He didn’t look up as he answered. “Matt Browning.”

Jamie walked down the corridor outside the infirmary, keeping his eyes on the grey walls, looking for a lift. Just before the corridor ended in a flat black screen that stretched from floor to ceiling, he saw a button marked CALL outlined on the wall to his right. He pressed his thumb to the button and waited.

Seconds later the wall in front of him slid open, revealing a metal lift, He stepped inside, and examined the fluorescent yellow buttons set into a black panel at waist height; they were marked 0, A, B, C, D, E, F, G and H, and the C button was glowing red.

Well at least I know where I am. That’s a start.

He looked at the piece of paper the doctor had given him.

Level E. Two more floors down.

He was suddenly overcome with the desire for sunlight and fresh air. He didn’t want to go further into the depths of this strange place.

He pressed the 0 button. The door slid closed silently behind him and the lift started to rise with a soft whirring noise and a gentle rattling of metal. When the doors opened again Jamie found himself looking down yet another grey corridor. However, at the end of this new passage were a pair of double doors striped with yellow and black, and he had a feeling that these led back into the hangar where he had been attacked.

He walked towards the doors, noticing as he did so a thin digital ticker set into the wall above them, yellow-green capital letters scrolling right to left, over and over.

0652 / 22.10.09 / SHIFT PATTERN: NORMAL /THREAT LEVEL: 3

Ten to seven. My alarm wouldn’t even go off for another fifty-five minutes if I was at home.

He crept up to the double doors and inched one of them open. The huge sliding doors that opened on to the runway were now shut, and the hangar was deserted. Jamie walked out into the middle of the huge room, painfully aware of the quiet slapping noise his trainers made on the concrete floor.

He walked across to a door at the right-hand edge of the giant double doors and tried its handle. It turned, and he stepped through it into the cool bright morning air.

Jamie Carpenter jogged across the wide concrete landing area in front of the hangar, then cut on to the grass, heading towards the long runway that sliced through the centre of the vast circular base. He sprinted across it, his feet pounding the tarmac, his arms pumping, his mother’s face looming large in his mind, his heart heavy with worry.

He bore right and darted between two of the long metal huts that lined this side of the runway, hit open grass and accelerated, running towards the high wire fence in the distance and the bright red laser net beyond it, the giant projection rippling above him, hanging in the clear sky like a painted cloud.

But as he approached the fence he saw something that seemed totally out of place. About fifty yards inside the high wire wall a circular section of the grass, perhaps twenty feet in diameter, had been dug up and replaced by a rose garden.

A waist-high red brick wall ran around the edge, with an opening facing away from the fence and back towards the base. Inside, a thin path of wooden boards widened into a semi-circular area against the back wall, flanked on both sides by roses of every conceivable colour: red, white, pink, yellow, even a purple so dark it was almost black.

Jamie slowed his pace and walked through the gap in the wall. He was immediately overcome by the scent of the flowers, the subtly different aromas of the many varieties mingling into a heady, pungent smell so rich and luxurious that it took his breath away. He wandered down the narrow wooden path, intoxicated by the garden’s incongruous beauty. At the back of the garden Jamie could see a small bronze plaque set into the brick wall. He crouched down in front of it, and read the words that had been engraved on it, in simple, elegant lettering.

IN REMEMBRANCE OFJOHN AND GEORGE HARKERWHO DIED AS THEY LIVED: TOGETHER

Jamie sat down next to the plaque, his back to the wall, and closed his eyes. He sat there for a long time, the scent of roses in the air, feeling more alone than he had ever felt in his life, wondering where his mother was, wondering whether she was even still alive.

Some time later, he could not have said how long, he heard the soft crunch of footsteps coming across the grass. From his low vantage point he couldn’t see beyond the walls of the garden, and so he waited for whoever was approaching to present themselves.

The head that appeared above the low brick wall was greyish-green, with a shock of black hair combed comically neatly into a side parting, and two thick metal bolts emerging from the neck below. Frankenstein stepped through the entrance to the garden, turning his enormous frame sideways so he would fit through the gap, and walked along the wooden path, the thump of his feet against the boards deafeningly loud, an ominous sound at odds with the gentle smile that regarded Jamie as the monster approached.

Frankenstein wore a dark grey suit, the white shirt open at the collar, the huge metal tube that he had fired in Jamie’s living room again hanging from his right hip. He sat down next to Jamie without a word, seemingly perfectly content to enjoy the garden and the morning sun that was bathing it in warm yellow light.

“How did you find me?” Jamie asked quietly, his gaze focused on the roses in front of him, rather than on the man beside him.

“Infrared sensors in the ground,” Frankenstein replied, his voice irritatingly cheerful. “You left a nice red heat trail on the monitors. Wasn’t hard to follow.”

Jamie grunted.

“So you found me. What do you want?”

“I want to talk to you, Jamie. There are things you need to know. Things that are going to be hard for you to accept.”

“Like what?”

The monster looked away, and when he spoke, it was in a soft voice.

“A long time ago I made a promise to protect the Carpenter family. One of your ancestors saved me, and in his memory I’ve kept my word for more than half a century.”

“Saved your life?”

“Yes,” Frankenstein replied, then looked at Jamie. “But that’s not the story I want to tell you now. That one’s for another time.”

“But—”

“Don’t ask me. I’m not going to tell you, so let’s not waste our time.”

Jamie looked at the monster. Frankenstein was regarding the teenager with something that seemed close to love, and he wondered what had happened to provoke such loyalty. Suddenly Frankenstein’s fury in the hangar made sense; he had let Jamie get away from him, in a place where anything could have happened to him.

“OK,” he said. “So is that it? I’m guessing it isn’t.”

“I’ve concluded that the best way for me to continue to honour that promise is to tell you what I think you need to know. I think it’s too late for your life to ever go back to being normal, if it ever was. Would you agree?”

“Yes,” said Jamie, simply.

Frankenstein nodded, and began to talk.

“My suspicion would be that your father never really told you very much about your family. Am I correct?”

“He told me I had an uncle who died when he was very young. And that my granddad was a pilot in World War Two. That’s about it.”

“Both those things are true. Your Uncle Christopher died at birth, when your father was six years old. And John, your grandfather, was a highly decorated pilot. He flew a Hurricane during the Battle Of Britain. Did you know that?”

Jamie shook his head.

“He was a fine man. By 1939 he’d been out of the RAF for nine years. But he re-enlisted the day Britain declared war on Hitler’s Germany, against the wishes of your great-grandfather, who is the man with whom this story really begins.”

“I don’t know anything about him,” said Jamie. “I don’t even know his name.”

“His name was Henry Carpenter. He was a good man as well, at least the equal of his son. And everything that has happened to your family for the last one hundred and twenty years, everything that happened to you and your mother yesterday, can be traced back to the fact that he worked for a truly great man, a legend whose name I suspect you will know. Professor Abraham Van Helsing.”

Jamie laughed; a short, derisory noise, like a dog’s bark. He didn’t mean to, and the monster swung him a look of deep annoyance, but he couldn’t help it.

Come on. Seriously.

“Van Helsing wasn’t real,” he said, smiling at the monster. “I’ve read Dracula.”

Frankenstein returned Jamie’s smile.

“Believe it or not,” he said, “that will make this considerably easier.”

“I’ve read Frankenstein too,” said Jamie quickly, before he lost his nerve.

“Good for you,” said the monster. “Might I be allowed to continue?”

“OK,” said Jamie, disappointed. It had taken all his courage to mention Mary Shelley’s novel.

“Thank you. Now, there are certain truths that you are simply going to have to come to terms with, and the quicker the better. Professor Van Helsing was real. The Dracula story, and all the people in it, is real; it happened almost exactly as that lazy drunk Stoker wrote it down. The vampire seductresses who distract Harker from his escape plans are fictional; the wishful thinking of their author. As is the Count’s ability to turn into a bat, or a wolf, or anything else for that matter, and the happy ending that Stoker attached. None of the men who survived ever returned to Transylvania, for reasons I’m sure are understandable. But the rest is close enough. All of which means, in case you need it spelling out for you, that vampires are real. Although that shouldn’t be too hard for you to believe; you met two yesterday.”

Jamie felt like he had been punched in the stomach.

“The girl who attacked me...”

“... was a vampire, that’s correct. As was the man I fired at in your living room. His name is Alexandru. And he is the main reason we’re sitting here now, having this conversation.”

“Who is he? What will he... what will he do to my mother?”

“I’ll get to him. The business with Dracula occurred in 1891, two years after your great-grandfather took work in Professor Van Helsing’s house. The men who survived the journey to Transylvania, whose names you no doubt know...”

“Harker,” said Jamie, distantly. “One of them was called Harker.”

He turned and looked at the bronze plaque on the garden wall, saw the names engraved on it, and felt things start to click into place in his mind.

You believe him. Or are starting to, at least. My God.

“Jonathan Harker,” Frankenstein replied. “That’s right. He, along with Professor Van Helsing, John Seward and Arthur Holmwood, swore an oath when they returned home, a promise they would remain vigilant, and deal with Dracula again if it was ever required.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from the teenager.

“It wasn’t,” Frankenstein continued, quickly. “Trust me, he’s dead. Unfortunately, he was not the only vampire in the world; merely the first, and the most powerful. He was a man once, the Prince of a country called Wallachia, named Vlad Tepes. A terrible man, who butchered and murdered thousands of people. In 1475, his army lost its final battle, and he disappeared along with most of his supporters, until he appeared a year later in Transylvania, calling himself Count Dracula. With him were his three most loyal generals from the Wallachian Army. Three brothers; Valeri, Alexandru, who you met yesterday, and Valentin. As a reward for their loyalty, Dracula made them like him, along with their wives. And for four hundred years, they were the only vampires in the world, their power and their immortality jealously guarded by Dracula, who forbade them from turning anyone else. But when Dracula was killed, the rules died with him, and the brothers began to convert a new army of their own. In the last years of the nineteenth century, the condition began to spread. And it’s still spreading.”

Frankenstein paused, then cleared his throat, a deep sound like a bulldozer’s engine starting up.

“This organisation, the base you are in now, the people you met yesterday, it all grew from the promise those men made to be vigilant. They grew exponentially throughout the twentieth century, founding equivalent organisations in Russia, America, India, Germany and Egypt, becoming what you see around you.”

Frankenstein gave Jamie a sly grin.

“Which, to all intents and purposes, doesn’t exist. The only people outside the organisation who know about us are the Prime Minister and the Chief of the General Staff. No one can ever acknowledge its existence, or tell anyone they are a member. As your grandfather was. And your father. And as you would have been offered the chance to be, in about five years’ time.”

Frankenstein stopped talking. Jamie waited to see if he had merely paused, and once it became clear that he was finished, tried to think of a way to respond to what he had just been told.

“So...” he began. “What you’re telling me is that my dad was a secret agent who fought vampires for a living. Real vampires, who actually exist, in the real world. Is that right? Is that what you’re asking me to believe?”

“I’m telling you the truth,” Frankenstein replied. “I can’t make you believe it.”

“You have to realise how crazy this sounds, though. Surely?”

“I know it is a lot to take in. And I’m sorry you had to hear it like this. But it is the truth.”

“But... vampires?”

“Not just vampires,” answered the monster. “Werewolves, mummies, zombies, any number of other monsters.”

“Werewolves? Come on.”

“Yes, Jamie, werewolves.”

“Full moon, silver bullets, all that stuff?”

“Silver bullets are unnecessary,” said Frankenstein. “Normal bullets will work just fine. But the moon controls them, as it always has.”

Jamie’s interest was piqued, despite his scepticism. “What are they like?” he asked. “Have you ever seen one?”

Frankenstein nodded.

“They are terrible, tormented creatures,” he said. “Savage, and instinctive. I hope you never encounter one.”

Jamie paused. “And where do you fit into all this?” he asked, cautiously.

“You’re a well-read boy,” Frankenstein replied drily. “You work it out.”

“But that was just a novel,” Jamie replied.

“Like Dracula?”

“Well... yes.”

Frankenstein looked away. “That miserable little girl,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “She gave my pain to the world as entertainment.”

Jamie tried another angle. “So what happened the night my father died? I mean, what really happened?”

For a moment he didn’t think the monster was going to respond. Frankenstein was staring into the distance, lost in his memories. But then he shook his head, as if trying to clear it, and answered.

“I don’t think you’re ready to hear about that yet.”

The cruelty of this statement almost broke Jamie’s heart. He composed himself, though not so quickly that the watching Frankenstein failed to notice, and continued.

“What about yesterday?” he asked.

“Alexandru has been looking for you and your mother ever since your father died. Yesterday he found you.” Frankenstein replied. He saw the look on Jamie’s face, and anticipated the question that was coming. “We don’t yet know how. But he did.” “Why am I still alive?”

“The girl, Larissa her name is, was supposed to kill you. She didn’t do it.”

“Why?”

“We don’t know that either. She says she won’t talk to anyone except you.”

“Me?” Jamie asked, his eyes suddenly wide. “Why me?”

“Don’t worry about that now.”

“What about my mother? Is she... is she dead?”

“Our assumption is that your mother is being ransomed by Alexandru.”

“Ransomed for what?”

Frankenstein looked at the boy with great sadness.

“For you, Jamie.”

The monster and the boy sat in silence for a long time, letting those three terrible words sink in, until eventually Frankenstein stood up. His shadow engulfed Jamie entirely, and he reached a hand down to the boy, who took it and let himself be pulled to his feet.

Frankenstein led him along the wooden path and out of the rose garden. They walked in silence across the vast field towards the low dome until they crossed the empty runway and Jamie finally spoke again.

“What do they call all this?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

My mother. Oh God, my mother. The thing in the grey coat has my mother.

“This?” Frankenstein replied, sweeping an arm to indicate the huge circular base. “This is Classified Military Installation 303-F. But everyone calls it The Loop, for reasons I’m sure you’re clever enough to work out.”

Jamie glanced round at the enormous circular base, and smiled. “Not the base,” he said. “The organisation. What’s the organisation called?”

Frankenstein smiled.

“I’ll let Admiral Seward tell you that,” he answered. “I’m to take you to him now.”

“He’s going to have to wait.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I want to see the girl who tried to kill me yesterday. Right now.”

Chapter 12

A CRIMSON KINDNESS

Frankenstein pressed H on the panel in the lift and they began to descend. The huge man looked straight ahead, his mouth set in a thin line, and Jamie knew he was angry.

The lift doors opened on to a round chamber. In front of Jamie were a thick airlock door and an intercom panel. Apart from that, the walls were bare. The lift doors began to hiss shut behind him, and he whirled around. Frankenstein was still standing in the lift, looking at him. He lunged forward and stuck his hand in the narrowing gap.

“What are you doing?” he shouted. “You can’t leave me down here on my own!”

Frankenstein replied in a tight voice full of edges.

“You wanted to come down here. I didn’t tell you to. Instead, I have to go and tell Admiral Seward that you’ll deign to come and see him when it suits you.”

Jamie stared at the huge man. When the doors began to close again, he shoved a hand between them, but he said nothing. He just stared at Frankenstein, who returned his gaze.

When the doors hissed for the third time, Jamie let them close. As Frankenstein’s face disappeared behind the sliding metal he thought he saw the monster’s face soften, and the wide lips part, as if he was going to say something. But then the doors clicked together, and he was gone.

Jamie turned away from the lift and examined the intercom panel. There was a small button at the bottom of the metal rectangle, and he pressed it and waited. He was about to press it again when a voice suddenly emanated from the intercom, making him jump.

“Code in.”

Jamie leant towards the intercom and spoke into the metal grid.

“I don’t know what that means,” he said, and was embarrassed by the tremor in his voice.

“State your name.”

“Jamie Carpenter.”

There was a long pause.

“Proceed,” the voice said, eventually, and the huge airlock door unlocked with a rush of air.

Jamie took the handle in his hand, braced himself for the weight of the huge structure and pulled. The door slid open smoothly, and he stumbled backwards, gripping the handle to stop himself falling. The door was as light as a feather.

There must be some sort of counter-balance. I bet you couldn’t open it with dynamite if it was still locked.

He stepped through the door and into a white room not much bigger than a decent-sized cupboard. There was a second door opposite the one he had just come through, which he pulled shut behind him, and waited for the second set of locks to disengage.

Nothing happened.

Panic jumped from nowhere and settled in Jamie’s throat. He was locked in, trapped in this tiny space, an unknowable distance beneath the ground. Sweat broke out on his forehead and suddenly it seemed that the walls were closer than they had been when he walked in. He put his hands out and touched the walls with his fingertips, waiting for the sensation of movement, but there was none.

Then the lights went out, and he clamped his teeth together so he didn’t scream.

A second later he was bathed in purple ultraviolet light, as small hatches in the walls opened and flooded the tiny chamber with a rushing white gas.

Then it was over, as quickly as it had begun. The lights came back on, and the second door clunked open. Jamie threw himself against it, pushing it open with his shoulder, spilling out of the – coffin, it was like being in a coffin – room.

He gripped his knees with his hands, doubled over, breathing hard. When the panic had subsided he stood up and looked around. He was in a long, narrow corridor, brightly lit by square fluorescent lights set flush into the ceiling. To his right was a flat white wall, to his left was a small office behind thick transparent plastic. Ten metres down the corridor he could see square floor-to-ceiling holes that had to be the cells, running in parallel down the length of the cellblock. A white line was painted on to the floor on each side, a metre in front of the cells.

He turned to the office. Behind the plastic a soldier, wearing the now familiar all-black uniform, sat at a metal desk. He was looking at Jamie with a strange expression on his face, an uncomfortable mix of anger and pity. Jamie supposed the latter was as a result of what had happened to his dad; he did not know what he had done to elicit the former. But when the man spoke, his voice carried no hint of conflict, just the clipped vowels and tight consonants of anger.

“You here to see the new one?” he asked.

Jamie nodded.

“She’s at the end on the left.”

Jamie thanked the man and turned towards the cells, but the guard spoke again.

“I’m not finished,” he said. “There are rules down here, no matter what your name is. Understand?”

Jamie turned back to the office, his face flushing red with anger. The guard saw this, and smirked.

“Oh, you’ve heard of rules, have you?” he said. “Bet you learnt about them from your dad. That right?”

“What’s your problem?” snapped Jamie, and the guard flushed a deep crimson. He lifted himself halfway out of his seat, his eyes fixed on Jamie’s, then appeared to think better of it, and sat back into the chair.

“Don’t pass them anything, don’t tell them anything about yourself, don’t step across the white line,” he said. “Press the alarm next to her cell if there’s trouble. If you’re lucky, someone might come.”

With that, he looked away.

Jamie walked past the office and between the first two cells. They were empty, but a surge of panic shot through him when he examined the one to his left. The entire front wall of the cell was open; no bars, no glass, nothing. He looked down the corridor and saw that all the cells appeared to be the same. He stepped back to the plastic-fronted office and the guard spoke immediately, without looking up.

“It’s ultraviolet light,” he said, his voice utterly disinterested. “We can pass through it, they can’t.”

“Why not?” Jamie asked.

The guard raised his head and looked at Jamie.

“Because they’ll burn into a little pile of ash if they do. Their cells are vulnerable to UV light. It’s why they can’t go out in the sun.”

He lowered his head again, and waved a hand dismissively. Jamie clenched his fists, bit his tongue and walked back down the corridor.

The first two cells on either side were empty, but the third on the right was occupied. A middle-aged man, neatly dressed in a dark brown suit, sat in a plastic chair at the rear of the cell, reading a thick paperback book. He looked up as Jamie passed, but said nothing.

As he made his way down the cellblock he became aware of a distant noise. It sounded like the howls mating foxes made in the fields behind his house, an ungodly shriek, high-pitched and ugly. As Jamie walked past empty cell after empty cell, he realised it was getting louder, and by the time he stepped in front of the last cell on the left, it was almost deafening.

The girl who had attacked him in the park, and then again in the hangar, was crawling back and forth across the ceiling of her cell, like a horribly bloated fly. She was almost unrecognisable from the girl he had met the previous day; her eyes gleamed a terrible red, her clothes were torn, and she was caked in blood that had dried to an even brown crust. Her head was thrown back, the muscles in her neck standing out like thick strands of rope, and the guttural howling that was issuing from her snarling mouth made his head swim.

He breathed in sharply. He couldn’t help it; the terrible thing crawling across the ceiling was so revolting, so utterly unnatural. She heard the intake of air, and her head snapped round, the red eyes fixing on his own. Even through the shrieks, a flash of recognition flickered across her face, and she screamed anew, louder than ever, staring directly at him.

Suddenly the shrieking stopped and she fell from the ceiling, landing on her knees on the floor. She looked at him for a long silent moment, then began to howl again, her eyes never leaving his.

In the wall next to her cell was a round red button that Jamie assumed was the alarm. Above it was an intercom panel with a small silver button beneath it. He pressed it and waited.

With a crackle, the guard’s voice, clearly annoyed at being disturbed, came on the line and asked him what the problem was.

“What’s wrong with her?” Jamie asked.

The guard swore heartily down the line. “Don’t you know anything?” he asked, sharply. “The hunger is on her.”

“What’s the hunger?”

“For Christ’s sake. She’s hungry. Is that clear enough for you? She wants blood. It drives them mad if they go without it for too long.”

“Then give her some blood,” Jamie said.

The guard laughed. “Why would I want to do that?”

“What use is she like this?” Jamie said, fighting to keep his temper. “If you let this hunger make her crazy she won’t be able to tell me anything useful. Just give her some blood.”

“Those aren’t my orders,” replied the guard.

Jamie looked back into the cell, and stifled a scream. The girl had silently crossed the concrete floor and was staring at him from the other side of the ultraviolet barrier, her inhuman face only inches from his own. She was twitching and trembling uncontrollably, her whole body vibrating, her red eyes dancing with madness. She opened her mouth and tried to speak to him.

“Pleeeeeaaarrrrrrsssssssssse,” she slurred, her mouth slack, her jaw working fiercely trying to form the words. “Teeerrrrrllllllll yooooo eveeerrrrythhhhiiinnnnnnnng. Doooooooo annnnnnythhhiiiiinnnng.”

“If you don’t give her some blood,” Jamie shouted into the intercom, “I’m going to put my arm through the barrier. And then you can explain to Admiral Seward what happened.”

This girl might know where my mother is. I don’t care if you have to throw a bucket of blood into the cell from across the corridor, I need to know what she knows.

Silence.

Jamie could picture the guard in his office, weighing the decision, not wanting to have to explain anything to Admiral Seward, especially not how someone had been eviscerated in one of the cells on his watch.

“I’ve called my superior,” the guard said eventually. “It’s his decision. He’s coming down now.”

“OK,” replied Jamie. There was a pause, and then the guard spoke again.

“You know, what I said to you before, I was just—”

“I don’t care,” interrupted Jamie, and the intercom fell silent.

Jamie stood in front of the girl’s cell and watched her. She had crawled across the room and curled herself into a tight ball on the narrow bed that ran along one wall. She was moaning rather than howling now, a deep sound that Jamie could feel through the soles of his feet, and every few seconds she lifted slightly into the air, before flopping back down on to the white sheets.

“So you’re Julian Carpenter’s son,” said a voice beside him, and he jumped.

For God’s sake, stop being so easy to creep up on.

He turned towards the source of the voice and looked into the handsome face of a man in his forties, dressed in the same black armour as everyone else he had met since arriving at the base. The man was carrying a small metal case and regarding him with open curiosity.

“That’s right,” Jamie replied. “My name’s—”

“Jamie. I know. Mine is Major Paul Turner. I’m the Level H duty officer. I understand you want to give this prisoner blood?”

“Yes, sir,” said Jamie. The sir came naturally; something about this man made him nervous.

“Tell me why I should let you do that. Bearing in mind that she almost killed one of my colleagues last night. And tried to kill you.”

“That doesn’t matter now,” Jamie said. “I need to know what she knows. All that matters is my mother.”

Major Turner regarded him with the merest hint of a smile on his face.

“I knew Marie,” he said, and Jamie gasped. “Met her several times. She was a good woman.”

“What do you mean was?” demanded Jamie, colour rising in his face.

“Sorry. Poor choice of words,” replied Turner. “I knew your father as well. We were friends. Did you know that?”

“No,” said Jamie. “I didn’t know that.”

The two looked at each other, the space between them thick with a tension that Jamie didn’t understand. Eventually Major Turner unclipped the latches on the metal case, reached inside and withdrew two pouches of dark red blood. He tossed them lightly to Jamie, who caught them, never taking his eyes off the man.

Turner returned his gaze, then said something beneath his breath that Jamie couldn’t quite make out, turned smartly on his heels and walked rapidly back along the cellblock towards the exit.

‘Prove me wrong.’ It sounded like he said, ‘Prove me wrong.’

He turned back to the cell. Larissa was still on the bed but now she was sitting upright on the edge of it, her eyes fixed on the plastic pouches in his hands. Jamie looked down at them and felt a sudden terrible disgust. He threw them through the barrier. They never made it to the concrete floor; Larissa moved like mercury across the cell, plucking them out of the air and dropping to her knees. She tore the top off the first one with her gleaming, pointed teeth, and Jamie turned away as she tipped it up and squeezed the contents into her mouth.

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