by Will Hill
She cast a final look at Chris, then shuffled forward and scraped her finger across the console’s screen.
Jamie loaded the second page. “Wesley Chambers.”
Wesley walked forward and signed. He did so without hesitation, although Jamie noted that he didn’t meet Chris Hollison’s eye as he walked back to stand beside Isabel.
“Chris Hollison.”
The blond teenager shook his head. “I’m not signing that.”
“Yes you are,” said Jamie. “The only question is whether you do so voluntarily.”
“You can’t make me,” said Chris, his tone more petulant than ever. “And even if you could, you can’t check whether I obey it. So what’s the point?”
“As I speak,” said Jamie, “a monitoring grid is being put in place. Before you even get home, we’ll be watching and listening. Phone calls, emails, internet activity, conversations with your friends and parents and brothers and sisters. We can listen to you through your mobile phones, even when they’re switched off. And, for a period of time that is entirely up to me, you’re going to be followed. You’ll never see them, but you should get used to knowing that you’re being watched. There’s nowhere you can go that we can’t follow, and nothing you can say that we can’t hear. So you are going to sign, Mr Hollison, and then you’re going to keep your mouth shut. Because, if you don’t, you’re going to find yourself in a small room with no windows while your parents wonder why you never came home from school. Am I making myself clear?”
The four teenagers stared at him with open horror.
“That’s bullshit,” said Chris, his voice quavering. “You can’t do that.”
“I already have,” said Jamie. “Sign.”
Hollison walked slowly forward, his face like thunder, and scrawled his name on the screen. He stayed for a moment longer than the others, staring belligerently into the opaque purple of Jamie’s visor, then stepped back.
“Lauren Johnson,” said Jamie.
The girl signed, then hurried back to her friends. Jamie placed the console on his belt, and looked at the teenagers.
“What happens now?” asked Wesley.
“You go home,” said Jamie. “You don’t say anything about this to anyone, and you go on with your lives.”
Three of the teenagers sighed heavily, as though they had been holding their breath during the entire process. Smiles rose on their faces, and they looked at each other with obvious relief.
Chris Hollison didn’t sigh, or smile. He was still staring at Jamie, his face full of anger.
You don’t know how this happened, do you? thought Jamie. How you got put in your place in front of everyone. You’re trying to think of some way to save face.
He was almost certainly correct. But as Chris Hollison opened his mouth, a deep growl emerged from the undergrowth behind him. A frown creased the teenager’s forehead. Then he was flung forward as something leapt on to his back, driving him screaming to his knees.
The helicopter swept north, its running lights dark, its heavy shape little more than a shadow above the landscape.
The armour-plated hold could carry twenty-four fully equipped Operators, but was occupied by only two. Paul Turner and Kate Randall sat facing each other, their helmets beside them, their weapons and kit checked and ready, even though Cal Holmwood had assured them they would not be needed.
The Interim Director had summoned them to his quarters and shown them the message he had been sent as the first Operational squads were heading out of the Loop. Kate, who knew about Valhalla from Jamie’s and Larissa’s descriptions of the place, was delighted when Holmwood ordered them to follow it up; it had long been somewhere she wanted to see.
Paul Turner, on the other hand, did not appreciate being summoned anywhere by anonymous message, and clearly did not believe that Cal should be jumping simply because someone inside Valhalla told him to. But the Scottish commune, which was one of the oldest vampire colonies in Britain, was home to men and women who had always treated Blacklight as allies rather than enemies, and it was Cal’s belief that they would not have made contact unless it was important.
“Four minutes,” said their pilot, his voice rattling out of speakers set into the walls of the hold.
Kate felt excitement ripple through her as the helicopter began to descend. Despite Cal Holmwood’s assurances, safety could never be one hundred per cent guaranteed in any situation that involved vampires, especially a large number of them in one place, and her nerve endings were starting to twitch. Opposite her, Paul Turner wore the expression of a man who wants to get an annoying job out of the way and focus on more important matters.
As they sank steadily towards the southern end of Glen Shiel, Kate peered out at the landscape rushing past below. In daylight, it would have been spectacular: the jutting peaks, twisting green valleys and sparkling lochs of western Scotland. At night it was dark and foreboding, a vista of shadows upon shadows, that slid together to create a canvas of black that stretched to the horizon. The helicopter banked left, avoiding a sheer wall of rock that rose seemingly from nowhere to their right and affording Kate a fleeting glimpse of the entire valley. At the northern end was light, a yellow and white glow studded with what looked like red and blue and green.
That must be it, she thought. Valhalla.
Cal Holmwood had given them a brief history of the community before they left his quarters, but Kate had already heard most of it from her friends. It had been founded in the 1960s by the vampire known as Grey, who had intended it as a place where vampires could live peacefully, away from the temptations and dangers of the normal world. It welcomed anyone, as long as they were prepared to work: gardening, building, tending the herd of cattle that supplied the residents with blood.
There was a single rule: no resident of Valhalla was permitted to harm another human being, on pain of expulsion. This had been considered sacrosanct, the central ethos on which the community was founded; it had also, as far as the founder himself was concerned, been a lie. Each year Grey had left Valhalla for several weeks, to refresh himself; it was a pilgrimage of sorts, a chance to reacquaint himself with the outside world. The reality was that Valhalla’s founder had used his time away to murder young girls and drink their blood.
His fellow residents would likely never have known had Larissa Kinley not failed to die when Grey sank his fangs into her neck. She had led Jamie and Frankenstein to Valhalla the previous year, under the pretence of searching for Marie Carpenter, and confronted the old vampire about his crimes. Grey had confessed, and gone into voluntary exile from the place he had founded, promising to seek penance for the things he had done and the harm he had caused.
Blood, thought Kate. That’s what it always comes down to, despite the best intentions. Blood and death.
The helicopter spun into a hover, scattering dust and earth in an expanding circle, and lowered itself towards the ground. Kate turned away from the window and looked at her commanding officer.
“Helmet?” she asked.
“Carry it,” said Turner. “Don’t put it on unless I tell you to.”
“Yes, sir.”
The helicopter touched down with a squeal of rubber. Paul Turner was already moving, unbuckling himself and sliding open the heavy door. Cold air rushed into the helicopter, sending a shiver down Kate’s spine as she unfastened her harness. Then her boss was reaching back into the hold and extending a gloved hand towards her; she took it and let him help her down to the ground, picking up her helmet as she did so. The two Operators crouched and ran clear of the punishing downdraught from the rotor blades that whirred above them. With a roar of engines, their pilot hauled the helicopter into the air and guided it away down the valley. Kate watched it go, then turned to look at the remote place it had delivered them to.
A crystal-clear river gleamed before her, frothing over rocks and gullies as it made its way south. A large wooden wheel had been positioned in the current, and was revolving steadily in the darkness. Behind her, a metal
arch had been erected, and covered in creeping vines and sprays of wild flowers. Pale wooden branches were fixed to the top of the arch, arranged to form eight letters.
VALHALLA
“Come on,” said Turner, and walked towards it. “Let’s get this done.”
Kate followed, trying to keep from smiling as her eyes adjusted to the darkness and the small community came into view. There was one road, a rutted dirt track that ran in a straight line from the arch to the base of the hill that rose up in the distance. Wooden houses stood on either side of the road, sometimes three or four deep. Kate guessed there were fifty or sixty, many of which looked new: whitewashed walls and bare wooden frames, gardens still in their infancy, light blazing in many of their windows.
Some of the older homes were little more than wooden cubes with a window in the centre of each wall, while others were far larger and more luxurious, built of brick and stone, with tiled roofs, wooden porches and neatly tended gardens. Flower beds and row after row of vegetables filled the spaces between the houses and ran beyond them in long straight lines.
At the foot of the hill, the road widened into a clearing then branched away briefly to the right and left. More houses had been set into the gentle lower slopes, including the grandest building in the community, a two-storey wooden ranch house with a long porch that looked across the river and down the glen. In front of the house, Kate could see a number of men and women had gathered; they stood in small groups in the cold night air.
“Let me do the talking,” said Turner.
“Not a problem, sir,” said Kate.
They walked up the sloping track with multicoloured light bulbs shining in long strings above their heads; they lent the place an oddly whimsical feel, like the memory of a fairground. As they reached the clearing, a man stepped forward to meet them; he was tall, wearing an elegant dark blue suit over a lemon-yellow shirt, and his face wore a frown of open suspicion.
“Where is Admiral Seward?” he asked.
“Not here,” replied Kate’s boss. “I’m Major Turner. This is Lieutenant Randall.”
“That doesn’t answer my question,” said the vampire, and Kate saw a glimmer of red appear in the corners of his eyes.
“It’s the only answer you’re going to get,” said Turner. “We can return to the Loop, if it’s unsatisfactory?”
The vampire bared his teeth, and growled. “I sent a message on what has always been a secure line to the Director of Blacklight,” he said. “If it has been compromised, I need to know.”
Turner stared at the vampire. “Admiral Seward is no longer in active charge of the Department,” he said, eventually. “Cal Holmwood is now Interim Director. He received your message and he sent us here.”
“What happened to Henry?” asked a woman standing in the crowd. “Is he all right?”
Turner narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you know?”
“Why would we?” said the vampire who had spoken first. “Living here is a rejection of the rest of the world. We get little in the way of gossip.”
“He was taken,” said Turner. “Valeri Rusmanov attacked the Loop and took Admiral Seward. To Dracula, we assume.”
A chorus of gasps rose from the crowd. One of the vampires crossed himself and bowed his head.
“You’d heard about that, though?” said Kate, drawing a sideways look from her boss. “You knew Dracula was rising?”
“Some things are too big to hide from entirely,” said the vampire who appeared to be in charge. “News of his rise has even reached us here. I am Lawrence, and we are sorry for your loss. You are both welcome here.”
“Thank you,” said Turner. “Although I would appreciate it if someone would tell us exactly why we are here.”
Lawrence tilted his head to one side, then nodded. “It’s Grey,” he said. “He returned last night, but is refusing to speak to us. All he will say is that he needs to talk to Henry Seward.”
“Returned from where?” asked Turner.
Lawrence shook his head. “I have no idea. He’s been gone for more than six months. He swore penance before he left, for the crimes he had committed, so I assume he believes he has completed it. But I don’t know.”
“Perhaps he’ll talk to us,” said Turner.
Lawrence shrugged. “Perhaps. Although you’re not Henry Seward.”
“No,” said Turner, breaking into a smile that instantly made Kate uneasy. “I’m not. For one thing, I lack his patience. Will you take us to him or not?”
For long seconds, Lawrence didn’t respond. Then he grunted, a low noise that Kate suspected was a laugh, and nodded. “I’ll take you,” he said.
“Fantastic,” said Turner. “Lead the way.”
The front door of the ranch house opened on to a living room covered in dust.
The remnants of abandoned spiderwebs hung from the corners of the ceiling, and the thickly covered floorboards were tracked with footprints that criss-crossed the wide space. Lawrence would go no further than the doorstep; he pointed towards a door at the back of the room.
“Through there,” he said. “If he’ll see you. You know the way out when you’re done.”
Turner nodded, then strode across the room and knocked heavily on the door. Kate glanced over at Lawrence as he did so, but the vampire’s expression was unreadable. No response came from beyond the plain wooden door. Turner waited a second or two, then pushed it open, revealing only darkness, and stepped through it. Kate crossed the room and followed, letting the door swing shut behind her.
“You are not Henry Seward,” said a voice from within the darkness that caused Kate to gasp. The sound was remarkable, an otherworldly rumble of bass that took her breath away.
“Well spotted,” said Paul Turner.
A lamp flickered into life, revealing the room and its occupant. It was a study, its every surface piled high with books and papers, all buried beneath a thick coat of dust. Before a large, smeared window that looked on to the hill that rose behind Valhalla stood a desk, behind which sat a man who appeared to be in his late sixties or even early seventies; large, broad-shouldered, with a face that was tanned and deeply lined, and a sweeping mane of grey hair that extended well below his collar. He regarded them with mild suspicion.
“Henry would not come?”
Turner sighed; he was clearly tired of explaining himself. “Admiral Seward is a captive of Dracula, Mr Grey. Cal Holmwood is now Interim Director, and he sent us. I am Major Turner and this is Lieutenant Randall.”
Grey’s face creased with a momentary grimace of pain. “Got him, did they?” he said. “That’s a shame. Are you looking for him?”
“Of course,” said Turner.
“And I hope you find him,” said Grey, fixing his wide, expressive eyes on the Security Officer. “He was a good man.”
“He still is,” said Kate.
The old vampire transferred his gaze to her, and nodded. “You are right, of course,” he said. “My apologies. If I had been faster, then maybe …” He trailed off, then forced a smile. “Although perhaps all is not yet lost.”
“What do you mean?” asked Turner. “Do you have information?”
“About Henry?” said Grey. “I’m afraid not. But I do have information, and that is not all. I have hope, Major Turner, for all of us. Would you like some?”
“Yes,” said Turner. “I would.”
“Good,” said Grey. “Then I will accompany the two of you to the Loop. Holmwood and the rest of your colleagues will want to hear what I have to say.”
Turner narrowed his eyes. “Whatever you have to say, you can say to us now.”
“No,” said Grey. “I risked my life for this information, and I will deliver it to the Blacklight Director personally.”
There was a long pause full of tension. Turner stared at Grey, who stared right back, a thin smile on his face.
“Fine,” said Turner, eventually, and turned to Kate. “Go down to the river and call for extraction, then let the Loop know t
o expect three passengers in the helicopter when we arrive.”
“Yes, sir,” said Kate, and headed for the door.
“Surely it would be easier for me to meet you there?” said Grey.
Turner shook his head. “Absolutely not,” he said. “The defence grid would likely burn you alive, and, even if it didn’t, I can’t authorise a civilian arrival at the Loop. You come in the helicopter with an explosive charge strapped to your chest, or you don’t come. Your choice.”
Grey shrugged. “It means little to me either way, Major. I will accompany you, if that is what’s required.”
“It is,” said Turner. “I’m choosing to trust you, so I hope your information is worth it. It had better help us find Dracula.”
The vampire who was supposedly the oldest in Great Britain got to his feet, and smiled. “It will do more than help you find him, Major Turner,” he said. “It will help you destroy him, once and for all.”
Lauren and Isabel screamed again. Jamie, who had frozen for a millisecond or two, bellowed, “Go!” and ran forward, Ellison and Qiang close behind him.
Chris Hollison was screaming and thrashing beneath something dark and growling, and, as Jamie arrived and reached for it with his gloved hands, his first thought was that it was a dog, or even some hugely overgrown fox; it smelt of rot and filth, and the noises rising from it were entirely animal.
He took hold of it and pulled, but it was strong, whatever it was; it bucked and growled and clung to Chris Hollison, who was wearing an expression of almost uncomprehending terror. Qiang appeared at Jamie’s side, seized the creature, and the two of them hauled for all they were worth. There was a suspended moment, in which everything was frozen: the teenager on the ground, the creature atop him, the two Operators trying to pull it loose.
Then, like a cork popping from a champagne bottle, the creature lost its grip. Jamie and Qiang stumbled backwards with it in their arms, then threw it against one of the crumbling headstones. There was a crunch, and it slumped to the ground.
“Jesus Christ,” said Jamie, not taking his eyes from the fallen creature. “Check him.”
