by Will Hill
To one side of the door, a man stared down at him from empty eye sockets. The point of the wooden pole he had been impaled on emerged from his mouth, encrusted with blood. The man’s long, soaking wet hair whipped back and forth in the strengthening wind, sliding across his naked shoulders and chest. His arms were broken, his wrists and ankles bound. Blood had poured in enormous quantities down the man’s legs and pooled on the cobbled ground into which the pole had been sunk.
Valentin stared at the stricken man, and tried to remember the last time he had seen someone impaled. It had been more than five centuries earlier, in the last weeks of Dracula’s final reign as Prince of Wallachia, when Valentin had first made peace with the prospect of his own death; there had seemed little chance that he, or his brothers or their master, would survive the battle that was coming. Dracula had been raging, accusing his court of betrayal and sedition, ordering torture and death with furious abandon; new heads appeared on spikes each day, fresh bodies twisting on poles on the castle walls, as blood ran in rivers through the streets.
Then the impaled man coughed around the pole that had been forced through his body, a wet explosion of phlegm and blood and gathered rainwater that splattered the stake, and it took all Valentin’s strength not to cry out in shock. The man’s body spasmed, rattling against the wooden pole, then was still. Valentin looked closer and saw bloody fangs emerging from the man’s mouth, scraping against the wood, and his stomach churned.
A vampire, he realised. Impaled alive and left up there in endless agony. The birds have had his eyes, but he still lives. Dear God.
He wondered what the man had done to deserve his fate, although long experience told him that the crime, whatever it was, was unlikely to have justified such terrible punishment. Then movement caught his eye, near the long, slanted roof of the building.
A dark silhouette leapt casually over the uppermost wall and descended gracefully towards the ground, its jacket billowing in the wind, the telltale red glow visible in its eyes, even through the driving rain. It touched down on the cobblestones of the courtyard, and stepped forward into the yellow glow of the lights.
Dracula’s face was exactly as Valentin remembered it: pale and narrow, a tight covering of skin over sharp bones. The chin was pointed, jutting out beneath a mouth that was thin, the lips barely visible, even when curled into a smile, as they were now. A jet-black moustache sat beneath a steep nose, either side of which boiled the red-black eyes of madness, of terrible, unholy power. Valentin stared at them across the rows of vines and felt himself drawn in, experiencing a strong, almost overpowering urge to rush forward and throw himself at Dracula’s feet, to prostrate himself and beg forgiveness for his disloyalty. He blinked furiously, shook his head, and looked back at his former master.
The first vampire was staring directly at him. His long black hair was rippling in the wind, and his smile had widened into a grin that chilled Valentin’s blood. He was wearing a dark blue suit, now soaked black by rain, and hanging from his belt was a sword so large its tip almost scraped the ground.
“Valentin!” shouted Dracula, his voice warm and friendly. “Come out and let us see one another. It has been far too long, old friend.”
For a long moment, Valentin did nothing. He briefly considered fleeing, as fast as he was able; he had seen his former master with his own eyes, which meant the promise he had made to Paul Turner was fulfilled. But fleeing was not in Valentin’s nature.
He took a deep breath, and floated out of the trees.
“Dracula,” he said, his voice steady. “It has indeed been many years. How are you?”
The first vampire narrowed his eyes. “Dracula?” he said. “Would you not call me lord? Or master?”
“I would call you by your name,” said Valentin. “As I am no longer in your service.”
“That saddens me, Valentin,” replied Dracula. “Your long second life, which you have chosen to fill with baubles and indulgence, you owe to me. Have you forgotten?”
“I have not forgotten,” said Valentin. “But nor would I have you pretend that you turned me out of altruism, or for any reason other than it suited you to do so. So I say I owe you nothing.”
“I disagree,” said Dracula, his grin disappearing.
“And that saddens me,” said Valentin. “But it changes nothing.”
The two vampires stared at each other across the vineyard. Valentin hung in the cold air, the rain lashing against his face, his every muscle screaming at him to turn and run. Dracula had also risen off the ground as he spoke, and was floating easily above the cobbled stones of the courtyard.
“I see your sword has found its way back to you,” said Valentin.
Dracula glanced down at the heavy blade hanging from his belt and smiled. “It was found while I slept,” he said. “A museum in Bucharest was kind enough to look after it for me.”
“That was certainly good of them,” said Valentin.
For a long moment, there was no sound other than the steady percussion of rain on the ground. The air was thick with the strange, bittersweet taste of nostalgia, of something that felt – to Valentin, at least – almost like camaraderie.
“I will make you this offer only once, Valentin,” said Dracula. “Renounce this foolish rebellion and take your place at my side. Your sins can yet be forgiven.”
“And I will give you my answer only once,” said Valentin. “Never.”
“You disappoint me,” said Dracula. “And your capacity for treachery astonishes even me. You would truly stand with the enemies of your family, against your own blood?”
Valentin grunted with laughter. “You are no family of mine. And neither is Valeri. I am flattered to see you so desperate for me to join you, although if my brother is the best that you have been able to recruit, I must confess I am not surprised. But I will remain where I have always been, Dracula. On my own side.”
The first vampire opened his mouth to answer, but a rush of movement cut him off before he formed his first syllable. Vampires, at least a hundred and fifty of them, maybe more, flooded into the courtyard: men and women, young and old, of every conceivable shape and size. They ran and flew and shambled through the rain, growls and high-pitched hisses emerging from their throats, their glowing eyes all fixed firmly on Valentin. As a show of strength, it was pitiful, as Dracula would well know; if he had presented Valentin with a thousand vampires, or five thousand, it would have been very different, which suggested his former master had other motives for filling the courtyard with his followers.
He’s not trying to impress me, realised Valentin. It’s the other way round. He wants them to see their enemy.
A chill ran up his spine.
It’s really coming. It’s coming and I don’t know if I can stop it.
War.
The vampires twitched and snarled across the soaked cobblestones of the courtyard. Dracula floated easily in the air in front of them, regarding Valentin with an expression that seemed almost sorrowful.
“Last chance, old friend,” said the first vampire. “Join me, and we will forget this insubordination. Otherwise go, and enjoy what time you have left.”
Valentin narrowed his eyes. “You would let me go? Even though I know your location?”
“It matters not,” said Dracula. “Fly to your friends in black and tell them where I am. Bring them here, if you would. They will be welcome, and they will see that it is already too late.”
I don’t believe that, thought Valentin. I can’t.
There was a sudden commotion in the courtyard, and the low roar of hissing and growling intensified as someone made their way through the vampire ranks. The crowd slowly parted, spitting and clawing instinctively at one another as they moved, to reveal Valeri Rusmanov striding across the wet cobblestones. Valentin’s eyes darkened to a glowing crimson, as hatred rushed into his stomach and began to churn, as hot and bitter as acid. Then they widened in shock, as he saw what his older brother was dragging along behind him.
Henry Seward looked like he had been run over by a train. His body was pitifully thin, his skin loose on his bones, his hair white, his face ravaged by pain and suffering. One of his eyes was missing, leaving a raw red crater, while the other swivelled manically in its socket, seeing everything and nothing. Valeri hauled him forward by his upper arm like a father dragging a disobedient child home to be disciplined, and pushed him out before the crowd of vampires. Seward staggered unsteadily, his feet sliding across the wet stones, looking as though the wind might blow him over at any second, but righted himself. His remaining eye focused, and he stared out at the dark vineyard.
“Valentin?” he called, his voice little more than a croak. “Are you there?”
Dracula nodded at his prisoner, giving him a wide, condescending smile. “He’s there, my dear Admiral,” said the first vampire. “He can hear you. Do you have something you would say to him?”
Seward nodded, his face a miserable mask of defeat. Valentin stared helplessly across the rows of vines, his heart aching at what the Director of Blacklight had been reduced to. Then Seward’s face changed; the pain left it, his swollen, broken mouth twisted into a snarl of belligerence, and the voice that emerged from it was a voice that had commanded men, that had inspired trust and demanded obedience.
“Run!” bellowed Henry Seward. “Bring everyone and kill them all! Kill them all, Valentin! Kill them—”
Dracula raised a pale hand. Valeri wrapped his arm round the prisoner’s throat, cutting off his furious exhortations, and pressed it there until Seward went limp. Then he released his hold, letting the unconscious Blacklight Director drop heavily to the ground. Seward’s head hit the concrete, and Valentin smelt the blood before he saw it squirt out across the cobblestones and mix with the rain.
“You heard your new master,” shouted Dracula, smiling widely. “Run along, Valentin. Run along.”
Valentin took a final look at his brother and his former master, then rocketed into the air without a backward glance. His heart pounded in his chest as he flew north-west, towards the distant speck of land that was England and the men and women to whom he was bringing news that was both good and awfully, terribly bad. As he accelerated, the wind rising around him to a shrieking howl of resistance, the rain soaking him to the skin, Henry Seward’s words echoed in his head.
Kill them all. Kill them all. Kill them all.
Jamie Carpenter awoke shivering from sleep that appeared to have utterly failed to refresh him. His head felt fuzzy, his thoughts slow and laboured; the pale gloom of the forest morning hurt his eyes, and his back cracked and creaked as he sat up and looked over to where Larissa had arranged her sleeping bag.
His girlfriend was wrapped in the thick green material, her chest rising and falling steadily. On the other side of the camp, he could see the sleeping shape of Tim Albertsson in the deep shadow cast by one of the thousands of towering trees.
They came back then, he thought, bitterly. That’s something, at least.
It had taken Jamie a long time to get to sleep after Larissa and the American had left the camp together; his mind had been racing with horrible possibilities, his imagination torturing him with images of Tim and his girlfriend kissing, of them writhing on the forest floor, their uniforms cast aside, the glow from her eyes illuminating them both. Eventually, sheer exhaustion had overwhelmed him, and he had fallen into a rough approximation of sleep, full of bad dreams.
Jamie stretched his arms above his head, feeling the muscles in his shoulders protest, and relished the morning silence. The absence of sound in a place that should have been full of life remained unsettling, but right now, as he sat shivering inside his sleeping bag in the slowly paling dawn, it was a relief.
“Morning,” said Van Orel, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.
Of course, thought Jamie, and smiled. Of course you’d choose this second to wake up.
“Morning,” he said. “Sleep well?”
Van Orel shrugged. “I slept,” he said. “Technically, at least. You?”
“The same.”
The South African rotated his head, sending an alarmingly loud series of cracks echoing through the campsite, then spat a thick wad of phlegm on to the remains of the fire.
“Up and at it, sir,” he said, in the direction of Albertsson. “Today’s our day, right?”
There was no response from the Special Operator.
Beside Van Orel, Engel raised her head, took a look around, and groaned. “We’re still here,” she said. “I thought it was a nightmare.”
“We are here,” said Petrov, sitting up and squinting at her through narrowed eyes. “It is real.”
“Thank you, Arkady,” said Engel, and smiled at him. “For a moment there, I wasn’t sure.”
“I’ll tell you what I’m sure of,” said Van Orel, getting unsteadily to his feet, and rubbing furiously at his limbs. “Our squad leader seems to have decided that one of the perks of leadership is a lie-in whenever he wants one.”
“Why do you all hate quiet so much?” asked Larissa, her voice emerging from somewhere deep inside her sleeping bag.
Engel and Jamie laughed, and even Petrov couldn’t resist cracking a thin smile.
“Come on, sir,” said Van Orel, staggering across the camp to where Tim Albertsson was lying. “If we have to be awake, then so do you. Only fair.” He prodded the Special Operator with the toe of his boot. “Rise and shine.”
Albertsson didn’t move.
The South African frowned, and pushed again, harder. Albertsson rolled over, his sleeping bag flopping open.
“Oh shit,” said Van Orel.
There was something in the South African’s voice that instantly cleared Jamie’s mind, as though he had just drunk a double espresso or stepped into a cold shower. He got to his feet and crossed the camp, stepping over the remains of the fire as Petrov and Engel moved as well, unzipping their sleeping bags and pushing themselves up on unsteady legs.
“What is it?” he asked, as he arrived beside Van Orel, and looked down.
The breath froze in his lungs.
Tim Albertsson gazed up at them with blank, staring eyes on which the morning dew had collected, giving them the impression of being full of tears. His face was ghostly white, his lips purple, his forehead as smooth as a baby’s. One side of his neck was a ragged mass of pale pink flesh and milky-white bone. Jamie stared at it, uncomprehending, as the rest of the squad arrived.
Nobody screamed.
Whenever he thought back to this moment, which would prove to be often, it would be one of the two things Jamie would always remember: the silence, as Tim Albertsson’s death sank slowly into each of them, and the first response any of them actually made.
Without a word, Petrov pulled his ultraviolet beam gun from his belt, flicked it on, and shone purple light directly into Tim Albertsson’s face. Engel cried out, slapped the Russian’s hand aside, and rounded on him.
“What on earth are you doing?” she demanded.
Petrov frowned. “Being sure,” he said. “That is a vampire bite.”
“You don’t know that,” said Engel, her eyes blazing. “I told you that bears live in this forest, and wolves, and wild boar. It could have been any of them.”
“Then why did we hear nothing?” asked Petrov. “And where is the blood?”
Engel blinked, then knelt down and pressed her fingers against the undamaged side of the Special Operator’s neck. After a long, empty moment, she closed his eyes, sending water spilling down the sides of his head.
“Look at his skin,” said Van Orel, his voice low. “He’s been bled white.”
“It must have been so strong,” said Engel, her gaze locked on Albertsson’s face. “To make no sound, to stop him from making any. All while we were sleeping next to him.”
“I didn’t do it,” said Larissa.
Every member of the squad turned slowly towards her, Jamie included. She was standing apart from them, her feet centimetres above the
ground, her eyes flickering red in their corners.
“Nobody said you did,” said Van Orel.
“I know,” said Larissa. “But some of you were thinking it, or starting to, at least. Because it makes sense. But I didn’t kill him.”
“Hey,” said Jamie, frowning at her. “Nobody’s accusing you of anything, Larissa. This isn’t helping.”
She looked over at him, her expression neutral, then gave him a curt nod.
“So what the hell is this?” asked Van Orel, his voice unsteady. “Is it him? Is it another warning?”
Petrov shrugged. “We still do not even know if the first victim is real,” he said. “Larissa is the only vampire we have seen in this forest.”
Jamie winced, and turned towards his girlfriend, trying to silently convey with his eyes how much he needed her to stay calm, to stay rational while they worked this out. But if she noticed, she clearly decided not to take his advice on board.
“That’s right,” she said, staring at Petrov with narrow, glowing eyes. “I am. And Tim and I have been arguing since this operation began, to say nothing of how he was treating Jamie.”
“Larissa,” said Jamie, his heart pounding. “Don’t—”
“Shut up,” she interrupted. “Say whatever you have to say, Arkady. Let’s get it out in the open.”
Petrov returned her gaze, then shrugged. “I am not saying anything.”
The five remaining members of the DARKWOODS squad looked at each other, the tension between them so thick it was almost palpable. Jamie was staring at Petrov; even though his insides were crawling with horror at the sight of Tim Albertsson’s pale, empty face, he was furious at the Russian’s obvious implication, and with his own mind for having immediately turned to what he had seen while the majority of his squad mates were asleep.
