by Will Hill
“Is there a plan of action?” asked David Morris, looking over at him.
Quincey nodded. “We will investigate the west cemetery first,” he replied. “We will confront anyone we find, ask why they are here, and assess the plausibility of their response. If they seem suspicious, we will splash fresh blood on the ground. Van Helsing’s notes suggest that this will force a vampire to reveal itself.”
“And if we find nothing?” asked Albert Holmwood. “What then?”
Quincey smiled. “Then we will explore the east cemetery. If still we find nothing, then you will doubtless have time to stop for a nightcap at your club on the way home.”
The three friends smiled at each other, until Quincey stepped forward again, beckoning them to follow him. He led them at a brisk pace along the wide path that ran in a semi-circular arc through the heart of the west cemetery, passing beneath the heavy stone arches and rows of squat Gothic tombs without pausing. The cemetery was silent, as befitted a place of the dead; no birds called from the trees that crowded in above them, no animals rustled through the underbrush.
Quincey checked his equipment again; beneath his long black overcoat his Army-issue Webley pistol was perched on his hip beside a pair of wooden stakes in loops and a small jar of cattle blood. One hand held a tungsten-filament torch, the other rested on the stock of the rifle that was slung over his shoulder. His hat cast a deep shadow over his face as he made his way deeper into the cemetery, the gravel crunching beneath his boots. David Morris and Albert Holmwood were similarly attired and equipped, and followed close behind.
The pale, watery beam of Quincey’s torch illuminated a narrow strip of the cemetery. It was a moonless night, and the darkness was deep and dense, the kind that seemed almost tangible. He breathed in and out slowly, finding himself in a familiar state of being: the ethereal calm that had always settled over him when it was time to put himself in harm’s way. He allowed it to flow through him as he walked; as a result, when his torch beam picked out a flicker of movement in the space between two of the tombs, he felt no fear, only a rising swell of anticipation.
“Hold,” he whispered, coming to a halt. “Straight ahead, between the third and fourth tombs. There’s something there.”
“I can’t see anything,” said Morris, training his torch beam on the space. “I say! You there! Come out at once!”
For a long moment, the cemetery was utterly still, the silence absolute. Then a dark shape burst out from between the tombs and fled down the path away from them.
Quincey Harker was already swinging his rifle up to his shoulder. He sighted down the barrel and pulled the trigger twice. The reports were deafening, rebounding and echoing against the stone walls that surrounded them, and then a high-pitched scream of pain rang out as the bullets struck the fleeing shape in its lower back.
“Quincey!” bellowed Albert Holmwood. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at, man?”
Harker ignored him. He ran down the path, not waiting to see whether his friends were following him, and skidded to a halt beside the screeching, writhing figure. He shone his torch down on it and felt validation explode through him.
Twisting on the ground was a man in a brown overcoat that was more hole than coat, and a pair of ragged grey trousers. His torso and feet were bare, and he was staring up at Quincey Harker with eyes that glowed red with agony. His fangs were clearly visible; his teeth were bared against the pain that was presumably radiating from his lower back. Clutched tightly in one of the man’s hands was the limp body of a black cat; its throat had been ripped out and its wide yellow eyes stared blankly at nothing.
Morris and Holmwood arrived beside him, then trained their torches on the fallen man.
“Vampire,” said David. “You got him, Quincey. Good work.”
“Thank you,” said Harker. He was breathing heavily with excitement.
“Damn good shot,” said Holmwood. “But for heaven’s sake, Quincey, you can’t have known he was a vampire. What if you had just shot some vagrant in the back?”
“Why would a vagrant run?” asked Morris. “We don’t look like police, Albert.”
“Any number of reasons,” said Holmwood, his brow furrowing into a frown. “He could have been—”
“I knew full well what I was doing,” interrupted Quincey. “When he bolted, I saw his eyes. Vagrants do not tend to have eyes that glow red.”
“You saw his eyes?” asked Albert. “From such a distance?”
“You don’t believe me?” asked Harker.
“I believe you, Quincey. Although you must have the eyes of a bloody eagle.” He grinned, then turned his attention to the stricken vampire. “You there,” he said, prodding the man’s ribs with the toe of his boot. “What is your name?”
The man growled and bared his blood-smeared teeth.
“You godless savage,” said Albert, looking down at him with an expression of obvious disgust. “How did you come to sink so low? Tell me now, and be quick about it.”
The vampire spat a thick wad of blood into the air and let out a terrible screech of pain and misery.
“That’s enough,” said Quincey. He slung the rifle back over his shoulder, pulled one of the stakes from his belt and dropped to his knees, bringing the sharpened wood down in the middle of the man’s chest. The vampire’s eyes bulged and David Morris yelled in warning as the wood slid between the man’s ribs and pierced his heart. There was a millisecond’s pause, before the man exploded in a roar of flying blood. Harker leapt backwards, but was too slow; the blood splashed across his coat and the lower half of his face, shocking him momentarily. Then he started to laugh as blood dripped from his chin.
“One down, gentlemen,” he said. “God alone knows how many to go.”
Morris and Holmwood looked at him with expressions of disapproval, which began to crack under the infectious refrain of Harker’s laughter. When the three men had regained control of themselves, Holmwood pushed his hat back on his head and regarded Quincey with a mildly reproachful expression.
“The policy has been to attempt to subdue the vampires,” he said. “So they could be studied. Van Helsing requested it.”
“Van Helsing is dead,” said Quincey, “so is unlikely to be studying anything. When my man Ellis arrives, I intend to set him to work on new procedures, as well as the continuation of the scientific study of these creatures. Until then, I see no alternative to destroying them.”
“Quincey is right,” said David Morris. “We have no facility to store prisoners, and our combined scientific understanding amounts to very little. This was well done.”
Holmwood nodded, but Quincey could see that he was not entirely convinced. “Albert,” he said. “I have a task of utmost importance that I suspect only you are capable of fulfilling. Will you hear it?”
“Of course,” said Holmwood. “What would you have me do?”
“I cannot believe that my squad mates and I were the only men who encountered these creatures during the war,” he said. “We need to review the reports from the front and identify any references to these things. When we expand, which must be our first priority, men with experience of these creatures will be the likeliest candidates.”
“To examine every report will take weeks,” said Holmwood. “Perhaps even months.”
Harker nodded. “And there is no time to waste,” he said. “Your position at the War Office will allow you access to the reports without arousing suspicion, will it not?”
“It will,” agreed Holmwood. “When would you have me undertake this task?”
“As soon as possible,” said Harker. “It is vitally important, Albert.”
“In which case,” said Holmwood, “I will start tomorrow, and report back as soon as the work is complete.”
“Thank you, Albert,” said Harker, ignoring the sideways look that David Morris was giving him; his old friend’s mouth was curling ever so slightly at the corners, as though he was holding back a smile that suggested he un
derstood exactly what Quincey was doing. “This was a good start, gentlemen. A damn good start.”
The following morning, Quincey travelled to Piccadilly with his father, a routine that would continue for much of the next two years. His mother had brought his breakfast up to his room herself and given him a tight, fierce hug after putting down the tray. Mina Harker had said nothing, but the meaning of the embrace had been clear.
I’m proud of you.
When they arrived at the townhouse, Quincey was not surprised to learn that there was a visitor waiting for him. He climbed the stairs and found Charles Ellis sitting in the lounge, conversing happily with Arthur Holmwood, who appeared to regularly be both the last man to leave the building in the evening and the first to arrive in the morning.
“Private Ellis,” said Quincey, with as much sternness in his voice as he could manage.
Ellis leapt to his feet and snapped a salute. “Yes, sir,” he said.
Quincey broke into a grin. “Relax, Charles,” he said. “Formality won’t be necessary, at least for the time being.”
“Yes, sir,” said Ellis, then smiled at his own contradiction.
“Good,” said Quincey. “I assume you’re wondering why you’re here?”
“I’m curious,” said Ellis. “Let’s put it that way.”
“Then permit me to put your curiosity to rest. Lord Godalming, might I trouble you to assist me?”
Holmwood got to his feet, withdrawing the keys from his pocket. “By all means, Quincey,” he said. “By all means.”
Harker took the key he had been given the previous day out of his jacket and slotted it into one of the two keyholes in the door at the rear of the room. Holmwood arrived beside him a moment later and did the same to the second lock.
“Three, two, one, turn,” said Arthur, softly.
Quincey did so, and felt the shudder through his hand as the door unlocked. He pushed it open, then stood back as Ellis walked through it.
“Good heavens,” said the schoolmaster, his voice low and full of awe. “What am I looking at, Quincey?”
“This, my friend,” said Quincey, “is the Department of Supernatural Investigation.”
“I’m sorry?” asked Ellis, his gaze still fixed forward. “What exactly do you mean by supernatural?”
“In this case,” said Quincey, “it refers specifically to the creatures we saw in the church in Belgium and the alleyway in Rome. Vampires, Charles.”
“Vampires,” said Ellis, slowly. “I’ve spent a great deal of time considering what we saw, Quincey. But the word just seems so ridiculous.”
“I’m hopeful that you will be able to put that aside,” said Harker. “As I’m hoping that you will agree to become the newest member of the Department.”
“What about the others?” asked Ellis, turning to face his former Captain. His face was pale, his eyes wide. “Are they coming?”
“I hope so,” said Harker. “We’re going to need them.”
Ellis turned back towards the secret room, his jaw setting with determination. “When do I start, sir?”
“Right now, my friend,” said Quincey Harker, smiling broadly. “Welcome to the future.”
Harker left his friend tentatively leafing through the pages and papers that had been bequeathed by Abraham Van Helsing, and walked back into the sitting room. Arthur Holmwood smiled at him as he appeared, and beckoned him across to a table beneath the large window that overlooked the bustle of Piccadilly. Covering the table were a number of maps with areas inked in pale red.
“What’s all this, sir?” asked Harker, peering at the sheets.
“Some of the pockets of land that my family has managed to hold on to,” smiled Holmwood. “I have a suspicion that our Department is going to outgrow this house rather quickly. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I would,” said Harker. “My vision is of a secret military unit. And military units operate from military bases.”
“Precisely,” said Holmwood. “So why don’t you take a look through these and see if there’s anything you think might be suitable for such a purpose? Perhaps the area marked on the second sheet?” He clapped Harker hard on the back, and strolled out of the sitting room.
Quincey watched him go, then returned his attention to the maps. He lifted the first one carefully, set it aside, and felt a smile rise on his face. The second sheet illustrated a section of East Anglia, with a large area highlighted: it stood in the middle of dense forest, miles from anything in every direction. Quincey traced the circular shape with his finger, and began to smile.
Lieutenant Andrew Thorpe was only one of more than eight million combatants to die during the four years of the First World War. In Britain, as in many other nations, the heart and soul of an entire generation was torn out, as the survivors, the so-called ’lucky ones’, returned home to a country whose innocence was lost forever.
In the long years that followed, Quincey Harker led a silent crusade, keeping the public safe from a threat they did not know existed. He did it because it was in his nature to do so, because heroism came naturally to him, and because he believed in the value of service, of fighting to protect others. He rarely spoke of Andrew Thorpe, but the many friends and colleagues who fought alongside him, sharing in his triumphs and tragedies, knew that his old friend was never far from his mind.
As the British government was reorganised in the aftermath of the First World War, a shorthand was implemented inside the corridors of power in which each governmental department was given a number. The office of the Prime Minister was, naturally, described as Department 1.
By the end of the long, bloody twentieth century, there were twenty-three permanent departments, each assigned a number. Only one remained classified, a long-established black hole in the centre of the country’s administration, and one which generations of civil servants, intelligence operatives and military commanders have known better than to enquire about.
Department 19.
Don’t miss the previous two ebook adventures of Quincey Harker:
THE DEVIL IN NO MAN’S LAND: 1917 and UNDEAD IN THE ETERNAL CITY: 1918
Copyright
First published as an ebook in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2013
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Text copyright © Will Hill 2013
Ebook Edition © FEBRUARY 2013 ISBN: 9780007522255
Version 1
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