Battle Lines
Page 40
“What did I do to her?” asked Valentin, floating effortlessly backward through the air and coming to rest in one of his two chairs.
“You know exactly what you did,” said Turner. He picked up the other chair, set it opposite the vampire’s, and flopped into it. “She’s nothing to you. She didn’t even know you existed until three months ago. Why torment her?”
“Major Turner,” said Valentin, lacing his fingers together behind his head. “Do you truly understand the prospect we are facing here? What will happen if my former master is allowed to rise?”
“I do,” said Turner.
“If you truly did, then you wouldn’t be here asking me that question.”
“Listen to—”
“No, you listen to me,” interrupted Valentin, his eyes flaring a terrible, oily red. “If Dracula rises, then everything that this Department has ever faced is going to seem like a happy memory. And these children, in whom you and Holmwood have placed so much of your faith? They aren’t ready for what is coming, not ready in the slightest. You treat Jamie as though he is the reincarnation of Quincey Harker, Kate like a favorite daughter, and young Matt as though he is the magical key to a cure that you and I both know will probably never exist. I know you think you’re helping them. But you aren’t. You are failing them, Major Turner. This whole Department is failing them, and before long it will be too late.”
Turner felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. He tried to tell himself that what Valentin was saying was wrong, but couldn’t make it sound convincing; the vampire’s words had the terrible ring of truth.
“So what are you saying?” he asked. “What are—”
“I told you all when I arrived here that I did not want to see Dracula rise,” said Valentin. “That was, and continues to be, the truth. I am on your side, Major Turner, whether you believe that or not. But if our side consists of young men and women who fall to pieces when someone tells them something they don’t want to hear, who are so very easily unsettled by their little secrets and petty jealousies, then what chance are we likely to have?”
Turner was silent for a long moment. “You did it to help her?” he asked, slowly. “Is that what you’re telling me?”
Valentin smiled. “Of course not,” he replied. “I’m a monster, remember?”
42
FATHERS4TRUTH
From: kevinjmckenna@googlemail.co.uk
To: north3571@hotmail.co.uk, 6589south@gmail.com
Sent: 21:06:54
Subject: Your comments on my blog post
Hello,
Thank you both very much for your comments on my recent blog post. I’m extremely grateful to you for sharing your stories, and I’m deeply sorry for the losses you have suffered.
I am writing to you to ask for your permission to use your accounts in the story I’m currently working on, one that I’m sure will be very close to both of your hearts. You will be credited as anonymous sources, and your e-mail addresses will be kept completely secret.
Please let me know whether this is okay with you and whether you are happy for me to proceed.
Best wishes,
Kevin
From: north3571@hotmail.co.uk
To: kevinjmckenna@googlemail.co.uk
Cc: 6589south@gmail.com
Sent: 21:23:07
Subject: Re: Your comments on my blog post
Dear Kevin,
Thank you for your e-mail. I’m very happy for you to use what I wrote in your story, as long as my anonymity is guaranteed.
Please do keep me up to date on the story as it develops. I suspect that you’re right, and I will be very interested in reading it when it’s done.
Cheers,
north3571
From: 6589south@gmail.com
To: kevinjmckenna@googlemail.co.uk
Cc: north3571@hotmail.co.uk
Sent: 21:29:41
Subject: Re: Your comments on my blog post
Dear Kevin,
I, too, am very happy, excited even, for you to use what happened to my family in your story. It will be nice for me to think that I’ve helped, even in some small way, to prevent what happened to north3571 and me from happening to anyone else.
Best wishes,
6589south
“What did I tell you?” said Albert Harker, a smile rising on his pale face. “Easy.”
“Okay,” said McKenna. “So they agreed to let me use what they wrote. I still don’t get why you’re so excited.”
“It’s simple, my friend,” said Harker. “This is the beginning of a crusade, a movement, and it’s possible that you or I or both of us will not be around to see its conclusion. If we succeed, if we alert the public to the monsters in their midst, do you really think that will be the end of it? Blacklight is violent and vengeful, and has a long memory—I am living proof of that. As things stand now, if we were to be found and killed, that would be it. The story would die with us. We are going to need help, and I think these two men would be happy to fill that role.”
“All right,” said McKenna. “But why these two? We’ve had more than thirty comments on the blog now. What makes them so special?”
“They were the first,” said Harker, looking down at the laptop’s screen. “Look how quickly they posted. They’ve been waiting for something like this, I guarantee it. Look how detailed their stories are, how full of rage. They want to do something about this; they’ve just been waiting for someone to tell them what. They just need the right push.”
“Push?” said McKenna.
“E-mail them back,” said Harker. “Tell them we want their help. I’ll bet you any amount they come.”
“And then what?”
“We put them to work,” said Harker, smiling. “If your editor turns the story down, which I think we both suspect he might, then we’re going to need to take a more direct course of action. If it comes to that, four of us will be better than two.”
A more direct course of action? thought McKenna. What the hell does that mean?
“All right,” he said. “I’ll e-mail them. But don’t be surprised if they think it’s some kind of trap. I would.”
Harker uncorked a bottle of red wine and poured himself a glass. “Don’t worry,” he said. “They’ll come. How’s the story coming?”
McKenna opened a window on his laptop. “It’s done,” he said.
“Let me see.”
He gestured toward the screen. Harker walked back to the desk, and McKenna rolled his chair out of the way, giving the vampire space. He opened another can of lager and lit a cigarette as Harker began to read.
The story was crazy; there was simply no doubt about it. But it was big, it contained some of the best writing he had done in years, and he was surprised to realize how much he wanted Albert Harker to like it.
The vampire scared him—there was no sense in pretending otherwise. But his arrival, and the mad, furious cause that he had brought with him, had lit a fire underneath McKenna, something he hadn’t experienced since the old days. It was little more than a faint flickering, but it was there—he could feel it. And he liked it. He was beginning to allow himself to believe that he might, just might, be able to say goodbye to the mindless, soul-destroying work that filled his days and once again be someone who mattered, who could look himself in the mirror. He didn’t know how all this was going to end, but until it did, he was going to play his part to the best of his abilities.
Harker’s cause would not fail because of him.
There was one thing he did know, however. The quality of the prose wasn’t going to matter to Colin Burton; it would be a miracle if his editor read more than an inch or two beyond the headline. If he was lucky, Burton would think it was some kind of elaborate practical joke. If he wasn’t, the reply was likely going to come comp
lete with an invitation for him to find a new job.
“It’s good,” said Harker, turning his head and smiling warmly. “It’s very, very good. It’s exactly what we need.”
“I’m glad,” he replied. “They’re not going to run it, though, Albert. You know that, right?”
“Maybe,” said Harker. “Maybe not. Let’s send it and find out.”
McKenna rolled back to the desk and brought up his e-mail client. He opened a new message, attached the file, and wrote a short paragraph to his editor. He hit SEND and sat back in his chair, blood thumping in his veins. He wondered how slight the chances were that Colin would see his story for what it was and print it. Then an unexpected word appeared in his mind, unbidden.
Salvation, he thought to himself. This could be my salvation.
“Well done,” said Harker, squeezing McKenna’s shoulder. “Let’s hope that he has more sense than you give him credit for. And if he doesn’t, well, as least we’re prepared. E-mail our two new recruits, then try to sleep. I have a feeling it’s about to get very busy.”
The vampire withdrew his hand and headed back to the sofa. McKenna sat for a long moment, his mind racing with prospects he had not considered in years.
Respect. Acclaim. Credit. Fame.
From his desk at the Globe, covered in photos of celebrities in bikinis and footballers snorting drugs in nightclub bathrooms, such concepts had seemed as distant and unattainable as the moon. But now, with this story in front of him, a story so explosive that it might genuinely change the world, his mind was tormenting him with what it could mean for his career.
For his life.
McKenna drained his beer, stubbed out his cigarette, and started to write the second e-mail that Harker had asked for.
From: kevinjmckenna@googlemail.co.uk
To: north3571@hotmail.co.uk, 6589south@gmail.com
Sent: 23:19:02
Subject: Re: Re: Your comments on my blog post
Hello,
Great news—I’m honored that you would let me use your words to help tell my story (I know it’s all of our story, really, that’s just the journalist in me coming out) and trust me to treat them with the dignity and respect they deserve.
As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking about something a little bit radical since I received your replies. As before, please do not even hesitate to say no if it isn’t something you’re interested in. But here it is.
I want you to consider coming down to London to help me open this huge can of worms. The time may come soon when a few brave souls are required to stand up and be counted. Let me know if I’m talking to the wrong people.
Best wishes,
Kevin
From: 6589south@gmail.com
To: kevinjmckenna@googlemail.co.uk
Cc: north3571@hotmail.co.uk
Sent: 23:52:33
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Your comments on my blog post
Dear Kevin,
We have discussed your proposition, and we accept.
We will be travelling to London tomorrow. No further details at this stage, I hope you understand.
Please let me know where we should meet.
Best wishes,
6589south
Kevin McKenna turned his laptop and showed the message to Albert Harker. The vampire smiled, red light flickering in the corners of his eyes.
“It’s all falling into place,” he said. “Just as I told you it would. Well done, my friend. Well done.”
FORTY-NINE DAYS
TILL ZERO HOUR
43
THE DARK HORIZON
Château Dauncy
Aquitaine, southwestern France
Henry Seward spat a thick wad of blood into the sink and looked at himself in the mirror.
His nose had been broken and reset that morning, sending blood pouring down his throat and a leaving a hot island of pain in the middle of his drawn, exhausted face, but he didn’t think that was what he had just spat onto the white porcelain. The blood was almost black, and he felt sure it had come from somewhere deeper, from the depths of the body that was steadily beginning to fail him—his gut, maybe, or his lungs. He coughed now, loud, wet barks that pounded his chest, and his lower back was a perpetual sheet of agony where the worst of Valeri’s beatings had been focused. His skin had a yellowish sheen to it, and his eyes were sunken and small.
I’m dying, he thought, with an absence of emotion that surprised him.
He had always believed that he would die either in the heat of combat or as an old man at home in his bed. This scenario, being slowly tortured to death on the orders of Dracula himself, had never occurred to him.
Seward dressed himself carefully. His fingers and limbs were slow to respond to commands these days, as if the lines of communication between them and his brain were beginning to erode. He buttoned up his shirt, then slowly slipped his jacket over his shoulders. He had been invited to take drinks with Dracula in the vampire’s study, and he knew from painful experience that the penalties for tardiness were severe.
With his jacket in place, Seward faced himself in the mirror and smoothed down his hair. It was grayer than it had been, and there was significantly less of it; clumps had fallen out in the aftermath of one of the worst sessions of torture, when his body had still been vibrating from the current that had been passed through his wet skin. He looked as though he had aged ten years in the three months he had spent as Dracula’s guest; he was absolutely certain that he would not last another three, and probably a lot less than that.
If you’re going to come for me, Cal, he thought, I hope it’s soon. Otherwise you’re going to be wasting your time.
* * *
Ten minutes later Seward knocked on a door on the top floor of the château.
He had been escorted up the stairs by one of his guards, a female vampire whose husband had been destroyed by a Blacklight operator five years earlier and who seemed to be constantly trying to restrain the urge to tear out his throat with her bare hands. She left him at the end of the corridor, and he walked the last few steps alone; the vampires in the château were scared of Dracula and seemed to avoid being in his presence whenever possible, despite the love they all professed to have for him.
“Come in,” called the rich, smooth voice that had become so familiar. Seward took a deep breath and pushed open the door.
The room was beautiful, a wide, wood-paneled space that occupied the southwestern corner of the grand old building’s top floor. It had been Valeri’s private sanctuary in the years after the destruction of his wife, but had been immediately claimed by the convalescing Dracula. Bookshelves and paintings covered the walls, and a low coffee table sat between two enormous green leather sofas. In the corner of the room was a wooden door, standing open to the cool night air.
“Out here,” called the voice. “Do join me, my dear admiral.”
Seward walked slowly across the study and stepped through the door. A wide stone balcony ran all the way around the uppermost floor of the château, from where it would have once been possible to see approaching Spaniards when they were still half a day’s ride away. He turned to his left and saw Dracula reclining in an elegant wooden chair, his legs stretched out before him. A delicate wrought-iron table stood beside him, on which rested an ice bucket and two glasses of pale, bubbling liquid. The vampire picked one up and held it out, smiling warmly. Seward took the glass from his captor’s long, pale fingers, trying not to let his hand shake.
“Thank you,” he said.
Dracula smiled, and nodded toward the empty chair. “You’re most welcome, Henry. Take a seat. You look as though you might fall over if you don’t.”
Seward forced down the shame that swam up from his stomach and settled himself into the chair. He sipped the champagne, which was exquisite, and looked out across the
vast, dark forest that extended to the west. The air was cool and clear, and it seemed to soothe the pain that had become his constant companion.
“How are you?” asked Dracula. “I heard you had an uncomfortable night.”
On your orders, you bloody monster.
“You heard right,” said Seward. “You know it would be easier for you just to kill me?”
Dracula took a sip from his glass. “Indeed it would,” he said. “But that is what you want, yes? And I cannot give you what you want.”
“Why not?” asked Seward, realizing that he was suddenly on the verge of tears. “Why not just have done with it?”
“Because you are the commanding officer of an organization that has dedicated itself to destroying my kind,” said Dracula. “How would it look if I were to grant you mercy, or allow you the release of a quick death? What is being done to you brings me no pleasure, but even you must see that it is necessary. An example must be made, I’m sorry to say.”
Seward knew full well that his suffering gave the ancient vampire great pleasure, but he forced himself to ignore the lie and returned his gaze to the stone wall that encircled the balcony and the horizon beyond it. Somewhere, in the deepest, darkest corners at the back of his mind, an idea had begun to form.
“How does this all end?” he asked. “After all the blood and the screaming and the fighting. What happens then?”