by Will Hill
Frankenstein, who enjoyed both art and literature, but thought the endless debate that surrounded the two cultural pillars, the use of one’s abilities to criticise the work of others rather than creating work of one’s own, to be the worst type of intellectual indulgence, was beginning to become bored.
The evening had passed agreeably enough, with a hearty northern European supper in Brasserie Lipp, followed by several fine bottles of Lynch-Bages in the warm air of the Parisian night. But his patience had been gradually eroded by the endless, circular conversations regarding every tiny aspect of modern culture, fuelled as they were by the egos of the men and woman sitting around him, all of whom wanted, first and foremost, to talk about themselves. He was thus relieved when Latour stood up from his chair and announced, to the expected chorus of jeers and heckles, that he and Frankenstein had to leave.
“Again?” bellowed Picasso. “Why must every evening end with the two of you sneaking away into the night? This is how lovers behave, not friends. Are you in love with one another?”
Latour swept his arms wide in placation, and smiled.
“I would not dispute that I love this man,” he said, casting a glance at the monster. “But to say that we are lovers is untrue. We merely have another engagement to attend, one to which, most regrettably, it is impossible for you to accompany us.”
“Nonsense,” snorted Hemingway, his red face brimming with anger. “What place in all of Paris is open to the likes of you and not to us? I demand you reveal it.”
“I would love nothing more, Ernest,” replied Latour, his tone smooth and conciliatory. “Believe me when I say so. But the rules that govern our destination are not mine to interpret, much less break. So we must say farewell.”
“Let them go,” said Stein, waving a hand dismissively. “They were beginning to bore me anyway.”
“And me,” said Cocteau, loyally, but when Frankenstein shot him a stern look, he immediately dropped his eyes to the table.
“Then it is for the best that we depart,” said Latour, his expression remaining warm and friendly. “I apologise if our company has not been to your tastes this evening. We will endeavour to make it up to you. Tomorrow, perhaps?”
There was a grumbling murmur of assent. Everyone gathered round the table knew that the following evening would pass in much the same way as this one had, complete with similar conversations and the same awkward, well-rehearsed ending. The pattern had been repeating itself for more than two months now, right down to the chorus of boos that followed Frankenstein and Latour as they left the café and walked out into the Parisian night.
Their route took them north on Rue de la Cité and across Île de la Cité, before the towering gothic façade of Notre Dame cathedral and the throngs of late-night worshippers and tourists, then east on Rue de Rivoli, heading towards the open splendour of Place des Vosges, the residential square that had been inaugurated in 1612 to celebrate the wedding of Louis XIII.
“I don’t know why you put up with their insinuations night after night,” rumbled Frankenstein, as the two men strolled, the waters of the Seine lapping against its stone banks to their right. “It takes all my strength not to break a bottle over Picasso’s damn head. I wonder how bold he and Hemingway would feel then.”
“Your passion is perhaps your greatest quality, my friend,” replied Latour, smiling. “My self-control is mine. What good would come of splitting that great bald dome open, beyond the momentary satisfaction of the act itself? We would be shunned by all of Parisian society, and though I’m sure that feels like no loss at all to you now, I believe you would feel differently if it came to pass.”
“Perhaps,” grunted Frankenstein.
“Indeed. So let them make their comments, and their innuendoes. It represents nothing more than petty jealousy, and it does us credit to rise above such juvenile concerns. Agreed?”
“Your words are pretty, Latour,” said Frankenstein, the beginnings of a smile creeping on to his wide, rectangular face. “As always.”
“One tries,” said Latour.
The two men reached the corner of Rue de Sévigné, and turned north once more. Their destination lay halfway between Rue des Francs Bourgeois and Rue Saint-Gilles, behind the old, elegant façades of the Marais.
Standing back from the pale stone pavement, behind an intricate wrought-iron gate, was a theatre that had not presented a production to the public for more than fifty years. The building was immaculate in every way; the rose beds that flanked the path beyond the gate bloomed beautifully, their scents intoxicating in the still night air, the wide flagstones scrubbed clean and devoid of even the tiniest of weeds.
The only features that might have prompted a passer-by to give the building a second glance were its windows, or rather its lack of them. The spaces where they had once been were obvious, four large square recesses in the walls, two either side of the grand carved wood door. But where glass had once let in the light and noise of nocturnal Paris, the spaces were now filled with stone, as pale and featureless as the walls that surrounded them.
Latour drew a key from his pocket and entered it into the gate. There was a whisper of noise as the key turned in the oiled lock, before the gate slid silently open. Frankenstein followed him through, closing the gate behind them, and joined Latour in front of the door, upon which the Frenchman had already knocked three times in quick succession.
After a moment’s pause, the door was opened. Anyone who had been standing beyond the gate and watching this strange procedure take place would have heard a brief burst of music and a mingled chorus of voices, some of which were raised in what they would no doubt have convinced themselves were screams of laughter, before the door thudded back into place, and the theatre was silent once more.
Inside the ancient building an elderly vampire, resplendent in immaculate evening wear, stepped from around a wooden lectern and approached the two newcomers with a deferential smile on his face.
“Welcome back to La Fraternité de la Nuit, gentlemen,” he said, in perfect English. “May I take your coats?”
They were standing in a small lobby, the walls and ceiling lined with thick crimson velvet, the floors varnished wood. At the rear of the lobby stood a second door, through which the riotous piano of the cancan could be heard. Then a second sound emerged from behind the door, rising above the music; a shrill scream, so full of terror and despair that Frankenstein grimaced, even as he handed his long overcoat to the maître d’. Latour, who had already shed his coat, grinned widely at the sound, his fangs bursting into view as unnatural red spilled into the corners of his eyes. He clapped Frankenstein on the back.
“I believe it is going to be a good night,” he said, as he strode towards the door.
The inner door closed gently behind the two men, and Frankenstein took a familiar deep breath, giving his stomach time to settle.
The smell of blood, thick and metallic, hung heavily in the wide arc of the theatre. It rose like a cloud from the pools of crimson liquid that had collected on the low stage, where grotesque acts were committed each and every night to the baying approval of the vampire audience. It drifted through the air from the great arcs that had sprayed against the once white walls of the building, from severed veins and ruptured arteries. Blood permeated every inch of the theatre, ages old and freshly spilled, dried brown and glistening scarlet.
An attendant greeted Frankenstein and Latour as soon as they entered, telling them that they would, as always, be welcome in Lord Dante’s private chamber. Latour thanked the vampire absently; he was looking around the room, his ears full of screams, his eyes molten red as he watched the horrors that were unfolding around him. His face wore an expression of such naked lust that Frankenstein turned away, even though it forced him to witness what was taking place.
The theatre was small, no more than sixty seats arrayed in a semi-circle before the stage. Perhaps two-thirds of the seats were occupied, by vampires of all races, ages and nationalities. An atmosphere
of terrible bonhomie rose from them, with good reason; the Fraternité was a safe place, where they could indulge their darkest desires at their leisure, without fear of interruption. The seats of the theatre rippled with frantic movement, as the vampires who occupied them tortured, abused, bled and murdered the lost innocents of Paris.
Each night, from whence Frankenstein didn’t allow himself to ponder, a new collection of human victims was released among the vampires. Most were young, although all ages could be found, depending on a particular member of the Fraternité’s tastes, and were evenly split between males and females. They were ushered on to the stage as night fell, then abandoned to the hissing, roaring audience of monsters.
Frankenstein had only seen this with his own eyes once; since then, he had insisted to Latour that they not arrive until well afterwards. The utter terror, the hysterical, disbelieving horror on the faces of the men and women, and the snarling, clawing and biting of the vampires as they fought and squabbled over their favourites, had been too much, even for him.
By this time, well past midnight, most of the humans were already dead, ravaged and empty and abandoned in the aisles of the theatre, their last moments spent in agonies they couldn’t possibly have understood.
Frankenstein followed Latour round the rear of the theatre, to a door standing almost invisibly in the wall. A vampire attendant, as elegantly dressed as the others, nodded respectfully to them, and held the door open. They passed through it, into the inner sanctum of La Fraternité de la Nuit.
Into the realm of Lord Dante, the vampire king of Paris.
26
FULL DISCLOSURE
“I think Frankenstein is part of what Valentin wants to talk to me about,” said Jamie. “He seems to have had something to do with my grandfather.”
“I can tell you now that he did,” replied Admiral Seward. “It was your grandfather who brought Frankenstein into the Department, in 1929. He came back from a mission in New York and Victor was with him; apparently, he told Quincey Harker that he was here to help, and simply refused to take no for an answer. He was with us from that moment onwards.”
Until I let him die, thought Jamie. You won’t say it, but we both know that’s what you mean. Until I failed him.
There was a knock on the door of Admiral Seward’s quarters, and the Director shouted for whoever it was to enter. The door swung open, revealing the pale, frightened face of Matt Browning, flanked by the black-clad figures of Marlow and Paul Turner. The teenager took a hesitant step into the room, his eyes flicking nervously left and right; then he saw Jamie sitting in the armchair before the fireplace, and relief burst across his face.
“Jamie!” he cried. “Oh, thank God.”
He ran across the study and hurtled into Jamie before the teenage Operator was fully out of his chair. Matt wrapped his arms round him as Jamie fought to keep his balance, telling the boy as he did so that it was all right, he was safe, nothing was going to happen to him. He prised Matt’s arms from around his torso, and turned him gently to face Henry Seward, who was watching the scene in front of him with obvious, but apparently kind, bemusement.
“Matt?” Jamie said, and the boy nodded. He had noticed the seated figure now, the grey-blue tendrils of smoke rising above him. “This is Admiral Henry Seward,” Jamie continued. “The Director of Department 19. Sir, this is Matt Browning.”
Seward hauled himself wearily to his feet, and extended a hand. Matt shook it, nervously.
“How are you, son?” asked Seward. “That was quite a stunt you pulled last night.”
“I’m not going home,” said Matt, instantly, and Seward laughed.
“What do you mean?” the Director asked.
“I mean, I’m not going back,” said Matt, firmly. “Not again. You’re going to have to kill me this time if you won’t let me stay. I want to help.”
“That’s a laudable attitude,” said Seward. “But it’s not that simple. This is a highly classified branch of the British government, Mr Browning. You do not simply walk up, knock on the door and ask to join the club. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Matt. “I understand that you’re keeping the biggest secret in the world inside this base, and I understand that I’m never going to be able to forget the things I saw. This is the only place I want to be.”
“You want to help, yes?” said Seward. “You want to do what Mr Carpenter here does, what the men who visited your house last year do?”
“That’s right, sir,” replied Matt.
“It takes months of training to become an Operator in this Department, Matt. Months of painful, tiring, gruelling training, for the privilege of spending your life in the darkness fighting monsters. Is that really what you want?”
“Yes, sir,” Matt replied, but there was a moment’s hesitation before he did so, which Jamie knew everyone in the room had seen.
“I don’t believe you,” said Seward, gently. “I believe you want to help us, I believe you want to be part of what we do here. But I’ve seen two generations of Operators come through this base, and I flatter myself I can tell the ones who are going to make it from a distance. And you, Mr Browning, are not one of them. That’s not an insult, I promise you; it’s just a fact.”
Matt’s shoulders slumped, and tears began to brim in the corners of his eyes.
They’re going to send me home again, he thought. Or worse.
“I’ll take him back to the secure dorm, sir,” said Marlow. “We can start working on a cover story to send him home with.”
Matt looked helplessly at Jamie, who felt his heart go out to him. He racked his brains for a way to help, to stop this before it was all over and Matt was gone, again.
“Admiral,” he said, suddenly. “Maybe there’s something else we could consider?”
Jamie saw Marlow roll his eyes, and ignored him. The Director turned to face him, and he continued.
“He doesn’t have to be an Operator to help us,” he said. “You saw the files Intelligence put together when he was here last year; extremely intelligent, with particular aptitude for maths and science.”
“How do you know that?” whispered Matt, a horrified look on his face. Jamie shot him a look of apology, but pressed ahead.
“Why don’t we ask Professor Talbot if he needs more help in the lab, sir? Or an assistant – anything?” He could hear the desperation creeping into his voice, but he couldn’t help it. If this didn’t work, he couldn’t think of anything else he could do. Matt would be going home again, or worse; imprisoned in the Loop for the rest of his life, or – no, they wouldn’t do that. We’re soldiers, not murderers.
I hope.
“I’ll think about it,” replied Seward, and Jamie breathed an audible sigh of relief.
“Sir, this is most—” began Marlow, but Seward waved a hand at him.
“I know exactly what this is, Marlow,” he said. “I said I’ll think about it, and I intend to. Jamie, take Mr Browning below, get the boy some food, then return him to the secure dormitory. Major Turner, you stay with me, please. Dismissed, everyone.”
Marlow rolled his eyes again, before striding out of the Director’s quarters. Jamie followed, gently pulling a confused-looking Matt behind him.
Seward watched them go, waited until the door was closed, then told Paul Turner to sit down. The Major nodded, settled into the second armchair and faced his brother-in-law.
“What am I doing, Paul?” Seward asked. “With these kids, I mean. What would my ancestors think of me if they could see this?”
“They’d think you were doing your job, Henry,” replied Turner, immediately. “Carpenter may be an insufferable little brat, but he’s the most naturally gifted Operator I’ve seen in fifteen years, and an absolute born leader. He’s proven himself to be one of our very finest assets, regardless of how old he was when he was commissioned. And did you read the file on Browning? IQ of 196, top 0.1 per cent of the world’s population. The boy’s an official, documented genius, Henr
y; he knows about us, he wants to help, despite what happened to him, and he was brave enough to risk everything to try. So what are you supposed to do? Lock him up for the rest of his life, and let all that intelligence, all that courage go to waste? I think your ancestors would have made exactly the same decisions you have, sir.”
Seward closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and regarded Turner with a look of immense affection.
“Thank you, Paul,” he said.
“It’s the truth, sir,” replied Turner. “You know I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t.”
“I know,” said Seward.
Turner waited for his Director to continue, to address the matter that he knew he had been asked to stay behind to deal with, but there was only silence. Henry Seward suddenly looked old to Turner, who had known him for more than ten years, had seen him when he was a fiery, ambitious young Operator, every bit as impulsive and pig-headed as Jamie Carpenter was now.
The past weighed heavily on him, Turner knew; his wife, Caroline, whom Paul had married after a courtship that had lasted less than six months, worried endlessly about her older brother. Blacklight’s history was arguably both its greatest asset, and its most profound weakness; every decision that Seward made was second-guessed by long-dead men, legends whose example he spent every minute trying to live up to.
“Henry?” he asked, gently. “Is there anything else?”
Seward’s eyes focused, and he forced a narrow smile.
“There’s a leak in the Communications Division, Paul,” he said. “I need you to find it, quickly and quietly; I want the person responsible in this office within forty-eight hours. Understood?”
“Absolutely, sir,” replied Turner. “I’ll start immediately.”
“I know you will,” said Seward. “Thank you. Dismissed.”
Turner nodded, then stood up and walked across the study to the door. As he pulled it open, he took one last glance into the room; Admiral Seward was staring at the wall opposite his armchair, surrounded by the ghosts of the past.
