by Will Hill
“Thank you,” he said, and the cheers intensified anew. “Thank you, my loyal friends. Thank you.”
He lowered his arms, and the noise began to subside. When it was quiet once more, Lord Dante floated up on to the stage, and faced his adoring public.
“This is an auspicious night,” he said. “A night that I had begun to doubt I would ever see. But here it is, delivered to me by one of your number. Take a bow, my most faithful friend.”
Latour rose from his seat in the front row to a fresh outpouring of applause. Frankenstein watched as the vampire’s face broke into a huge smile of pure pleasure, and realised that there had never been any chance of persuading Latour to change his mind. Nothing would have robbed the old vampire of this moment of superiority, of praise from lesser beings.
“Thank you,” said Lord Dante, favouring Latour with a beaming smile of approval. “Your actions will not be forgotten, not by anyone in this Fraternité. And most certainly not by me.”
Latour sat back down in his seat. Frankenstein watched as a number of the tuxedo-clad vampires reached over and thumped him on the back, or offered their hands to be shaken, and felt his stomach twist. Then, suddenly, he felt a burning sensation along the length of his spine, as though white-hot needles were being pushed into his back.
The change was coming and, for the first time, Frankenstein relished the prospect.
Soon, he thought, through the pain. So soon. Please be soon enough.
“This creature you see before you,” continued Lord Dante, casting a vengeful glance in Frankenstein’s direction, “was the perpetrator of a great wrong, done to me a long time ago. For almost a century he has avoided being held to account for his actions, but no more. Now he will learn, as will you all, what it is to cross the vampire king of Paris.”
Lord Dante’s butler floated silently on stage from the wings. In his hands he held a simple wooden table, and a large roll of black cloth. He placed the table beside his master, set the cloth on its surface and departed as silently as he had arrived.
“Thank you,” said the vampire king. He took the roll of cloth carefully in his pale hands, and gripped one end. Then he lifted it sharply into the air, allowing it to roll theatrically open. There was a murmur of excitement from the crowd, and the number of pairs of glowing red eyes increased dramatically. Frankenstein was pleased he couldn’t see what they were looking at, but Lord Dante had no intention of sparing him the knowledge of what was coming; he turned in the air, holding the cloth at his side like a bullfighter, and showed his prisoner the contents.
The cloth was full of knives.
In dozens of loops and pockets, gleaming in the spotlight that still engulfed Lord Dante, lay blades of every shape and size: heavy, dull-looking hatchets and saws, long triangular carving knives and daggers, curved filleting blades and hunting weapons, tiny wicked-looking scalpels and stilettos. They tinkled gently as the cloth moved in the air, their reflections swimming against the domed ceiling of the theatre.
Frankenstein felt an icicle of fear stab at him as he looked more closely and saw the items that were at the very bottom of the cloth, almost appearing as an afterthought. There was a jar of white powder, which he knew for certain would be salt, and five small vials of clear liquid, about which he had no desire to speculate. Finally, and most appallingly, a small plastic tub sat in the very corner of the cloth. It was full of maggots, fat and yellow and writhing softly in the heat of the theatre.
The cloth was a sadist’s dream come true; a collection of items that had no purpose other than to torture, to maim and, eventually, to kill.
“I considered adding other entertainment to this evening’s bill,” said Lord Dante, grinning wickedly. “Aperitifs, if you will, to warm your palates for the main course. But I reconsidered; after all, we know what we’re here to see.”
The vampire king laid the cloth gently on the table and leant over it, studying the blades carefully. After a few seconds, he plucked a shiny silver scalpel from its loop and held it up to the light. It flickered and gleamed, reflecting both the white light of the spotlight and the red glow of the ancient vampire’s eyes.
“Let us begin,” he said, softly, and turned towards Frankenstein.
“Where are we?” demanded Jamie, as Jack Williams pointed their black vehicle between rows of parked cars, gunning the engine as he did so. “Where the hell is this place?”
“This is Rue de Sévigné,” replied Dominique Saint-Jacques. “It should be right here.”
“I see it!” shouted Claire Lock from the back seat, where she was peering out of her window. “Back up!”
Jack hit the brakes, throwing his four passengers forward in their seats. He shoved the car into reverse, and accelerated backwards.
“Tell me where!” he shouted, peering over his shoulder and out through the rear window.
“Right here!” shouted Claire.
Jack pumped the brakes, and the five members of Jamie’s team piled out of the car. In front of them, just as Claire had said, was a beautiful grey stone building, identical to its neighbours to the left and right in every way but one.
Where the windows should have been were slabs of grey stone.
“This is it,” breathed Jamie. “This is where he meant.”
They stepped up on to the kerb, and examined the building. It had only a single door, a large, imposing block of old, varnished wood that stood in the precise centre of the building. Between it and them was a high metal fence, beautifully ornate but also clearly difficult to scale. In the middle of the fence, directly in front of the door, was an equally elegant gate, with a large, rectangular lock, and a single keyhole.
“Open it,” said Jamie.
Dominique Saint-Jacques stepped forward, pulling a thin metal barrel from his belt. He inserted it into the lock, and hit a button on the side. Fluid carbon flowed into the lock, pushing the tumblers into place. A second press of the button sent an electrical pulse through the material, hardening it instantly. Dominique turned the barrel, and the lock, which was designed to deter casual visitors and petty criminals, slid easily open. Dominique pushed open the gate, and withdrew his device.
Jamie walked up to the door, waited until the rest of his team were arrayed behind him, then raised the heavy knocker and let it fall back against its brass plate. There was a high, ringing thud, and almost immediately, the door slid open to reveal an elderly vampire in an immaculate white tie.
“You’re late,” he said. His voice was full of professional disappointment. “The evening’s entertainment is already—” He paused, appearing to notice the five Operators for the first time. His eyes flooded red, but he had no time to say anything more.
There was a thunderclap of noise, and a deafening rush of air, and then a metal stake flew past Jamie’s head; it was moving so fast it was merely a blur, and it missed him by no more than a few centimetres, but he didn’t so much as flinch.
The stake burst through the vampire’s chest, exiting out through a hole in his back the size of a dinner plate. There was a moment’s silence, in which the butler had just enough time to cast his eyes down at his ruined chest, before he erupted in a steaming explosion of gore, splattering Jamie’s uniform with warm, dripping blood. He turned his head ever so slightly to see who had fired the shot, and saw Angela Darcy smiling at him, her T-Bone locked against her shoulder.
“Good shot,” he said, calmly.
“Thanks, sir,” she replied.
He nodded, and strode quickly up the stairs into the building, his team following behind him. They found themselves standing in a small lobby the colour of blood; Jamie was taking in the red velvet carpet and walls, the dark crimson of the ceiling, when a roar of pain so loud that it shook the floor beneath them thundered through the building.
Jamie froze.
He knew that voice; it was the one he had spent the last three months believing he was never going to hear again. It was mangled by pain, but it was unmistakable.
“Oh my God,” he whispered. “It’s him. It’s really him.”
He turned to the four members of his team, his eyes wide.
“Whatever it takes,” he said. “Whatever the cost. We bring him home. Clear?”
“Yes, sir,” said the four Operators, in unison.
“OK then,” said Jamie, lowering his visor, watching as his team did likewise. “This ends here.”
Frankenstein roared with pain as the scalpel dug into his stomach.
He didn’t want to give Lord Dante the pleasure of hearing him scream, but he failed. There was a palpable gasp of enjoyment from the crowd as he howled; the vampires were staring up at him, transfixed, their faces contorted into grimaces of sadistic lust. Several of the audience were furtively groping the people in the seats next to them, their hands disappearing beneath skirts and dresses, and below belts. Their almost boundless depravity sickened him and the roar, when it came, was as full of fury and disgust as it was of pain.
Blood was running freely down his chest, where Lord Dante had sliced away the shirt he had been wearing. The vampire king’s touch on his skin had been gentle, almost comforting, until he had drawn the scalpel down the centre of his mottled grey-green torso, cutting him open from chest to stomach button. His flesh had slid apart like butter, and blood had welled instantly in a straight, neat line.
The cut wasn’t deep, the pain manageable, but Frankenstein knew it was only the beginning. Lord Dante quickly drew the blade across his skin again, eight short horizontal lines crossing the long vertical one. It was a neat pattern, one that immediately began to bleed, and it made Frankenstein grit his teeth.
Lord Dante looked at him enquiringly, as if wondering when he was going to stop pretending that what was happening didn’t hurt, but Frankenstein simply stared back at him, his jaw clenched. The vampire king nodded slightly, as though in admiration, then shoved the scalpel into the monster’s stomach and twisted it.
The pain that flared from Frankenstein’s midsection was huge and hot, and he screamed, a vast roar of damnation.
Too late, he thought, resignation spreading through him. Too late. I’m going to die in this theatre, with this void inside my head.
But then his body began to tremble, and savage elation burst through him. Pain exploded through every particle of his being, but he welcomed it, drawing back his lips into a snarling grin that made Lord Dante widen his eyes with surprise. As he felt himself begin to slip, as he felt the change begin, at last, to overwhelm him, the last thing he saw before his eyes turned yellow and everything faded to black and white, were five dark figures emerging into the rear of the theatre.
Jamie slipped silently through the door at the rear of the lobby. He found himself in sudden darkness, and stepped to the right as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. The rest of his team filed in and took positions beside him, their backs against a curving, red velvet wall.
They were standing at the back of a theatre with its house lights lowered, and Jamie’s eyes were immediately drawn to the dark red glow emanating from the sixty or so seats that faced the stage.
Vampires, he realised. Lots and lots of vampires.
Then he followed their gaze, and forgot all about the creatures in the audience.
In the middle of the stage, bound to a thick wooden pole, was Frankenstein’s monster. His head was back, the tendons in his neck standing out, his teeth clenched against whatever had caused him to issue the deafening scream. There was a dark figure leaning in close to the monster’s chest, but Jamie barely saw him; his mind was temporarily overwhelmed.
He’s alive. I didn’t want to let myself believe it. But he’s really alive.
The figure on the stage stepped aside and Jamie felt a surge of almost uncontrollable rage burst through him as he saw the tattered remains of his friend’s chest. Blood was running from what looked like a hundred cuts, pooling at his waist and dripping steadily to the wooden floor. He felt words starting to form in his throat; he didn’t know what they were going to be, he only knew that he was going to scream them as loudly as his vocal cords would allow, and used every ounce of his strength to push them back down.
Giving yourself away won’t help him, he told himself. You need a distraction.
Jamie felt something press against his gloved hand, and looked round. Jack Williams was holding an ultraviolet light grenade, and was nodding pointedly at the aisle that ran the length of the theatre; it began less than two metres from where Jamie was standing. Jamie grinned behind his visor, then nodded.
Jack stepped silently round Jamie, and slid sideways along the wall until he was facing down the aisle. The matt-black of his uniform made him invisible in the shadows, and the material that clung to his body prevented any scent escaping that might have attracted the attention of the vampire audience. It didn’t matter, though, as none of the vampires were looking anywhere other than at the stage; they were absolutely focused on the bleeding, howling monster.
Jack twisted the grenade open, crouched and rolled it slowly down the aisle, a remote trigger resting in his hand.
“This is it,” whispered Jamie over the comms link in his helmet. “Ready One when Jack pulls the trigger.”
He heard the faintest rustling as his team unsheathed their T-Bones and MP5s. Jamie left his where they were; he was watching Jack.
The grenade rolled silently down the aisle, between the throngs of watching vampires. As it reached the halfway point, a woman in a dark green dress turned to look at it, a curious expression on her face. She opened her mouth to say something, but at that moment, Jack Williams pressed his trigger, and before she got the chance her mouth was full of flames.
The UV grenade burst into life without the slightest noise; one second there was only the darkened throng of vampires, the next the theatre was full of blinding purple light. A millisecond later the screaming began.
Jamie, whose attention had returned to the stage, saw something strange in the split second before the grenade pulsed into life. He saw what was left of Frankenstein’s shirt ripple, as though something was running under the grey-green skin beneath it. Then the grenade exploded, and all he saw was fire.
There was a sudden, enormous bloom of heat, as half the vampires in the audience burst into flames. They leapt into the air, screaming, beating at their clothes and skin, trying to extinguish the purple fire. On the stage, Lord Dante recoiled in horror, more at the usurping of his moment of triumph than out of any genuine concern for his burning guests.
The vampires at the edges of the crowd, who had been shielded from the ultraviolet light by their wives and husbands, their friends and lovers, jumped up from their seats, their eyes blazing red, searching for the source of the carnage.
Screams filled the theatre, as the most badly burned vampires fell from the air and crashed down on to the seats. Jamie pulled the T-Bone from his belt, set it against his shoulder, sighted down the barrel and pulled the trigger. His stake rocketed across the auditorium, smashing clean through the chest of a vampire in a dark grey suit, who was desperately attempting to beat out the flames that were consuming a vampire woman in a cocktail dress. He was driven backwards half a step, then burst like a balloon, coating the burning woman in gore.
The stake whistled back into the barrel of Jamie’s weapon, as he heard a series of loud bangs from his right and left. Stakes flew through the air, their metal wires trailing behind them, and four more vampires erupted in columns of steaming blood. Finally, eventually, the vampires at the edges of the crowd, the ones whose burns were minimal, followed the flight of the weapons, and saw the five figures lurking in the shadows.
There was a deafening howl of rage from one of them, who pointed with a skeletal finger. The vampires who were still able to stand, perhaps thirty of them, turned en masse, and regarded the dark shapes. Then, with a chorus of snarls and howls, they leapt towards the intruders.
Frankenstein’s body shook as though an electric current was being passed through it.
; He could see the flames that were sweeping through the theatre, the burning seats, the screaming, roasting vampires, but what was far, far worse, was that he could smell them. His nostrils flared as the scents, complicated, swirling things, almost physical objects, floated through the air; he could smell fear, and pain, and the anger of the panicking vampires, could smell charring bones and cooking flesh, could smell, with enormous satisfaction, the fury rising from Lord Dante, who was staring out over his audience with a look of helpless rage on his face. Then the change began in earnest, and all he was aware of was his own agony.
His legs snapped back on themselves, the bones splintering and knitting back together in a completely different shape. He felt thick hair burst from every pore on his body, felt his arms crack, bend and eventually break. The pain was so huge he couldn’t even scream; he had known what was coming, had been through it twice before, but there was simply no way to prepare for the feeling of your body being broken and rebuilt.
Frankenstein felt the ropes that had bound him tightly to the post give way as his limbs changed shape beneath them, and then his mind, what little of it remained in his possession, slipped away, as the animal overcame him.
“Spread!” yelled Jamie, as the vampires came for him and his team. “Move!”
He threw himself to the ground, beneath the flying lunge of a vampire who had to have been in at least his sixties. The man crashed into the wall where Jamie had been standing against it, and crumpled to the floor. Jamie leapt forward, as quick as a striking cobra, and buried his stake in the vampire’s chest.
He didn’t wait for the explosion of blood that he knew would follow; he was moving before it came, crouched low, running along the wall towards the corner of the stage. He threw one backward glance as he did so, and felt a surge of pride as he saw his team fan out through the theatre, Claire and Dominique heading to the right, Jack and Angela moving down the aisle, into the heart of the vampire audience.
