Darkest Night

by Will Hill

  Power surged through her. She let the hateful man drop to the ground, and shattered the giant cross with a single flex of the muscles in her back. It exploded into splinters, and she floated in the air for a long moment, breathing deeply, her mind blanked by fury and the desire for revenge. Then she yanked the nails out of her hands and feet, threw them aside, and flew out into the centre of the nave as the doors of the church creaked open behind her.

  The rest of the strike team walked into the Basilique Saint-Nazaire, their footsteps echoing on its tiled floor. Larissa’s skin was tingling with anticipation; after so much time, so much bloodshed and death, it was simple.

  Them and Dracula, to the end.

  Her eyes immediately found the far end of the church, where the first vampire was sitting in a grand chair that was almost a throne, a narrow smile on his face as he stared at them. Then a black shape darted out from one of the alcoves on the left, and she found herself looking at the pale, furious face of Angela Darcy.

  Larissa’s heart leapt as relief burst through her. She sprinted forward and grabbed her friend’s shoulders, her squad mates close behind her.

  “Angela!” she said. “What happened? Are you all right?”

  “No,” said Angela, her voice trembling. “I’m not remotely all right. But I’ll tell you about it later.” She looked down the aisle, and growled. “Once we’re done with him.”

  Dracula floated down on to the floor of the Basilica, and drew the giant broadsword that he had carried into battle more times than he could remember.

  He let its point rest on the tiles and stared at the six men and women, his heart steady, his mind clear. That his trophy had managed to kill Emery and escape from her cross was annoying – he had been looking forward to her distracting her colleagues – but in the end, it would make no difference.

  They would all still die.

  “So,” he said, as the assassination team walked towards him. “You are the ones sent to kill me.”

  He looked first at Valentin – the hateful, despicable traitor – then at the vampire girl who had made him believe, for a terrible moment more than six months earlier, that he might actually be about to die, and allowed crimson-black fire to fill his eyes.

  “I owe debts to two of you,” he said. “Debts that I have long looked forward to settling. As for the rest of you, when you are lying on the ground with your life ebbing away, console yourself with the belief that you did the best you could, and the knowledge that you never had a chance. There is no shame in—”

  Valentin yawned extravagantly, and shook his head. “How long have you been planning this speech?” asked the former servant. “Six months? Longer? And this is the best you could come up with?”

  The heat in Dracula’s eyes rose to an unbearable level as rage boiled through him. “So be it, traitor,” he said, his voice so low it shook the walls of the old church. “No more talk. Come to me, and embrace your destiny.”

  Valentin grinned, and strode towards his former master.

  Chasing the missile through the night sky had been exhausting, but euphoria at having prevented a nuclear apocalypse was coursing through him, and he felt as strong, as powerful, as he ever had. Dracula walked to meet him, until, as if responding to some unspoken command, the two ancient vampires began to run, their feet pounding the tiled floor of the church.

  They met halfway down the central aisle with an impact that shook the Basilica to its foundations. Valentin swung a huge, devastating punch, intending to crush his former master’s head like a watermelon, but struck only thin air. Dracula’s fist, so fast it was merely a blur, collided with his chin like a wrecking ball, arresting his momentum and sending him back through the air, his limbs trailing limply, his mind reeling.

  Never been hit so hard, he managed to think. By anyone, or anything. Nothing like that hard.

  He crashed to the ground, cracking the tiles beneath him, and felt blood spray into his mouth as his fangs snapped shut on his tongue. He slid backwards, unable to stop himself, and skidded to a halt in front of his squad mates.

  Jamie looked down at him, his face full of concern; Valentin tried to smile, to show him he was all right, but could not make his muscles obey his command.

  Alan Foster felt Dracula’s punch through the soles of his feet.

  The retired Colonel was astonished by the display of power, but as he raised the SIG to his shoulder he felt more alive than he had in many years. It was as though the universe had seen fit to bestow one last mission on him, and not just any mission; one that had more riding on it than any during his long and decorated military career.

  He sighted the submachine gun on Dracula’s chest and pulled the trigger. Fire licked from the barrel as the bullets raced through the air, but by the time they reached their target, the ancient vampire was no longer there. Dracula leapt to his left, a streak of black and glowing red, and picked up one of the church pews as though it was a matchstick. He threw it with an almost nonchalant flick of his arm, and Foster was barely able to raise a protective arm before it hit him.

  The heavy wooden bench broke as it drove him backwards in a shower of splinters. He tumbled to the floor of the church, the SIG spilling from his grip as he slid across it, and hit the stone wall head first.

  There was a sharp crunch, like the sound of a hard-boiled egg being cracked open, and everything went black.

  Jamie watched the American slump unconscious against the wall, glanced down at Valentin lying bleeding at his feet, and felt his eyes blaze red.

  He had known that Dracula would be strong, and fast, but he felt no fear as he stared at the ancient vampire; Gregor, the first victim, who had turned him, had been as strong and fast, or so close that it made no difference, and Jamie had seen nothing in the opening seconds of the fight to challenge his belief that they could beat Dracula.

  That they were going to beat him.

  He leapt into the air, drawing his MP7 as he flew towards the left-hand wall of the church. He pointed the gun down at Dracula, who was staring up at him with a contemptuous look on his face, and pulled the trigger. The ancient vampire easily slid out of the way of the stream of bullets, but that was fine; it was what Jamie had been counting on. He swung the barrel, firing constant short bursts and driving Dracula away from the chancel and into the air above where the pews had once stood, where the faithful had listened to sermons on peace and forgiveness.

  Below him, Larissa’s eyes flared with understanding, and she and Angela separated, crouching low and racing across the tiled floor in opposite directions. Dracula spun back and forth, trying to keep an eye on all three of them at the same time, his face twisting into a frown. Jamie fired over his head, drawing his attention and forcing him to swoop back towards the ground. Angela and Larissa opened fire, driving him backwards towards the doors; the first vampire moved like oil, growling and hissing, his face twisted into a dismissive smile that seemed to ask a simple question.

  Is that the best you can do?

  The smile on Dracula’s face faltered as he was suddenly enveloped in a wide shadow.

  Got you, thought Jamie.

  The first vampire spun round, directly into one of the most devastating punches ever thrown. Frankenstein had swung the haymaker with every ounce of his strength, and his fist slammed into Dracula’s face with a noise like a detonating bomb; blood and teeth exploded from his mouth as he was sent hurtling through the air, his body limp, the black fire in his eyes fading.

  Angela felt a shock wave push her backwards through the air when the monster’s punch connected, and felt the heat in her eyes rise as a scream of primal fury ripped from her mouth and echoed against the walls of the church.

  She swooped forward, ready to leap down on to Dracula when his spinning body reached the ground, to look into his eyes before she killed him.

  Frankenstein ran forward, savage pleasure flooding his huge, misshapen body.

  The punch had rendered his right hand and arm numb, but it had felt
good; it had felt really, really good. He moved while Dracula was still in the air, eager to hit the ancient vampire again, and again, and again. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw Angela and Larissa fly forward, but paid them no attention; his mind was focused solely on their enemy, who crashed to the floor in a heap barely five metres ahead of him and slid along the central aisle of the nave. The monster’s huge strides carried him forward, ungainly but lethally fast, and he was already swinging back his fist again when the first vampire moved.

  Dracula flipped upwards, in seeming defiance of the laws of physics, and landed on his feet, his face covered in blood, his eyes burning with unholy fire. Momentum was still carrying him backwards, but he dug his heels into the floor, shattering the tiles and gouging long grooves in the stone beneath. His broadsword was still in his hand, and he held it out before him like a lance.

  Frankenstein realised, perhaps no more than a millisecond too late, what was going to happen, but he was too close.

  There was nothing he could do.

  Everything seemed to slow down.

  He was carried helplessly forward, as though caught in a current. He threw his arms out behind him, but they felt like they were weightless, and did nothing to arrest his momentum. From somewhere above him, he heard Jamie scream his name, scream for him to look out, but it was too late.

  The huge blade of Dracula’s sword slid into Frankenstein’s stomach as though his flesh was as insubstantial as smoke, and exited through his back with a gout of blood that splashed across the tiled floor of the church.

  For a long moment, nobody moved.

  Dracula was gripping the hilt of the sword, Frankenstein was staring down at the blade, and everyone else was motionless inside the silent church. The monster felt no pain, just a sensation of awful wrongness. His mind remained clear, remarkably so, and he saw there was still a chance to do something.

  He reached out, took hold of the huge broadsword’s cross guard, and pulled himself forward, the blade sliding deeper into him. A frown crossed Dracula’s face, and the first vampire growled as he tried unsuccessfully to pull the sword free; the huge punch had clearly weakened him, and Frankenstein was holding on with all his remaining strength. He hauled himself along the blade, feeling it slice through his insides, inching closer and closer to Dracula, who was staring at him with blazing incredulity; the vampire pulled at the sword again, clearly unwilling to let it go, but he held firm, his mind full of the prospect of vengeance.

  Frankenstein dragged himself forward a final time as the pain finally arrived, a torrent of agony that ripped through him as blood spilled out of his stomach in a dark river. He reached out, momentarily blinded by pain, and his huge grey-green hand found the first vampire’s face; he ground his thumb into the vampire’s eye, as hard as his suddenly failing strength would allow. Dracula screamed and released the hilt; he leapt back, thrashing and clutching at his head like he was surrounded by a swarm of bees.

  With the vampire’s grip on the sword gone, Frankenstein toppled backwards. The pain pounded through him, turning everything red, and the sword blade snapped beneath him as he crashed down on to the tiled floor, and lay still.

  Jamie watched the monster fall, his heart frozen in his chest, a silent scream splitting his head.

  Dracula let go of his face, spat blood on to the floor, and growled. The first vampire’s left eye was almost closed, but his mouth curled into a smile of cruel satisfaction as he looked at the prone monster, and it was this smile that caused Jamie to temporarily lose his mind.

  He threw himself across the church, a rage more powerful than anything he had ever known flooding through him. He tore into Dracula, punching and kicking and clawing, wanting to rip the ancient vampire’s life from his body with his bare hands. The first vampire reeled, caught off guard by the ferocity of Jamie’s onslaught, and was driven backwards, his arms raised to defend himself from the blizzard of blows.

  Somewhere in the distance, Larissa screamed for Jamie to move, to give her a clear shot, but he could not have stopped himself even if he wanted to; he pounded at Dracula, hammering him with blows that would have knocked down walls, his rational side entirely gone, his vampire side baying for blood. His gloved knuckles laid the first vampire’s cheek open to the bone, spraying blood into the cool, still air of the church, and Dracula screeched with pain. Jamie didn’t let up, his arms and legs little more than black blurs as he drove the hateful old vampire along the central aisle of the church, his eyes glowing the colour of lava.

  Dracula leapt back, creating separation, then surged forward, his face burning with outraged fury.

  “Enough!” he bellowed, and swung a fist in a wide arc. It hit the side of Jamie’s head with a noise like a clap of thunder and sent him flying across the church. He thudded painfully into the stone wall, slid down to the floor, and leapt back to his feet as a thick growl rose from his throat, the anger in his head so hot and sharp that it was physically painful.

  At the centre of the cavernous space, Dracula drew himself up to his full height. His face was a bloody mess, and his left eye was swollen shut, but the right one roiled with black fire, and he stared at Jamie with monstrous hatred. At the other end of the central aisle, Valentin got to his feet, his mouth pouring with blood but twisted into a gruesome smile. Jamie flew across to him as Larissa and Angela dropped down to join them, and what was left of the strike team advanced on Dracula together. The first vampire backed into the wide space before the chancel, and spread his arms wide, inviting them forward with a smile on his face.

  The four squad mates moved in a blur of black and red. Larissa fired her T-Bone, sending its stake rocketing towards Dracula’s heart, Jamie dropped to one knee and emptied his MP7 at the snarling vampire, as Angela and Valentin leapt towards him, their arms outstretched, their hands curled into claws.

  Dracula reacted with terrifying, impossible speed. He slid out of the way of Larissa’s T-Bone stake, spun up and over Jamie’s stream of bullets, grabbed Angela out of the air by her throat and threw her like a javelin; she flew across the wide space, her arms spinning as she futilely tried to arrest her momentum, and collided with Larissa, sending both of them head first into the wall. A pair of loud cracks echoed through the church, and they fell still, their eyes rolled back in their heads.

  Jamie hurled himself at their enemy, his stake in his hand. Dracula spun back round, searching out the next attack, then doubled over as Valentin landed a crunching kick to his stomach. Jamie soared above him, his searching fingers passing through the space where the first vampire’s throat had been barely a millisecond earlier.

  Dracula exploded upwards like a shark from the depths, and slammed a fist into his stomach as he rocketed overhead; Jamie convulsed in mid-air, his equilibrium disappearing along with all the air in his lungs, and he curled into a foetal ball as he tumbled to the floor. He rolled over to see two of the oldest vampires in the world staring at each other, growls rising from their throats, the thrill of violence in their eyes.

  Jamie got to his feet, took a staggering step, and collapsed back to the floor. His chest was constricted, and he was unable to drag air into his lungs. He tried to calm down, to breathe normally, and surveyed the church. Alan Foster was unconscious at the base of the far wall near the door, Angela and Larissa were lying slumped on the other side, although both appeared to be stirring, and in the centre of the huge space was the motionless shape of Frankenstein, the long hilt of the broadsword rising out of his gut; Jamie dragged his eyes away from the dreadful sight in time to see Valentin launch himself at Dracula.

  The ancient vampires attacked each other with blows that shook the Basilica, swooping and darting back and forth almost too quickly for his eyes to follow. Punches and kicks connected with deafening impacts, but neither gave so much as an inch; they were fuelled by over five hundred years of history, five centuries of anger and betrayal, and blows that would have killed a normal man were dismissed as though they were nothing more than mosquit
o bites.

  Dracula leapt forward, grabbing for Valentin’s neck, but the youngest Rusmanov slipped beneath his former master’s outstretched hands and hammered an elbow into his throat. The first vampire was driven backwards, but surged forward again immediately, ducking a punch that would have decapitated him and unleashing a kick like a piledriver into Valentin’s side. The two vampires backed away from each other, growling like animals, then leapt forward again, a hurricane of crunching violence.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jamie saw Angela stagger to her feet, sight down the barrel of Larissa’s T-Bone, and pull the trigger. The weapon fired with a bang of exploding gas, and the metal stake screeched through the air towards Dracula’s chest. At the last millisecond, at the point when it seemed impossible that the metal projectile would not find its target, Dracula ducked under Valentin’s arms, grabbed his waist, and spun his former servant into the stake’s path. It plunged through Valentin’s left eye with a sound like a slamming door and exited the back of his head, trailing blood and brains behind it.

  Dracula let the twitching body crash to the ground, blazing triumph on his narrow face, and seized the metal wire as it sped past him. He yanked it forward, hauling Angela off her feet. She spun through the air, her eyes wide with shock, and into the first vampire’s waiting arms. Her fists pounded at him as he took hold of her head and twisted it sharply to the right. Her neck broke with a loud snap, and she dropped limply to the floor beside Valentin.

  Just like that, thought Jamie. Just as fast as that.

  He forced his reeling body into action and stood up, his legs unsteady beneath him.

  Dracula stared at him, a wide smile of pure arrogance on his face. Jamie stared back, trying not to let shock and exhaustion show on his face; the sounds of the stake punching through Valentin’s eye and the breaking bones in Angela’s neck would stay with him for a long time, if there was such a thing left. He walked into the central aisle, a dreadful sense of inevitability sweeping through him; somehow, he had always known it would come down to this, and now the moment had arrived.