Darkest Night

by Will Hill

  “You are strong,” said Dracula. “And fast. Who birthed you?”

  “I was turned by the first person you ever drank from,” he said. Talking to the old monster felt obscene with his friends lying broken around him, but every extra second allowed his muscles to recover a fraction of their strength.

  Dracula frowned, then smiled again, more widely than ever. “The gypsy,” he said. “I should have made sure he was dead, but I was not myself at that moment. Although it matters not. Shall we finish this?”

  Jamie was terrified, more scared than he had ever been in his life, but he knew he could not refuse; there was nobody to take his place, nobody left to stand with him. He gripped the metal stake tightly in his hand, and walked down the aisle as the first vampire strode to meet him.

  Dracula threw a punch, long and lazy but still fizzing with power. Jamie slipped under it, stepped in, and slammed the blunt end of the stake into the side of his head. The first vampire recoiled, took a step backwards, and grinned.

  “Strong,” he growled. “As I said. But not strong enough.”

  Dracula burst forward, so fast that even Jamie’s supernatural eyes could barely follow him, and unleashed an overwhelming series of punches, like tree trunks being swung against his arms. He was forced backwards, the brutality of the attack completely irresistible; the first vampire’s eyes burned with savage cruelty as his fists came down over and over again. Jamie’s right arm fell, no longer able to withstand the onslaught, and he followed it, ducking low and sliding to his right, then drove his foot into the ancient vampire’s ribs, drawing a thick grunt and sending him back a step.

  Dracula let out a deep growl, and came again. Jamie thrust out the stake, sending it on a direct line towards the old monster’s heart, but the first vampire darted left and sent his fist crashing into Jamie’s chin, knocking him flat. He leapt back up, his eyes full of fire, and drew his Glock from his belt as he ducked beneath a vast haymaker. He fired the pistol point-blank into Dracula’s back, the bullets punching ragged holes in his flesh; blood sprayed out in dark bursts, and the vampire howled with pain. He spun and swung a fist out behind him, a blind punch that connected with Jamie’s shoulder and sent the Glock spinning away into the distance. He reached for his T-Bone, but found only an empty loop and his shattered UV beam gun; his stake was all he had left.

  The first vampire leapt forward, his face twisted with pleasure, even as he bled from half a dozen bullet wounds that would have ended a normal man. Jamie jabbed the stake out again, sinking it into the flesh of the vampire’s arm, but Dracula kept coming as though he hadn’t even felt it; he swung his fist into Jamie’s stomach, driving what little breath he had managed to recover back out of him with a sound like a bursting balloon. The stake flew from his hand as he staggered backwards, the light in his eyes fading, until Dracula kicked him dismissively in the chest, sending him sprawling to the ground.

  Can’t beat him, Jamie thought, panic spreading through him. Can’t even breathe. Nothing I can do. Nothing.

  Dracula flew forward, his expression almost sympathetic.

  “You tried,” he said. “You did your best, and it was admirable. Let that console you in the next life.”

  Jamie pushed himself backwards, dragging a wheezing stream of air into his lungs, and kicked out weakly as the ancient vampire reached him. Dracula’s expression changed to one of disgust; he swooped easily over the outstretched leg, and hammered the toe of his boot into Jamie’s ribs. At least two of them broke, audibly, and he shrieked in pain. Dracula kicked him again, a sickening blow that shuddered through his bones, and again, and again. Jamie heard himself screaming as he was driven backwards, but there was no escape to be had; panic had overwhelmed him, turning his limbs to lead and his stomach to water.

  Failed, he thought, his mind pulsing with terror. Never had a chance. Failed. I’m sorry. So sorry.

  Dracula dug his foot under Jamie’s side and flipped him over on to his front. He kept crawling, even though it was pointless, even though there was nowhere to go. Ahead of him, lying in the aisle, he saw the motionless shape of Frankenstein, the sword hilt sticking out of his body, and dragged himself towards it, acting almost entirely on instinct.

  The first vampire walked alongside him, raining punishing kicks on his back and ribs. When Jamie was almost within reach of the monster, Dracula stamped on the back of his right calf with an impact that felt like a car had been dropped on it. Jamie heard the bones break, and a millisecond later the pain hit; it rolled up his body as a great grey wave of nauseating agony, churning his stomach and wiping his mind clear. He didn’t scream; instead, he let out a terrible howl of pain and misery, his head thrown back, his body reeling at the damage done to it. He dragged himself forward a final time, and reached out a trembling hand for the sword hilt.

  His gloved fingers closed on nothing but air.

  Over, he realised. It’s all over.

  Jamie slumped to the ground, and saw something among the broken tiles in front of him, something small and angular. He reached out and closed his fingers round it; it was a wooden crucifix, small and plain and rough.

  Hands that felt like vices took hold of his shoulders and turned him over on to his back. He stared up at the face of the first vampire, the cross gripped tightly in his hand. Dracula settled over him, his knees either side of his waist, and looked down at him with dreadful finality.

  Jamie stared back, lost in the swirling crimson-black of the ancient vampire’s eyes, and found himself looking past the narrow face looming over him; in the molten darkness, he saw his mother smiling at him with the pride and love that always filled her eyes, saw the faces of Larissa and Kate and Matt, of Henry Seward, of John Morton and Lizzy Ellison and Paul Turner, of Frankenstein and his grandfather and the ancestors he had never known. His heart swelled in his chest, tapping some distant reserve, and he raised the crucifix towards Dracula.

  The first vampire’s eyes narrowed for a brief moment, before he burst out laughing.

  “You stupid boy,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt. “You poor fool. Your death is at hand and you clutch at fairy tales. Surely you know that crosses don’t work?”

  Jamie didn’t respond; he let the hand holding the crucifix fall to the floor at his side and stared into the old monster’s swirling eyes.

  Dracula lunged, black fire trailing from his eyes. His mouth yawned open as his face descended towards Jamie’s neck, his fangs huge and gleaming.

  As if acting on its own, his hand flew up and pushed the wooden cross forward with every last iota of strength he had left. It plunged into Dracula’s throat, ripping through skin and muscle and burying itself in the hard knots of the first vampire’s spine.

  Blood exploded into the air and gushed down on to Jamie’s face. The power that had momentarily filled him had already disappeared, but some of the old monster’s blood sprayed into his mouth, giving him the strength to sit up. He did so, in time to see Dracula reel backwards, his eyes wide, his throat erupting in a crimson geyser.

  Jamie forced himself to his feet, half standing and half floating on his shattered leg, and pulled the broken sword out of Frankenstein’s stomach. When he turned back, Dracula had sunk to his knees, his eyes huge and staring, his hands tight round the crucifix lodged in his throat, his blood escaping in a seemingly endless torrent.

  “Crosses don’t work,” said Jamie, in a trembling voice. “Are you sure about that?”

  Dracula’s eyes widened even further, and he leapt forward a final time, a shambling, blood-drenched monstrosity with hands that reached out towards Jamie.

  Gunfire echoed through the Basilica.

  Bullets slammed into the first vampire, driving him back to his knees and tearing his jaw clean off. Dracula’s eyes swivelled, staring at seemingly everything and nothing as a mangled scream issued from his ruined mouth. Jamie risked a glance in the direction the bullets had come from, and saw Larissa slumped against the wall, her Glock smoking in her lap; she
met his eyes, and gave him a small, exhausted smile.

  He nodded, and returned his attention to the slumped form in front of him.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  Dracula did so. Their gazes locked for a long moment, and Jamie saw what he wanted to see: bright, shining fear in the old vampire’s eyes.

  He raised the broken sword and drove it into Dracula’s chest, burying it up to the silver cross guard.

  The first vampire pitched backwards on to the floor, his arms and legs drumming violently on the tiles. Jamie glanced round as Larissa got to her feet and made her way towards him; she stopped at his side, and they watched in silence as Dracula’s death throes began.

  The ancient vampire’s body became first a rattling blur, then suddenly as still as a statue. Black liquid began to bubble from the wound, spilling out around the sword’s wide blade and spreading rapidly across his chest. Jamie’s stomach churned; the liquid wasn’t blood, it was slick and shimmering like oil, and it moved unnaturally, as though it was somehow alive. It covered Dracula’s chest and began to swirl like it was caught inside a tornado, faster and faster, until it exploded up and out with a sound like the end of the world.

  The liquid surged upwards in a thick column and blasted through the roof of the Basilica; stone and glass came crashing down around Jamie and Larissa, smashing floor tiles and hammering pews to splinters. The impossible column of liquid spun, in defiance of all that was natural, and in its shimmering surface Jamie saw things that he would never describe to anyone, things that would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life.

  The spinning liquid gathered speed, and Jamie backed away from it; he didn’t know why, not exactly, he just grabbed Larissa’s hand and pulled her back. The sound inside the church was deafening, a howl of white noise that made Jamie want to tear off his ears and rip his skin to ribbons. When it reached a volume that was almost unbearable, when the column of liquid was spinning faster than even supernatural eyes could follow, a great rumbling rose beneath it all, shaking the church to its foundations.

  The column exploded in a great belch of black fire and a shock wave that sent Jamie and Larissa flying through the air. The walls of the church cracked from floor to ceiling, and the beautiful windows shattered in a twinkling storm of stained glass. Jamie hit the ground, his head ringing, and forced himself back to his feet in time to see the vast mass of black liquid sink back into Dracula’s body and spread out beneath him in a wide, perfect circle.

  Screams and shouts of alarm rang out across the wide battlefield as black fire billowed from the summit of Carcassonne.

  Everyone, Operator and vampire alike, stopped fighting and turned towards the distant, unnatural explosion. Paul Turner stared up at it, his eyes wide behind his visor, his heart pounding, trying not to let himself believe what he hoped it meant.

  The shock wave that had devastated the Basilica rolled down the hill and thundered across the blasted landscape, knocking Operators off their feet and sending Dracula’s surviving followers screeching into the air, their eyes flaming, their mouths wide as they howled in pain and fear. They scattered in every direction, racing away into the darkness without a backward glance, as though they were flying for their lives.

  Turner clambered to his feet, and stared around the suddenly abandoned battlefield. Ovechkin and Allen joined him, their eyes wide, their weapons hanging seemingly forgotten at their sides. The NS9 Director looked at him, his face a mask of confusion, and all Turner could do was shrug and shake his head.

  Jamie staggered back along the central aisle of the nave, Larissa close behind him, and stopped at the edge of the wide pool of black liquid. He had no idea what he was seeing, no idea whether it was even real, but he knew that someone had to bear witness to what was happening.

  In the centre of the oily circle, Dracula sat up slowly. He looked down at the sword hilt sticking out of his chest, at the shifting black liquid, then up at the two black-clad figures watching him. The damage to his face and throat was gone, as was the blood that had coated them; his skin was pale, and his expression was one of profound confusion.

  “What devilment is this?” he whispered.

  The black liquid slid back and forth, as though responding to his voice. Then it began to rise in thick, glistening pillars that formed into clawed hands and took hold of Dracula’s arms and legs. They began to pull him down, as if the liquid was as deep as a swimming pool, rather than a millimetre or two lying on a tiled floor; Dracula screamed and thrashed back and forth, but the black hands were implacable; he sank slowly, his resistance utterly futile.

  “Jesus,” said Larissa, her voice low and hoarse.

  Jamie didn’t respond; he was transfixed with horror. Dracula’s legs had disappeared beneath the oily surface, but still he fought, his arms pounding and dragging at the oil, his head thrown back as he screamed for mercy. His waist sank into the liquid as the clawed hands gripped his shoulders and arms, and one slid round his neck, reducing his screams to strangled croaks. As he was dragged relentlessly down, Dracula’s eyes met Jamie’s.

  “Help me,” he whispered. “Please.”

  Jamie held his gaze, ordering himself not to look away. For a long, seemingly endless moment, the first vampire hung suspended, half in and half out of the swirling, glistening liquid. Then the oily hands pulled a final time, and Dracula disappeared beneath the surface.

  Instantly, the black circle began to shrink, drawing in before Jamie’s eyes until it was little more than a black dot, then disappearing completely. The air felt alive, thick and crawling with greasy, crackling power; he could feel every hair on his body standing on end, could feel pain in his teeth and bones. A pulse of energy shuddered through him as the Basilica seemed to flex, as though it had suddenly expanded and contracted back to its normal dimensions.

  Then the air was cold and clear and silent once more; whatever had been there, whatever had flowed out of Dracula’s body and taken him, was gone.

  Jamie simply stared for a long moment, his mind struggling to begin the process of understanding what he had just witnessed. Then his eyes widened as reality came crashing back, and he raced across to where Frankenstein’s body was lying on the cold tiled floor. He slid to his knees beside the monster, and waved Larissa away as she made to follow him.

  “Find blood,” he said. “For the others.”

  She nodded, and sped towards the church doors, leaving him alone with the monster. Frankenstein was still alive, but the pool of blood beneath him was huge and dark; his grey-green skin was almost translucent, and his chest was barely moving. He spluttered, blood running from the corners of his mouth, and fixed his eyes on Jamie’s.

  “It’s going to be OK,” whispered Jamie, his voice thick and choked. “We’ll get help. You’re going to be fine.”

  Frankenstein’s face slowly twisted into a wide, bloody smile. “You’re not much of a liar,” he said, his voice a low croak. “We both know this is where my path ends.”

  “Don’t say that,” Jamie said, fiercely. “Don’t you—”

  The monster’s hand closed over his and squeezed it. “It’s all right,” he whispered. “It’s all right, Jamie.”

  He stared at Frankenstein, his throat sealed shut by the lump that had risen in it. The monster stared back at him, then something changed; one moment the wide, misshapen eyes were locked with his own, the next they were staring at nothing, the light fading from them as Jamie watched.

  No. Oh, please, please no.

  He placed a shaking hand on Frankenstein’s huge chest, willing it to move, willing the monster’s old, battered heart to beat again, and felt nothing.

  Footsteps raced along the aisle and Larissa slid to her knees beside him, a plastic bag filled with bottles of blood in her hand. She dropped them on the tiles, and pulled him against her. He went willingly, his eyes squeezing shut as his face reached her shoulder, and began to cry, great wracking sobs that he could no more have stopped than he could the sun rising in the mor
ning.

  They stayed like that for a long time.

  Paul Turner stared impatiently at his NS9 counterpart.

  “I’m not waiting any longer, Bob,” he said. “Are you coming with me or not?”

  Allen held up a finger as he spoke into his helmet’s microphone. “Understood,” he said. “Get me a report as soon as possible. Out.” He cut the connection and turned towards Turner. “All right, Paul. Let’s go.”

  “About time,” he said, and strode up on to the drawbridge.

  The Blacklight Director understood that Allen, as NATO Commanding Officer on the ground, had a great many things on his mind at this particular moment, but Turner had only one: he wanted to enter the old city, discover what had happened to bring the battle to its sudden conclusion, and find his strike team. Allen joined him on the drawbridge, Ovechkin and Tán and a dozen Operators behind him, and together they walked beneath the towering stone arch and on to the steep cobbled street that ran all the way up to Carcassonne’s summit.

  “I’ve sent a security team back to the camp,” said Allen. “Your vampire Operators are taking the wounded there too.”

  “Good,” said Turner, and nodded. He couldn’t allow himself to think about the losses they had suffered on the ruined landscape at the foot of the hill; there would be more than enough time to dwell on them later. His raised his eyes to the distant Basilica, perched atop the city like a gargoyle, and felt a shiver crawl up his spine.

  What the hell was all that? The black fire, the shock wave. What happened up there?

  They walked up the street in silence, past looted shops and cafés that had been smashed to pieces, over cobblestones strewn with glass and stained with blood. Turner had tried to reach the strike team as soon as it had become clear that the main battle had been won, but had not been able to raise them; as a result, they were walking into the unknown.