by William Hill
ROUND TWO
Jamie marched along the cellblock corridor, Frankenstein following a couple of steps behind. Jamie had refused to go to the infirmary and have his neck properly dressed, had not even changed his acrid-smelling uniform. Several Blacklight operators had stared at the white wad of bandages as he stormed through the hangar, the huge colonel following in his wake.
Jamie stopped in front of Larissa’s cell, the UV wall shimmering in front of him. She was lying on her bed, her eyes already fixed on him, as though she had been expecting him to arrive. Then Jamie realized that she had probably heard him from the first moment he entered the block; he found it strangely easy to forget that she was a vampire.
She smiled at him, and then the smile died on her lips as Frankenstein stepped into her field of vision and stood next to Jamie. She had a book splayed over her lap, and she immediately brought it up to her face, obscuring it from their view.
“I need to talk to you,” said Jamie.
The book didn’t move.
“Did you hear me?” he asked, anger rising in his voice. “I said I need to talk to you.”
“I heard you,” said Larissa, from behind the book. “And there’s nothing I’d like more in the world than to talk to you back. But I don’t do threesomes.”
Frankenstein muttered something under his breath.
“Nothing personal,” said Larissa.
Jamie looked at the monster, ready to plead with him to leave them alone, but Frankenstein was already turning away from him.
“Thank you,” he shouted, as the huge man’s footsteps thumped away along the corridor. When the door at the end of the block clanged shut, Larissa put the book down, jumped off the bed, and walked over to him, a wide smile on her face.
“I knew you would be back,” she said.
“This isn’t a social visit,” Jamie said, sharply.
Her eyes dropped from his as he spoke, and then widened as she observed the bandage over the right side of his neck. “What happened to you?” she asked. “Don’t tell me someone bit you?”
The concern in her voice made Jamie’s heart flutter. “Nothing like that,” he replied. “I got burned. On a mission.”
“A mission!” she exclaimed. “Was it a super secret one? I bet it was. Ooh, tell me all about it!”
Jamie blushed a deep scarlet, and Larissa laughed.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You just looked so serious with your bandaged neck and your dirty uniform. Did you come down here to tell me off?”
“I came down here to ask you about Alexandru,” he said. “I came down here because I thought you might be the one person willing to help me.”
Larissa tilted her head to one side and fluttered her eyelashes.
“That’s so sweet,” she said, choking back fake emotion. “Am I your only hope?”
Jamie turned away from her and strode up the corridor, forcing himself to slow his pace, determined that he would not run away.
“Wait,” she called, and he stopped. “Please. Come back. I was only playing.”
He stood in the corridor, between two empty cells, breathing hard. It was embarrassment that had caused him to run, embarrassment that she was not taking him seriously. And although he couldn’t have explained why, it was imperative to him that she do so. He composed himself and walked slowly back to her cell.
She smiled as he reappeared, but he saw the last flicker of genuine concern on her face, and he was glad.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I haven’t spoken to anyone for two days. The guards don’t even look at me.”
Then they’re idiots, Jamie thought, and blushed.
Larissa sat down cross-legged on the floor of her cell, and waited for him to do the same. He folded himself crouching to the ground, carefully, moving his neck as little as was possible, and then they were facing each other, no more than three feet apart, the UV field flickering between them.
“Will you tell me where Alexandru is?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know. Honestly.”
“Will you tell me where the last place you saw him was?”
She shook her head again, causing a lock of dark hair to fall across her forehead. Jamie tried not to look at it; the urge to brush it away was overwhelming.
“Why not?”
“Because if I tell you, I’ll never leave this cell again.”
“I can talk to them-”
“It won’t work. I’ll take you there, but I won’t tell you. I hope you can understand the difference.”
Jamie lowered his head. He knew she was right. If she admitted to not knowing anything, Seward would have her destroyed; if she told him what she did know, Seward would have her destroyed. Her only chance was to admit she had information, refuse to reveal it, and hope they became desperate enough to play the game on her terms.
He looked up. “So, you’re useless then?” he said, as spitefully as he was able.
She flinched, and a tremor of hurt rippled momentarily across her face.
Good. Good.
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you,” she said, sounding for the first time like the teenager she had been before she was turned. “I just won’t tell you where I last saw Alexandru. Ask me something else.”
“There’s nothing else I want to know.”
“Really?”
“Really. All that matters is him-and my mother.”
“You’re really worried about her, aren’t you?”
Jamie looked at her. “Of course I am,” he said.
“You should be. You have no idea what Alexandru is capable of.”
A shiver ran up Jamie’s spine.
I don’t want to hear this. I know I need to, but I don’t want to.
“What’s he like?” he asked, cautiously.
“He’s the second oldest vampire in the world,” Larissa replied. “He does whatever he wants, whenever he wants. He kills humans for food, he kills vampires and humans for fun. There’s nothing you can do to stop him.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“You need to. You’ll get hurt if you don’t. And I don’t want to see that happen.” She smiled at him, and he felt his stomach revolve. “A year ago, a girl who was running with him killed a farmer in Cornwall,” she continued. “She came back to the place we were staying covered in his blood, absolutely dripping with it. Anderson asked her if anyone had seen her, and she confessed that the man’s family might have seen her leaving the barn where she found him.”
“What happened?” asked Jamie.
“Alexandru tore her to pieces. In front of everyone, he pulled this poor, stupid girl limb from limb and laughed at her as she screamed. There were probably twenty vampires in the room, some of them old, all of them powerful, and no one said a word. Or looked away. Even when he ate her heart.”
Jamie felt bile rise in his stomach.
“He sent Anderson out to the farm the girl had come from,” she continued. “Anderson killed the farmer’s family-his wife-and three children. He cut their throats and let them bleed out on the kitchen floor, staring at each other as they died.” Larissa looked at him, a gentle expression on her face. “ That’s what Alexandru is like,” she said, softly. “He’s an animal. A clever, cunning animal, who delights in violence and mayhem. He’s stronger and faster than anyone on the planet, human or vampire, and he can sense danger before it appears. You can’t trick him, or sneak up on him, and you certainly can’t fight him.”
Jamie stared at her, hopelessness filling his chest. “Then what am I supposed to do?” he asked.
“That’s easy. You’re supposed to make sure you never cross his path. But that’s not an option for you, is it?”
“Not really.”
“In that case I don’t know what you’re supposed to do. I don’t see any way you pursuing Alexandru ends with anything apart from him killing you.” Larissa looked at the disconsolate expression on Jamie’s face, and
sympathy overwhelmed her. “I’m not the authority on Alexandru,” she said, gently. “Talk to people. Maybe someone knows something I don’t.”
Jamie looked at her, and his pale blue eyes were heavy with despair. “No one will tell me anything,” he said, his voice cracking. “They’re all terrified of him. No one will risk him finding out they talked to me.”
“Talk to the monster.”
“Why?”
“Because all this started with your dad. And my understanding is they were close.”
“Frankenstein said the same thing.”
“Ask him about Ilyana. Ask him about Hungary. Ask him why he hasn’t told you about it already. And if you’re feeling brave, ask him whose side he’s really on.”
Jamie felt a wave of nausea shoot through him. “Thank you,” he said, stiffly.
She flashed him a dazzling smile and reclined on the floor of her cell. Her gray shirt rode up, exposing a band of pale midriff, and Jamie fought the urge to stare at it.
“Always glad to be of service,” she said.
He knocked on the door to Frankenstein’s quarters, and waited. It was late, well past midnight, but he doubted the monster would be asleep. He had been standing in the corridor for almost fifteen minutes, preparing himself, thinking about his father, really thinking about his father for the first time since his life had been turned upside down.
He had rejected the things Seward had told him, out of hand. The thought that his dad could have betrayed his friends and allied himself with someone like Alexandru was impossible for him to accept.
But then he had thought about his mother, asking her husband every evening, year after year, how his day had been, and thought about his father smiling and lying to her face, inventing people who didn’t exist and stories that hadn’t happened, and his faith in the man he had loved more than any other had been shaken.
Larissa was right: He needed to know more about Julian Carpenter, about the real man his father had been.
There was a shuffling noise from behind the door, then it opened, and a huge face loomed out of the darkened room.
“Is something wrong?” the monster grunted.
Jamie shook his head.
“So why are you here?”
“I want to ask you some questions.”
“About what?”
“About my dad.”
Frankenstein looked at the teenager for a long moment, then sighed deeply. “Give me five minutes,” he said, and closed the door.
24
THE CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS, PART III
New York, USA
January 1, 1929
“ Happy New Year, Mr. Carpenter,” said Valentin, in a smooth, gentle voice. “I wonder if it will be your last?”
Carpenter turned slowly to face him. The man’s eyes now shone red, a red that was somehow simultaneously both dark and bright against the pale perfection of his skin.
“Do you know me?” Valentin continued.
Carpenter nodded.
“Good. We are well met, and I welcome you to my home. Although why you are here is a question that interests me a great deal.”
Valentin glanced over at someone in the crowd and nodded. There was a commotion as the guests parted, creating a path to where Carpenter and Valentin stood. Through this gap two large men in white tie appeared, dragging a barely conscious Frankenstein between them and depositing him heavily onto the floor. The monster’s eyes rolled in his head, his mouth hanging stupidly open.
Carpenter made to kneel next to the fallen man, but Valentin told him sharply to stay where he was, and he forced himself to comply.
“Your friend has an impressive appetite for opium,” said Valentin. “It isn’t easy to incapacitate a man of his size, but we persevered.” He smiled at Carpenter, but when he spoke again, his voice contained not a trace of humor. “Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, are you here to kill me?”
Carpenter was surprised to find his equilibrium returning; the likely inevitability of his death had sunk into him, and he was determined that he would not show this creature fear if he could help it.
“No,” he replied. “That is not my mission. But I would certainly consider it a bonus.”
Valentin took half a step toward him, his teeth bared, an awful, serpentine hiss rising in his throat, then quickly regained his composure and laughed-a high, feminine sound that echoed around the cavernous ballroom.
“I admire your honesty,” he said. “Most refreshing. So, if you are not here for me, who are you here for? Given what I know of your father and his friends, I am disinclined to believe you are in New York for a holiday. Am I correct?”
“You are. I came here for one of your guests.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“Jeremiah Haslett.”
A low murmur of interest rolled through the crowd.
“And what has Mr. Haslett done to warrant transatlantic pursuit?”
“His crimes are too numerous to list. But they are also largely irrelevant; he is a vampire, and that alone is enough to warrant his extermination.”
The crowd around him pulsed and hissed, but he felt no fear; it was already clear to him that Valentin alone was going to decide his fate, that the crowd of snarling vampires would do nothing without his permission.
Their host regarded him for a long moment, then spoke. “Bring Mr. Haslett before me.”
There was a cry of outrage from within the crowd, and then a commotion as the skeletal figure of Jeremiah Haslett was gripped by four vampire men and dragged through the revelers. He was thrown to his knees before Valentin, spluttering and protesting. He rose to his feet, brushing down his dinner jacket, and in an act that must have required superhuman will, Frankenstein did the same, his eyes focusing more clearly on Carpenter, a look of terrible shame on his huge face.
The four figures stood in a circle, eyeing each other.
“What to do?” mused Valentin.
“What on earth do you mean?” cried Haslett. “There is no decision to be made here, surely? Kill him, and this abomination as well, and let us return to our celebration.”
“Be quiet, Mr. Haslett,” said Valentin.
Haslett blustered, his face reddening, but did as he was told.
“Mr. Carpenter,” Valentin continued, almost cheerfully. “What do you think we should do about this unfortunate situation?”
“Let us leave,” replied Carpenter, instantly. “We will go without a fuss, and you will not see us again.”
Around him, the vampires howled with derisory laughter. Valentin didn’t even smile. “Why should I do that?” he asked.
Carpenter took a deep breath.
Please. Please let this work.
He slipped his dinner jacket off and pushed his cummerbund down to his waist. Beneath it was a leather belt, wrapped tightly with three rows of light brown sticks. Inserted into the one nearest the belt buckle was a brass fuse, wired to a trigger that was now resting lightly in John Carpenter’s hand. “Because of this,” he replied. “This is gelignite. And it will bring this entire house down on all our heads unless you do as I say.”
There were gasps and shouts from the assembled vampires. Valentin made no sound but regarded him with a look of genuine admiration.
“Bravo, Mr. Carpenter,” he said. “It is rare to be confronted with a man who is genuinely prepared to die for what he believes in. Bravo.” He looked at Haslett, whose narrow face was white with fear, then at his guests, then back to John Carpenter. “You may go,” he said.
There was a communal howl of anger from the crowd, and a bellow of objection from Haslett. Valentin’s eyes flared crimson, and he stepped into the air, hovering a foot above the ground, so that everyone in the room could see his pale, beautiful face.
“Silence,” he roared. “You will do as I say, or none of you will see another night sky.” The room fell silent, and he looked down at Carpenter. “You are free to go,” he said. “I am sure we will see each other again, and I’m capa
ble of patience.”
“What?” screamed Haslett. “He’s free to go? He came here tonight to kill me.”
“That’s right,” replied Valentin. “He did. It’s because of you that he is here.” He looked at the crowd. “Take him,” he said. Haslett opened his mouth to say something, but the words died in his throat as the first vampire landed on him. A second leapt from the crowd, then a third, and he screamed as he was borne to the ground, disappearing under a blur of dinner jackets and ball gowns. Tearing sounds, horribly loud, came from within the squirming pile of bodies, and Haslett’s screams reached an earsplitting pitch as dark red liquid began to seep out across the marble floor.
Carpenter turned away, nausea rising in his stomach.
“Look!” shouted Valentin. “This is why you are here, so look!”
Carpenter turned back and watched.
Eventually the screams stopped, and the vampires began to stand up, their clothes and faces drenched in crimson blood. They stared at him with frenzied hunger in their eyes.
“I suggest you leave now, Mr. Carpenter,” Valentin said.
“I will not leave without him,” Carpenter replied, gesturing at Frankenstein, who stared at him with an uncomprehending look on his face.
“Fine,” Valentin replied. “Take him with you. In truth, I cannot imagine anything worse than the taste of his warmed-over blood.”
Carpenter stepped forward, gripping the trigger tightly in his hand, and put his other hand on Frankenstein’s shoulder. “Can you walk?” he asked, in a low voice.
Frankenstein nodded.
“All right,” said Carpenter. “Follow me. Slowly.” He turned around and walked carefully toward the crowd of vampires, who stepped out of his way, reluctance painted openly on their faces.
The two men walked between the silent, red-eyed guests, to the wide double door that they had come through, less than an hour earlier. Carpenter took the carved wooden handle in his hand and was about to turn it when Valentin’s voice echoed across the ballroom, and he turned to face the pale vampire.
“Our paths will cross again, Mr. Carpenter,” he said, happily. “Of that, I have no doubt. Happy New Year.”
