Department 19: Zero Hour (72 page)

It ran towards the hot, billowing square of the building, racing across the ground, its tongue hanging joyously from the corner of its mouth. The smells of blood and fear intensified as it reached the edge of the battle, triggering sensory explosions inside a mind that was now almost entirely animal, and it accelerated towards a figure at the centre of its vision, a pillar of heat and light and cruel pleasure. The wolf ran forward, relishing the cries of surprise and blooms of terror that accompanied its passing, and leapt gracefully into the air.

For a glorious moment, there was nothing in the entire world except the animal and the cold air rushing over its body. Then it crashed into the glowing figure, its huge front paws sinking their claws into its shoulders and driving it to the ground. The pain that erupted from the pores of the thrashing, squirming vampire was exquisite, and the wolf drove its claws deeper, allowing itself a moment to savour the resulting scream. Then it turned its long snout to the side, opened a mouth full of teeth the length of carving knives, and clamped its jaws round the vampire’s throat.

A gout of blood, hot and bittersweet, spurted from the torn jugular, filling the wolf’s mouth. The animal reared back, tearing out the meat and muscle of the neck and leaving the vampire’s head attached by only the dripping bones of his spine, and swallowed. Blood and flesh tumbled down its gullet and a sensation spread through its body that was far more than just pleasure; it was a deep sense of
happiness
.

The wolf threw back its head and howled, a vast sound that chilled the bones of everyone who heard it. Then it charged across the battlefield, the stricken vampire already forgotten, its mind focused entirely on its next kill.

Valentin Rusmanov watched the massive grey-green wolf stalk a vampire who had to be at least in his early forties, and allowed himself a small smile.

The vampire was backpedalling furiously, his hands raised in a futile gesture of surrender as the animal came for him, its snout low to the ground, a growl that sounded strangely close to laughter rumbling from its blood-soaked muzzle. It was toying with him, swiping its huge paws lazily through the air, until it eventually got bored and leapt forward, pinning the screaming, pleading vampire to the ground. As the jaws snapped shut and the scream was silenced, Valentin found himself empathising with the misshapen creature.

He was bored too.

As he moved forward with the rest of Red Team, he had felt an emotion that he had not been expecting: a strong, strange rush of nostalgia. When he looked back on the life he had led as a human, it was predominantly with a sense of shame; not for the things he had done to men and women who had not deserved them, but for the meek, subservient creature he had once been. He had turned his back on his family after Dracula had been rendered dormant by Van Helsing and his friends, and he had never regretted the decision for a single moment; if anything, he wished he had made it sooner. But as he flew forward, his eyes full of fire, with an enemy before him and comrades at his sides, nostalgia had filled him, if only for a moment. He had fought so many battles, against so many enemies, and there was always a moment when the reasons and the justifications faded away, leaving only the fighting itself, short and violent and thrilling, and the outcome.

Win or lose.

Live or die.

Valentin had destroyed three vampires within the first two minutes of the battle, tearing out their hearts and crushing them before they had time to realise what had befallen them; they had burst with looks of genuine surprise on their faces. His uniform was already coated with steaming blood and strings of exploded flesh, but he paid the mess no attention; his eyes glowed crimson as he slid through the flailing, swinging vampires, as quick and sure-footed as they were panicked and undisciplined. The number of punches and kicks and swipes of clubs and blades aimed at him made it clear that he was a highly sought-after target, the result, no doubt, of orders given by his older brother, or his former master, or both. But Valentin was so much more powerful than the average vampire that he might as well have been a different species, and not a single hand had been laid on him thus far.

He had leapt clear of the flying remains of his third kill, then grabbed a vampire who had been about to sink his fangs into the throat of one of the South African Operators and raised him into the air. He hurled the squirming man to the gravel, heard his bones break with a satisfying series of crunches, and was moving again before the Operator had time to thank him. He scanned the battlefield with his supernatural eyes, searching for bigger game.

Valentin knew that it would ultimately make no difference how many of his brother’s followers they destroyed; there would always be more, men and women desperate and unhappy enough to voluntarily enslave themselves to the whims of monsters. If he and the Operators destroyed every single one, but Valeri and Dracula survived, then it would all have been for nothing; the men and women lying dead and dying on the gravel would have given their lives for no reason.

He saw no sign yet of his former master on the battlefield, although this was no surprise; until the last frantic months of his final reign as the Prince of Wallachia, Dracula had overseen his battles from astride his horse, surrounded by his royal guard. Valentin knew that the first vampire would be itching to spill blood, but he also knew that he would resist the urge unless his involvement became necessary; Dracula was a General, not a soldier.

Valeri, on the other hand, had never had any such reservations.

Valentin’s eyes darkened and a grin rose on to his face as he saw his brother tear off an Operator’s arm and throw it almost casually into the distant trees. Valeri kicked the howling man to the ground and pinned his shoulders with his knees, his hands balled into fists, his huge shoulders hunched, his face a mask of grim determination.

Valentin slid left until he was directly behind his preoccupied brother, then flew silently towards him, his fangs gleaming in the bright light of the full moon.

Jamie leapt into the air, his stake in his hand, and collided with a snarling female vampire; the metal point punctured her torso just below her ribs, and he pushed it up, blood pouring out over his wrist and down his arm, until it pierced her heart. Her eyes flew wide, the red light in them fading away, and then she burst, showering him with steaming blood. Jamie hung in the air, his eyes glowing, his fangs huge and gleaming, and surveyed the carnage being unleashed around him.

The air was thick with the smoke of gunfire and the coppery smell of freshly spilled blood. The fighting had spread out across the wide courtyard, pockets of black-clad Operators standing their ground against a horde of vampires who swooped through the air, growling and snarling and trailing red light.

Screams of pain and fear punctured the heavy rattle of guns and T-Bones, and patches of the gravel were soaked almost black with blood. Frankenstein was charging through the chaos in his wolf form like a missile, tearing and clawing and biting as vampires hurled themselves out of his reach. In the distance, Jamie saw Jack Williams fire his T-Bone, spearing a vamp out of the air and hauling her to the ground, where she popped like a balloon full of blood. He could not, even with his supernatural eyesight, identify any of the fallen Operators; in almost every case, their visors covered their faces.

Jamie looked round and saw Valentin Rusmanov approaching his brother from behind; Valeri seemed oblivious, his attention fixed on the Operator he was pummelling into soup with his huge, pale fists. He was about to fly to Valentin’s side, to help him move on the operation’s second highest priority, when something incredibly strong grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him round. Jamie reared back, cursing himself for losing focus, for staying still for too long, then saw who had taken hold of him.

“Jesus, Larissa,” he said. “You scared me half to death.”

His girlfriend grinned, her mouth and chin smeared with blood, her eyes boiling crimson-black. There was no sign of her helmet; she had presumably cast it aside at some point after the fighting had begun.

She could have shouted,
he thought, as he looked into her eyes.
She could have said my name. But she
wanted
to scare me. Her vampire side is completely in charge.

“Go and find Henry,” said Larissa. “Now, while we’ve got them on the ropes.”

“Find him?” said Jamie, and motioned towards the ruined château. “In there?”

Larissa nodded. “He’s still alive,” she said. “I can smell him. Can’t you?”

Jamie tipped back his head and inhaled deeply. “No,” he said. “I can’t.”

“I can,” she growled.

“All right,” said Jamie. “Then come with me.”

Larissa shook her head. “It doesn’t need both of us,” she said. “I’m more useful out here.”

Jamie glanced down at the gloved hands that were holding him; they looked like they had been painted red.

If I run into Dracula inside the château, I might need you,
he thought.
But that wasn’t what you really meant, was it? You don’t want to come with me because you’re having too much fun out here.

“Fine,” he said. “Stay here.”

She grinned, then rocketed away without another word. Jamie watched her go, wondering how many times already her twisted grin had been the last thing a vampire saw.

“Jamie,” shouted a familiar voice from the ground below him. He looked down and saw Angela Darcy looking up at him, her visor pushed back, her face pale.

“Angela,” said Jamie. “Are you OK?”

“Surviving,” she said. “Are you going for Admiral Seward?”

“Yes,” he said. “I am.”

Angela smiled, an expression that contained far more anger than humour. “Good,” she said. “Then let’s go.”

Paul Turner threw himself to the ground as the wolf bounded past him, its yellow eyes locked on the shape of a fleeing vampire. The animal, growling with what seemed to Turner like utter delight, swung a huge paw at him as it passed, but he didn’t take it personally; he didn’t think it wanted to hurt him, but rather that its instinct to chase and hunt was now simply too powerful to overcome.

He scrambled back to his feet, his MP7 in his hands, and sent a volley of fire into a vampire that was flying towards him with a hungry look on her blood-streaked face. The bullets punched a patchwork of holes in her stomach, and her expression changed to one of agony as she turned and fled, trailing blood and purple guts behind her as she broke for the trees. Turner smiled narrowly as she disappeared from view, then surveyed the battle, regaining his bearings.

A single thought was pounding through his mind, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it.

We might win this. We might actually win this thing.

Casualties on both sides were already appalling, but crucially, at least as far as he could tell with the naked eye and through the filters of his visor, they were worse for the vamps than for the Combined Operational Force. The release of Frankenstein in his wolf form had caused panic among Valeri’s followers, perfectly understandably; they had not expected to be confronted with a wild animal the size of a small car as well as Operators with all their weapons and training. Frankenstein had been the second, and last, of the tricks Cal Holmwood had been able to put up his sleeve at such short notice, and while it had not been as loud or explosive as the surprise that Bob Allen had arranged, it was proving highly effective; now it would come down to the men and women who were fighting so fiercely for each other, and for the future of the world.

Across the courtyard, he saw Cal Holmwood raise an arm, and sweep it forward. The Operators of Blue Team swarmed out from among the transport helicopters and joined the fight, their weapons thundering.

The thought appeared in Turner’s mind again, unbidden but even more insistent.

We might win this
.
Damn it, we really might.

Jamie raced towards the ruins of Château Dauncy, Angela Darcy sprinting at his side.

Smoking rubble piled up before them, teetering unsteadily as flames from a hundred small fires licked at it, the smoke and dust almost obscuring the remains of a door frame in the corner of the shattered space, and the stairs that led down from beneath it. Jamie pointed, but Angela was already moving, clambering over fallen stone and shattered wood and descending the stairs, her T-Bone resting easily against her shoulder. He grinned, and followed her.

At the bottom of the stairs stood a stone passage, leading away to the left and right. Pieces of the vampires who had been too close to the entrance when the Apaches turned on their ultraviolet beams were spread across the walls and floor, charred lumps that smoked in the cold air. The smell was nauseating, sweet and rotten.

“Which way?” asked Angela.

Jamie tilted back his head and stretched his newly improved senses, searching past the aroma of burning meat for some sign of Henry Seward: the sound of his voice, a mention of his name, the essential
scent
of the Blacklight Director. He could smell blood, and fire, the sweet heady perfume of wine, and somewhere in the distance he could hear a woman’s steady, terrified weeping. He pushed harder, concentrating until his head felt like it was going to burst, and was rewarded; from somewhere in the distance, his nose picked up a familiar smell.

“This way,” he said, and flew quickly down the passage to the left. Angela followed him, her feet thudding on the stone floor. They passed a fallen vampire, crushed beneath a section of wall that had collapsed under the impact of the bomb, but still alive. He clawed weakly at them as they passed, his flickering red eyes seeming to focus on nothing; Angela skidded to a halt, and drew her stake from her belt.

“Leave him,” said Jamie, his eyes flaring. “He’s not what we’re here for.”

Angela nodded, replaced the stake, and followed him deeper into the cellars. They passed stone archways that opened on to square rooms full of wine racks that would have kept even the most discerning of oenophiles in raptures until their dying day. Several had been tipped over, covering the floors with broken glass and liquid that looked like blood, and smelt almost as sweet.