Department 19: Zero Hour (77 page)

Dracula forced his mind towards happier thoughts, of the horrors he would inflict on Valentin and the vampire girl and boy when the time came. He plumbed the depths of his memory for the unholiest tortures of his youth, for the punishments that even
he
had considered too savage, too unnatural; for the three vampires who had cost him so dearly, he would revive them all.

Flying behind him in a ragged V were the remnants of Valeri’s followers. There were maybe twenty-five of them; the rest had sprayed their insides out across the courtyard of Château Dauncy, giving their lives in the service of their master. The ones who had survived were soaked with blood that wasn’t theirs, which pleased Dracula. It was never difficult to recruit new meat, desperate acolytes useful for little more than cannon fodder. But these men and women had fought a highly trained enemy and survived; perhaps he would be able to draw some servants who were actually useful from their ranks. The simple fact of their survival suggested either resourcefulness or an aptitude for violence, both qualities that he admired.

The cold night air whistled over his skin as he led the vampires away from the site of their defeat. He had no idea where they would go, not yet; there were places that Valeri had told him about that would be safe, but for now, he was thinking no further than somewhere to lay low, somewhere he could lick his wounds and plot his vengeance. He glanced back over his shoulder, and frowned.

There seemed to be fewer vampires following him.

Dracula rolled in the air, so that he was flying with his back to the ground, and counted.

Sixteen,
he thought.
Where the hell have the rest of them gone?

Then, by the light of the full moon, he saw.

Behind the ragged formation of men and women, two black shapes rose up from the darkness, as quick and silent as birds of prey. They grabbed the two vampires flying at the back, wrapped hands round their mouths and throats, and bore them away towards the distant ground in complete silence, the attacks unnoticed by the rest of the exhausted, defeated vampires.

Rage burst through Dracula. He opened his mouth to scream at his followers, to warn them that they were being picked off, but before the first word was formed, something crashed into him with such force that his first thought was that a meteor had hit him.

He spun through the air, the sky and ground revolving wildly as he fought to steady himself, cries of alarm and shrieks of terror ringing out above him. As he arrested his spin and slowed, he saw Valentin – cursed, treacherous Valentin – smile down at him before rocketing into the remnants of his brother’s army, scattering them in every direction. Dracula righted himself, and was about to pursue the vile traitor who had done so much to undo him when he was hit on the back of the neck by what could only have been a planet, such was the weight of the blow. His eyes spun in his head, his vision greying to nothing, and he dropped towards the distant ground like a dead weight.

Consciousness returned to Dracula as the dark ground rushed up to meet him, alarmingly close. His head was pounding, and his neck felt like it had swollen to twice its usual size; had he been anything less than he was, the blow would surely have broken it. He flailed his arms, engaging the strange, supernatural instinct that controlled his ability to fly, and managed to slow his descent. In the distance, he saw the yellow lights of a cluster of houses, but below him all was dark.

He hit the ground with a sickening crunch; he howled in pain, but rolled over and forced himself to his feet. Valentin and the vampire girl – it was her, he knew it was, it had to be – would be on him quickly, trying to finish him off before he recovered from the fall. He lifted the arm he had landed on and felt the bones grind agonisingly together as a terrible thought filled his head.

I should be stronger than this. Much stronger, and faster. My God, could they actually beat me? Is it truly possible?

The followers he had inherited from Valeri began to land beside him, their eyes wide and full of panic. There were eight of them now, only eight, and no sign of the two traitors who had wrought such chaos. Dracula looked up and searched the sky for them, trying to anticipate their next attack, then leapt out of the way as something fell towards him. He stared at it, his mind churning with revulsion and sudden, awful admiration.

Lying on the ground was a vampire torso. The limbs were all gone, the arms torn out at the shoulders, the legs at mid-thigh, and above the neck was nothing but a ragged, spouting stump.

Thud.

Dracula looked around, his supernaturally sharp eyes searching for the source of the noise.

Thud.

Thud thud.

One of the vampires cried out, her eyes flaring red, her hands scrabbling at her hair. Out of the brown curls flew a severed hand; it fell wetly to the ground, the fingers pale and curled like claws, a ruby ring gleaming brightly on one of them. Then the thuds of falling objects became a drumbeat, as pieces of the vampires they had been flying alongside only minutes earlier poured out of the sky like gruesome rain: legs, hands, faces, ears, fingers, kneecaps, eyeballs, noses, livers, lungs, long strings of intestines, still-beating hearts.

The vampires howled and hissed, rushing back and forth, trying to avoid the falling horror. Dracula merely stared, his eyes wide.

This is what I would have done,
he marvelled.
If I were them. Exactly what I would have done.

Valentin Rusmanov hurled the severed head of a vampire towards the field below and wiped his blood-soaked hands on his uniform. He looked over at Larissa Kinley, floating alongside him, and grinned.

“I think we have their attention,” he said. “What say we put an end to this?”

Larissa growled, her eyes blazing in the darkness.

It was all the answer Valentin needed.

His grin widened, then he rolled elegantly in the air and rocketed towards the ground; he landed in the centre of the wide meadow, barely a second later, and regarded his former master. Dracula was standing with his huge sword in his hands, a look of what almost appeared to be grudging respect on his face. The last of Valeri’s followers – he quickly counted eight of them – were huddled behind the first vampire, their faces contorted with fear. As Larissa touched down beside him, Valentin called to them.

“You vampires who followed my brother,” he said. “Leave now and your lives will be spared. This is your only chance to avoid destruction.”

Dracula growled, and glanced over his shoulder. None of the cowering group of men and women moved, although Valentin could see the desperate desire to do so on several of their faces.

“Fine,” he said, and shrugged. “Have it your way.”

He launched himself towards his former master, his mind pulsing with the pleasure of violence and a feeling he had experienced incredibly rarely over the course of his long life: the satisfaction of being on the side of good, of doing the right thing for once.

Dracula reared back, and swung his sword in a huge killing sweep. Valentin slid beneath it without slowing, and tore into his brother’s followers like a whirlwind. Behind him, he heard a heavy crunch, and a cry of pain from Larissa, but didn’t turn back; he had complete confidence in her ability to handle herself, even against Dracula.

The vampires tried to flee as he barrelled into them, but were far too slow. He decapitated one with a flick of his wrist, sending the man’s head spinning away across the field, leaving his body clutching at nothing. It took two faltering, headless steps before it crashed to the ground, pumping blood. Valentin spun to his left, and swung his fist in a rising backhand that caught a female vampire beneath her chin. She flew into the air as though she had been launched from a catapult, spinning over and over, and disappeared into the darkness.

Two of the vampires leapt into the air and flew for their lives. Valentin let them go; these men and women were a sideshow, and he had no intention of letting them distract him from his real target for a moment longer than necessary. The four remaining vampires fled towards Dracula, presumably hoping for his protection, but as Valentin turned to follow them, he saw that his former master didn’t afford them so much as a glance; he was concentrating wholly on his fight with Larissa.

Fresh blood poured from her nose, and she had been driven back by the blur of Dracula’s sword. She was dodging the heavy swings, darting to her left and right, but there was clear concern on her face; if a single hack or slash connected, the damage would be catastrophic.

Hold on,
thought Valentin.
I’m coming.

He thundered across the bare field and slammed into Dracula’s lower back with the force of a runaway train. The first vampire howled and sank to his knees, the cords in his neck standing out as his head was thrown back. Valentin spun gracefully over him, and landed neatly beside Larissa.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” she growled. “Let’s put him out of his misery.”

Valentin nodded, and looked at Dracula. The first vampire had regained his feet, and was staring at them with a hatred that burned like molten lava. Pain was etched on his face, in the hunch of his shoulders, and Valentin suddenly understood that his former master had realised the truth.

He’s going to die,
he thought.
Right now, in this place. And he knows it.

Dracula raised his sword.

“To the last,” he spat. “I grapple with thee.”

Valentin leapt forward, ready to pull the beating heart from the ancient monster’s chest and show it to him before he died. Larissa leapt too, her arms outstretched, her face a savage mask of pleasure. One of Valeri’s followers threw himself in front of Dracula, his hands raised, perhaps hoping to make some final sacrifice to a master to whom he meant less than nothing. Valentin sped round him as though he wasn’t there, his attention fixed solely on Dracula.

Then Larissa cried out, and he turned back.

The vampire follower had thrust out a hand as she flew past him, and one of his razor-sharp fingernails had sliced a neat, straight line across the vampire girl’s throat. She tumbled from the air, and as Valentin watched, the cut opened up like a widely smiling mouth, blood erupting from it in a high-pressure jet. His eyes widened and he changed course, rotating his body, his feet touching the ground briefly, as he prepared to fly to her assistance.

Then there was movement behind him; a rush of air, a glint of metal. A millisecond later Valentin felt pain, then knew no more.

Larissa cried out as the fingernail slid through her skin.

Her balance was fatally compromised, and she crashed to the ground as blood spurted out of her neck, bright scarlet and steaming hot. She clamped a gloved hand over the wound, felt the heat in her eyes boil up to a temperature that was almost unbearable, and was about to reach for the vampire who had done this to her when she saw Dracula move.

Valentin had arrested his advance and was clearly about to throw himself in her direction when Dracula’s sword rose up between his legs and cut him in half.

The huge blade exited the top of Valentin’s head with a noise like shattering glass, trailing a shocking quantity of blood behind it. The exertion of the blow clearly took it out of Dracula, who staggered backwards, his sword dragging along the ground as though it was suddenly too heavy to lift, but Larissa barely noticed. Her crimson eyes were fixed entirely on Valentin.

The youngest Rusmanov swayed for a long, terrible moment, then collapsed to the ground in two pieces; the huge sword had split him from groin to skull. Steaming organs spilled out of his body, writhing gently in the cold air, as more blood than Larissa had ever seen gushed out on to the ground. One of Valentin’s eyes winked grotesquely as his fingers drummed involuntarily against his legs.

Everyone stopped.

Dracula had sunk down to one knee, his face etched with agony, as the four remaining members of Valeri’s army stared at Valentin, their faces fixed with expressions of horror.

Larissa forced herself to move, to ignore the panic bubbling up inside her. She staggered to her feet, blood pumping out between her gloved fingers, and, with her free hand tore off the head of the vampire who had injured her. His attention was focused on Valentin’s gruesome remains, and she was on him before he even knew she had moved. His head came loose with an awful pop; she threw it aside and buried her face in the stump of his neck, and drank as quickly as she could. She felt the skin beneath her fingers knit back together as she circled away from the remaining vampires, suddenly aware that she was outnumbered.

She was on her own.

Dracula got back to his feet and smiled at her. “A battle has many movements,” he said. “Many changes of momentum. But all that matters is who stands at the end. And you and I still stand.”

The last three vampire acolytes stared at her, their eyes glowing, the terror that had so openly gripped them as she and Valentin descended from the night sky replaced by anger, now that the odds were again in their favour. She met their master’s gaze, then glanced down at where the pieces of Valentin lay steaming and trembling.

And realised something.

He didn’t explode. Why didn’t he explode like all the others? Like his brother?

Larissa circled slowly to her left, keeping her eyes fixed on Dracula and his followers, then glanced downwards again, and saw it. In the left half of Valentin’s rapidly draining chest cavity, in a soup of blood and bile, lay his motionless heart.

Still intact.

“Shall we finish this?” asked Dracula. “Or has your appetite for the fight diminished now you stand alone?”

Larissa growled. She took a step forward, bringing her feet next to Valentin’s remains, and stared at the first vampire. His pale face was full of pain and exhaustion, and she wondered, for a fleeting moment, whether she could take him on her own, whether she could bring an end to the horror, right there and then.

It’s possible,
she thought.
Not likely, not likely at all, but possible.