Department 19: Zero Hour (8 page)

Colonel Victor Frankenstein closed his eyes, hoping the billowing rush of gas would clear his mind.

The unnaturally long span of his life had contained many occasions that prompted him to consider the limits of the oath he had sworn to John Carpenter as the snow fell on Manhattan in the first hours of 1929. It appeared to be simplicity itself: protect the Carpenter family. But he had come to understand that there were
two
meanings to the promise he had made: protecting the Carpenters from the external dangers that seemed endlessly drawn to the family, and protecting them from themselves.

As far as the first interpretation was concerned, he had done his duty, and done it well. John had lived to be an old man, in no small part thanks to Frankenstein’s interventions and watchful eye; even the recent revelation, that John had simultaneously struck a clandestine deal with Valentin Rusmanov in which Operator and vampire agreed not to pursue each other, did little to undermine the monster’s sense of achievement.

He had similarly saved Julian Carpenter’s life more times than he could remember; had stopped nails and fangs meant for his neck, had stood at his side as bullets and blades flew, and accompanied him safely back to the Loop night after long, dark night. And when the time came, he had done the same for Julian’s son; he had gone to Lindisfarne, his ears ringing with rebuke, had stood with Jamie as he faced down Alexandru Rusmanov, and watched with great pride as the boy’s quick thinking and bravery had ultimately won the day.

But the second interpretation? Protecting the Carpenters from themselves? On that count, he was not so sure.

Frankenstein had warned Julian in the aftermath of HUMMINGBIRD, the Priority Level 1 operation to Budapest that had seen Jamie’s father destroy Ilyana, the wife of Alexandru Rusmanov, that repercussions for his actions were inevitable. But Julian, whom he had loved like a brother, and who possessed enormous capacities for kindness and loyalty, had also carried within himself an infuriating streak of arrogance. When Alexandru’s revenge finally came, made possible by the traitor Thomas Morris, it had taken Julian by surprise. And although Frankenstein was one of only two people who really knew what happened the night that Julian died, he would always believe that he had failed to protect his friend from himself.

Now, barely more than two years later, he was already beginning to wonder if he wasn’t failing Julian’s son the same way. Jamie was similar to his father in so many ways: brave, headstrong, rebellious, loyal, utterly maddening, with a profound distaste for being told what to do, even when the advice was genuinely meant. He had seen for himself exactly how dangerous vampires were, yet was now in some kind of unnatural relationship with one of them, over the objections of both Frankenstein and his mother. He had also led an almost suicidally risky operation into the Parisian underworld to rescue the monster himself, which, although Frankenstein would always be grateful, had been remarkably ill-advised.

Finally, and worst of all, had been the bizarre relationship that Jamie had struck up with Valentin Rusmanov during the vampire’s captivity in the Loop. Despite, or possibly
because
of, Frankenstein’s explicit instruction that he not talk to Valentin under any circumstances, Jamie had become a regular visitor to the ancient vampire’s cell. Frankenstein had gone down to the cell block and warned Valentin not to speak to Jamie again, making it clear that he, unlike some inside the Loop, would never trust a single poisonous word that emerged from the vampire’s mouth.

Valentin’s response had cut him to the bone; he had suggested that Frankenstein concern himself with why Jamie was going to a vampire for guidance, rather than to the monster who had sworn to protect him.

Frankenstein
had
wondered. And wondered.

And now he was on his way to talk to the one other person who might know.

The gas dissipated and the airlock’s inner door swung open to reveal the long central corridor of Level H, the Loop’s detention block. As he neared the last cell on the left, his footsteps echoing loudly in the still, silent space, he paused; he was momentarily overcome by an absurd urge to brush down his uniform and straighten his hair. He pushed it away, smiling to himself, and walked out in front of the cell.

Marie Carpenter looked up from a worn sofa and gasped; her eyes flared a deep, glowing red, and her face, which was every bit as beautiful as Julian had repeatedly described it, time and time again, curdled into a mask of revulsion. It was gone almost instantly, replaced by a warm, polite expression that he imagined would once have greeted visitors to the Carpenter family home, but it had been there; they both knew it.

For Frankenstein, it was nothing new; his appearance had been causing shock and dismay for well over a century and a half. But it still hurt.

“I’m so sorry,” said Marie, getting to her feet and approaching the ultraviolet barrier that formed the front wall of her cell. Her face was colouring pink with embarrassment. “That was awful of me. I just … I wasn’t expecting it to be you. Please forgive me.”

Frankenstein forced a smile. “It’s all right, Mrs Carpenter,” he said. “At least you didn’t scream.” It was a small joke, but it managed to crack the ice, if not break it entirely.

“Call me Marie,” said Jamie’s mother, smiling back at him. “And do come in, please.”

Frankenstein nodded and stepped through the purple barrier, feeling his skin tingle as he did so. He extended a hand, which Marie shook without hesitation.

“Victor Frankenstein,” he said, more formally than he meant to.

“Marie Carpenter,” replied Jamie’s mother. “I saw you on Lindisfarne, but it’s lovely to properly meet you. Although Jamie has told me so much about you that I feel like I know you already.”

“Likewise,” said Frankenstein. “He speaks about you with such love. His father did the same.”

Marie winced, then quickly rallied. “I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “I suspect you knew Julian far better than I ever really did.”

Frankenstein shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “The man who came home to you every night was the man he was. He only lied about what he did for a living.”

“Quite a big lie, though, wouldn’t you say?” said Marie, forcing a sad, narrow smile.

“Yes,” said Frankenstein. “I would. I know he hated having to do it, if that’s any consolation.”

“It is,” said Marie. “Not a lot, but it is. Henry Seward told me the same thing.”

Silence settled over the cell, a silence in which the weight of the past hung palpably in the air. In the distance, Frankenstein heard the airlock door open.

“Anyway,” said Marie, shaking her head and smiling more genuinely, “I stopped being angry with Julian a long time ago. And I’m sure you didn’t come down here to talk about such gloomy matters?”

“No,” said Frankenstein, relief at the change of subject clear in his voice. “I didn’t come to talk about your husband. I came to talk about your son.”

Marie’s smile faded. “I thought as much,” she said. “What has he done now?”

“He’s not in any trouble,” said Frankenstein, quickly. “I don’t know what he’s told you about me, or about—”

“He told me about the vow you made,” interrupted Marie, her voice low. “To protect our family. He told me about that, Victor.”

“I’m glad,” said Frankenstein, feeling rare warmth spread through him. “I didn’t know whether he would have.”

Marie nodded. “He told me you knew Julian’s father when he was young, which is hard for me to imagine. When Julian and I got married, he already seemed old. Jamie never even met him.”

“I knew him very well,” said Frankenstein. “And he would be very proud of his grandson, that much I can say for certain.”

An expression of love, so fierce that it almost made Frankenstein take a step backwards, appeared on Marie’s face.

“So he should be,” she said, colour rising to her cheeks. “Jamie’s a good boy, and his heart’s in the right place. He means everything to me.”

“And to me,” said Frankenstein. “I have done my best to protect three generations of Carpenters, and Jamie is at least the equal of the men who went before him. I will protect him till the day I die, from anyone or anything that seeks to do him harm, and from himself, when necessary. But lately …”

“What?” asked Marie. Tears were standing in the corners of her eyes, the product of Frankenstein’s obvious love for her son. “Go on, please.”

“Lately, I’ve felt like I’m failing him,” said Frankenstein, and grimaced; the words tasted bitter as he spoke them out loud. “I feel like I’m doing him more harm than good, that I’m hindering him rather than helping. I no longer know whether I’m keeping the promise I made.”

Marie stared at him, her eyes wide and rimmed with tears. “Don’t say that,” she said. “Don’t ever say that. I know you rescued him from Alexandru the night I was taken, and I know that you threatened to resign if he wasn’t allowed to try and find me. I know you went to Lindisfarne even though Jamie had told you not to, when he had listened to the poison Thomas Morris put in his ear. So don’t you ever say you’re failing him. He and I would both be dead if it wasn’t for you.”

“Thank you,” said Frankenstein, his voice a low rumble. “I didn’t know how much you knew. It means a lot.”

“Good,” said Marie, firmly. “Because I meant it. I know what thinking you’ve failed feels like, believe me I do. I felt it every day for two years after Julian died, like I was putting the memory of a dead man above the son who needed me, but I didn’t know how to stop myself. I look at the list of men he’s tried to replace his father with, whether he knows he’s doing it or not, and my heart aches for him. You, Henry Seward, Cal Holmwood, Paul Turner, even Valentin Rusmanov, for God’s sake. It makes me feel like I’m still failing, because why would he try so hard unless I’m not enough for him?”

Marie’s tears brimmed over and spilled down her cheeks. She made no attempt to hide them; they gleamed under the fluorescent light of the cell as they rolled towards her neck.

“Jamie knows you love him,” said Frankenstein. “And he went through hell to get you back. He’s a teenage boy in a world full of alpha males, men who are brave and wise and capable, who are everything any child would like their father to be. The tragedy is that his father
was
one of those men; he just never knew until it was too late. I think he’s trying to understand the man Julian was, and is drawn to men who are like him. I don’t think it’s criticism of you, or rejection.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Marie. “He was so
angry
with me after Julian died. We were always at each other’s throats. Sometimes it feels like he’s trying to hurt me, even if he doesn’t realise. Look at him now, with that Larissa creature. Even after what happened to me, to his father, and all the other people he’s seen get hurt, he decides to go out with a vampire. Even though there are normal,
human
girls like Kate for him to be interested in. Why would he do such a thing?”

“I think it’s called being a teenager,” said Frankenstein, and smiled. “I never was one, so I can’t speak from personal experience, but there seems to be nothing more boring to a teenager than what is good for them, and nothing more horrifying than parental approval.”

Marie managed a small smile of her own. “I hope so,” she said. “I hope that’s what it is, I really do. Because I don’t know what I’d do if—”

She stopped abruptly, tilted her head back, and gasped. Then her eyes flamed scarlet, and a furious expression twisted her features.

“Don’t you know it’s rude to eavesdrop?” she shouted, turning her head and staring out at the corridor. Frankenstein followed her gaze, and felt cold fingers dance up his misshapen spine as Jamie Carpenter stepped silently out in front of the cell.

“How long have you been standing there?” he managed.

Jamie shrugged. “Long enough.”

“How dare you listen in on a private conversation?” said Marie, her eyes glowing fiercely. “Didn’t I bring you up better than that?”

“A private conversation?” repeated Jamie, and grunted with laughter. “Is that what this is? Because it sounds to me like two people giving me a psych evaluation without even doing me the courtesy of letting me speak for myself. And trying to let my dad off the hook for being stupid enough to get himself killed.”

“Jamie!” shrieked Marie. “How dare you speak to Victor and I like that?”

“Of all the people in the world,” said Frankenstein, trying his hardest to keep his temper, to keep anger and the shame of being caught out of his voice, “surely
you
understand why he did what he did?”

“Why he didn’t go to you when Tom Morris framed him?” asked Jamie. “Or to Henry Seward, or Cal Holmwood? Why he ended up lying dead on our drive instead of trusting his friends to help him when he was in trouble? I don’t understand that, no.”

“He was trying to protect you,” said Frankenstein. “Both of you. If you can’t see that, then—”

“Then what?” interrupted Jamie. “I know what he went through, I really do. I’ve seen it for myself, and I get why he had to lie to us about what he did for a living. I’ve honestly forgiven him for it. I was furious with him for leaving us for such a long time, but I’m not angry any more. I’m just disappointed.”

“Don’t you miss him, Jamie?” asked Marie. Scarlet fire still burned in her eyes, but her tone of voice had changed; it sounded horribly close to pleading.

Jamie met her gaze and shook his head. “The man I miss didn’t exist, Mum. That was just a fiction, a version of himself he invented for me and you.”

“Don’t you dare say that,” growled Frankenstein. “The man who raised you and loved you was real. He was my friend.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?” said Jamie, turning to face his sworn protector. “Because he’s dead.”

Silence, icy cold and pregnant with recrimination, descended over the cell. Marie was staring at her son with obvious panic, clearly trying to understand how a simple conversation had turned so quickly into this poisonous stand-off. Frankenstein looked helplessly at her, feeling familiar pangs of shame begin to swirl in his stomach.