He let its point rest on the tiles and stared at the six men and women, his heart steady, his mind clear. That his trophy had managed to kill Emery and escape from her cross was annoying – he had been looking forward to her distracting her colleagues – but in the end, it would make no difference.

They would all still die.

“So,” he said, as the assassination team walked towards him. “You are the ones sent to kill me.”

He looked first at Valentin – the hateful, despicable traitor – then at the vampire girl who had made him believe, for a terrible moment more than six months earlier, that he might actually be about to die, and allowed crimson-black fire to fill his eyes.

“I owe debts to two of you,” he said. “Debts that I have long looked forward to settling. As for the rest of you, when you are lying on the ground with your life ebbing away, console yourself with the belief that you did the best you could, and the knowledge that you never had a chance. There is no shame in—”

Valentin yawned extravagantly, and shook his head. “How long have you been planning this speech?” asked the former servant. “Six months? Longer? And this is the best you could come up with?”

The heat in Dracula’s eyes rose to an unbearable level as rage boiled through him. “So be it, traitor,” he said, his voice so low it shook the walls of the old church. “No more talk. Come to me, and embrace your destiny.”

Valentin grinned, and strode towards his former master.

Chasing the missile through the night sky had been exhausting, but euphoria at having prevented a nuclear apocalypse was coursing through him, and he felt as strong, as powerful, as he ever had. Dracula walked to meet him, until, as if responding to some unspoken command, the two ancient vampires began to run, their feet pounding the tiled floor of the church.

They met halfway down the central aisle with an impact that shook the Basilica to its foundations. Valentin swung a huge, devastating punch, intending to crush his former master’s head like a watermelon, but struck only thin air. Dracula’s fist, so fast it was merely a blur, collided with his chin like a wrecking ball, arresting his momentum and sending him back through the air, his limbs trailing limply, his mind reeling.

Never been hit so hard, he managed to think. By anyone, or anything. Nothing like that hard.

He crashed to the ground, cracking the tiles beneath him, and felt blood spray into his mouth as his fangs snapped shut on his tongue. He slid backwards, unable to stop himself, and skidded to a halt in front of his squad mates.

Jamie looked down at him, his face full of concern; Valentin tried to smile, to show him he was all right, but could not make his muscles obey his command.

Alan Foster felt Dracula’s punch through the soles of his feet.

The retired Colonel was astonished by the display of power, but as he raised the SIG to his shoulder he felt more alive than he had in many years. It was as though the universe had seen fit to bestow one last mission on him, and not just any mission; one that had more riding on it than any during his long and decorated military career.

He sighted the submachine gun on Dracula’s chest and pulled the trigger. Fire licked from the barrel as the bullets raced through the air, but by the time they reached their target, the ancient vampire was no longer there. Dracula leapt to his left, a streak of black and glowing red, and picked up one of the church pews as though it was a matchstick. He threw it with an almost nonchalant flick of his arm, and Foster was barely able to raise a protective arm before it hit him.

The heavy wooden bench broke as it drove him backwards in a shower of splinters. He tumbled to the floor of the church, the SIG spilling from his grip as he slid across it, and hit the stone wall head first.

There was a sharp crunch, like the sound of a hard-boiled egg being cracked open, and everything went black.

Jamie watched the American slump unconscious against the wall, glanced down at Valentin lying bleeding at his feet, and felt his eyes blaze red.

He had known that Dracula would be strong, and fast, but he felt no fear as he stared at the ancient vampire; Gregor, the first victim, who had turned him, had been as strong and fast, or so close that it made no difference, and Jamie had seen nothing in the opening seconds of the fight to challenge his belief that they could beat Dracula.

That they were going to beat him.

He leapt into the air, drawing his MP7 as he flew towards the left-hand wall of the church. He pointed the gun down at Dracula, who was staring up at him with a contemptuous look on his face, and pulled the trigger. The ancient vampire easily slid out of the way of the stream of bullets, but that was fine; it was what Jamie had been counting on. He swung the barrel, firing constant short bursts and driving Dracula away from the chancel and into the air above where the pews had once stood, where the faithful had listened to sermons on peace and forgiveness.

Below him, Larissa’s eyes flared with understanding, and she and Angela separated, crouching low and racing across the tiled floor in opposite directions. Dracula spun back and forth, trying to keep an eye on all three of them at the same time, his face twisting into a frown. Jamie fired over his head, drawing his attention and forcing him to swoop back towards the ground. Angela and Larissa opened fire, driving him backwards towards the doors; the first vampire moved like oil, growling and hissing, his face twisted into a dismissive smile that seemed to ask a simple question.

Is that the best you can do?

The smile on Dracula’s face faltered as he was suddenly enveloped in a wide shadow.

Got you, thought Jamie.

The first vampire spun round, directly into one of the most devastating punches ever thrown. Frankenstein had swung the haymaker with every ounce of his strength, and his fist slammed into Dracula’s face with a noise like a detonating bomb; blood and teeth exploded from his mouth as he was sent hurtling through the air, his body limp, the black fire in his eyes fading.

Angela felt a shock wave push her backwards through the air when the monster’s punch connected, and felt the heat in her eyes rise as a scream of primal fury ripped from her mouth and echoed against the walls of the church.

She swooped forward, ready to leap down on to Dracula when his spinning body reached the ground, to look into his eyes before she killed him.

Frankenstein ran forward, savage pleasure flooding his huge, misshapen body.

The punch had rendered his right hand and arm numb, but it had felt good; it had felt really, really good. He moved while Dracula was still in the air, eager to hit the ancient vampire again, and again, and again. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw Angela and Larissa fly forward, but paid them no attention; his mind was focused solely on their enemy, who crashed to the floor in a heap barely five metres ahead of him and slid along the central aisle of the nave. The monster’s huge strides carried him forward, ungainly but lethally fast, and he was already swinging back his fist again when the first vampire moved.

Dracula flipped upwards, in seeming defiance of the laws of physics, and landed on his feet, his face covered in blood, his eyes burning with unholy fire. Momentum was still carrying him backwards, but he dug his heels into the floor, shattering the tiles and gouging long grooves in the stone beneath. His broadsword was still in his hand, and he held it out before him like a lance.

Frankenstein realised, perhaps no more than a millisecond too late, what was going to happen, but he was too close.

There was nothing he could do.

Everything seemed to slow down.