The first vampire’s eyes narrowed for a brief moment, before he burst out laughing.
“You stupid boy,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt. “You poor fool. Your death is at hand and you clutch at fairy tales. Surely you know that crosses don’t work?”
Jamie didn’t respond; he let the hand holding the crucifix fall to the floor at his side and stared into the old monster’s swirling eyes.
Dracula lunged, black fire trailing from his eyes. His mouth yawned open as his face descended towards Jamie’s neck, his fangs huge and gleaming.
As if acting on its own, his hand flew up and pushed the wooden cross forward with every last iota of strength he had left. It plunged into Dracula’s throat, ripping through skin and muscle and burying itself in the hard knots of the first vampire’s spine.
Blood exploded into the air and gushed down on to Jamie’s face. The power that had momentarily filled him had already disappeared, but some of the old monster’s blood sprayed into his mouth, giving him the strength to sit up. He did so, in time to see Dracula reel backwards, his eyes wide, his throat erupting in a crimson geyser.
Jamie forced himself to his feet, half standing and half floating on his shattered leg, and pulled the broken sword out of Frankenstein’s stomach. When he turned back, Dracula had sunk to his knees, his eyes huge and staring, his hands tight round the crucifix lodged in his throat, his blood escaping in a seemingly endless torrent.
“Crosses don’t work,” said Jamie, in a trembling voice. “Are you sure about that?”
Dracula’s eyes widened even further, and he leapt forward a final time, a shambling, blood-drenched monstrosity with hands that reached out towards Jamie.
Gunfire echoed through the Basilica.
Bullets slammed into the first vampire, driving him back to his knees and tearing his jaw clean off. Dracula’s eyes swivelled, staring at seemingly everything and nothing as a mangled scream issued from his ruined mouth. Jamie risked a glance in the direction the bullets had come from, and saw Larissa slumped against the wall, her Glock smoking in her lap; she met his eyes, and gave him a small, exhausted smile.
He nodded, and returned his attention to the slumped form in front of him.
“Look at me,” he said.
Dracula did so. Their gazes locked for a long moment, and Jamie saw what he wanted to see: bright, shining fear in the old vampire’s eyes.
He raised the broken sword and drove it into Dracula’s chest, burying it up to the silver cross guard.
The first vampire pitched backwards on to the floor, his arms and legs drumming violently on the tiles. Jamie glanced round as Larissa got to her feet and made her way towards him; she stopped at his side, and they watched in silence as Dracula’s death throes began.
The ancient vampire’s body became first a rattling blur, then suddenly as still as a statue. Black liquid began to bubble from the wound, spilling out around the sword’s wide blade and spreading rapidly across his chest. Jamie’s stomach churned; the liquid wasn’t blood, it was slick and shimmering like oil, and it moved unnaturally, as though it was somehow alive. It covered Dracula’s chest and began to swirl like it was caught inside a tornado, faster and faster, until it exploded up and out with a sound like the end of the world.
The liquid surged upwards in a thick column and blasted through the roof of the Basilica; stone and glass came crashing down around Jamie and Larissa, smashing floor tiles and hammering pews to splinters. The impossible column of liquid spun, in defiance of all that was natural, and in its shimmering surface Jamie saw things that he would never describe to anyone, things that would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life.
The spinning liquid gathered speed, and Jamie backed away from it; he didn’t know why, not exactly, he just grabbed Larissa’s hand and pulled her back. The sound inside the church was deafening, a howl of white noise that made Jamie want to tear off his ears and rip his skin to ribbons. When it reached a volume that was almost unbearable, when the column of liquid was spinning faster than even supernatural eyes could follow, a great rumbling rose beneath it all, shaking the church to its foundations.
The column exploded in a great belch of black fire and a shock wave that sent Jamie and Larissa flying through the air. The walls of the church cracked from floor to ceiling, and the beautiful windows shattered in a twinkling storm of stained glass. Jamie hit the ground, his head ringing, and forced himself back to his feet in time to see the vast mass of black liquid sink back into Dracula’s body and spread out beneath him in a wide, perfect circle.
Screams and shouts of alarm rang out across the wide battlefield as black fire billowed from the summit of Carcassonne.
Everyone, Operator and vampire alike, stopped fighting and turned towards the distant, unnatural explosion. Paul Turner stared up at it, his eyes wide behind his visor, his heart pounding, trying not to let himself believe what he hoped it meant.
The shock wave that had devastated the Basilica rolled down the hill and thundered across the blasted landscape, knocking Operators off their feet and sending Dracula’s surviving followers screeching into the air, their eyes flaming, their mouths wide as they howled in pain and fear. They scattered in every direction, racing away into the darkness without a backward glance, as though they were flying for their lives.
Turner clambered to his feet, and stared around the suddenly abandoned battlefield. Ovechkin and Allen joined him, their eyes wide, their weapons hanging seemingly forgotten at their sides. The NS9 Director looked at him, his face a mask of confusion, and all Turner could do was shrug and shake his head.
Jamie staggered back along the central aisle of the nave, Larissa close behind him, and stopped at the edge of the wide pool of black liquid. He had no idea what he was seeing, no idea whether it was even real, but he knew that someone had to bear witness to what was happening.
In the centre of the oily circle, Dracula sat up slowly. He looked down at the sword hilt sticking out of his chest, at the shifting black liquid, then up at the two black-clad figures watching him. The damage to his face and throat was gone, as was the blood that had coated them; his skin was pale, and his expression was one of profound confusion.
“What devilment is this?” he whispered.
The black liquid slid back and forth, as though responding to his voice. Then it began to rise in thick, glistening pillars that formed into clawed hands and took hold of Dracula’s arms and legs. They began to pull him down, as if the liquid was as deep as a swimming pool, rather than a millimetre or two lying on a tiled floor; Dracula screamed and thrashed back and forth, but the black hands were implacable; he sank slowly, his resistance utterly futile.
“Jesus,” said Larissa, her voice low and hoarse.
Jamie didn’t respond; he was transfixed with horror. Dracula’s legs had disappeared beneath the oily surface, but still he fought, his arms pounding and dragging at the oil, his head thrown back as he screamed for mercy. His waist sank into the liquid as the clawed hands gripped his shoulders and arms, and one slid round his neck, reducing his screams to strangled croaks. As he was dragged relentlessly down, Dracula’s eyes met Jamie’s.
“Help me,” he whispered. “Please.”
Jamie held his gaze, ordering himself not to look away. For a long, seemingly endless moment, the first vampire hung suspended, half in and half out of the swirling, glistening liquid. Then the oily hands pulled a final time, and Dracula disappeared beneath the surface.
Instantly, the black circle began to shrink, drawing in before Jamie’s eyes until it was little more than a black dot, then disappearing completely. The air felt alive, thick and crawling with greasy, crackling power; he could feel every hair on his body standing on end, could feel pain in his teeth and bones. A pulse of energy shuddered through him as the Basilica seemed to flex, as though it had suddenly expanded and contracted back to its normal dimensions.