“What is this?” asked the Security Officer; it was clear from her face that she already knew the answer to her own question.

“It’s Dracula,” said Kate.

The first vampire, the creature once known as Vlad Tepes but who now went by a name that struck fear into the hearts of men and women alike, floated anonymously through the screaming, panicking crowds like a theatre director making an impromptu check on a performance.

The tourists running for their lives paid him no attention, and the vampires knew his scent well enough to keep their distance. He did not join the attack; he was a General, and despite the longing in the pit of his stomach and the glorious scent of blood in his nostrils, violence was something he ordered, not something he carried out himself.

There was much that Dracula still did not understand about the modern world; he had lain dormant through a century in which humanity had advanced more rapidly than all the previous centuries combined, and many of those developments were still a mystery. What had become abundantly clear, however, during conversations with Valeri Rusmanov and the many dinners he had shared with Admiral Henry Seward, were the enormous advances that had been made in the field of murder.

He had tried to imagine rockets that could be fired from halfway around the globe to land on a single building, machines that flew to the edge of space to drop their payloads on to unsuspecting men and women below, and found he could not. But then he had seen, with his own eyes, the single bomb that had annihilated the thick stone walls and deep foundations of Château Dauncy, the helicopters that had swept his soldiers with deadly ultraviolet light, the armour that had allowed his enemies to survive blows that should have been instantly fatal. When he had still been a man, battles had been fought on foot and on horseback, with swords and spears and bows; on several occasions, Dracula had allowed himself to wonder how different his long campaigns against the Turks might have been if even one per cent of the modern world’s weaponry had been at his disposal.

Around him, the fleeing crowds were beginning to thin. The first vampire checked his watch, and saw that fifteen minutes had passed since the assault had begun. Thus far, his followers were carrying out their orders perfectly; they had torn into the inhabitants of Carcassonne with great relish, rending and killing and driving those who managed to avoid their fangs and fingernails down the old streets and out of the city.

Dracula rose into the air and soared rapidly towards the high stone tower of the Basilica. In the cobbled square below the church’s walls stood the Hôtel de la Cité, an elegant old building surrounded by pristine gardens that extended out over the steep edges of Carcassonne. There, if his orders had been competently followed, the next phase of Dracula’s plan would be waiting for him.

The ancient vampire climbed high above the city, savouring the screams and sobs that were still floating through the air beneath him, and took a moment to look at the place he had chosen to be his new citadel. Although the architecture was somewhat different, it reminded him in many ways of Poenari Castle, his seat of power during his reigns as the Prince of Wallachia. Both occupied the highest ground for many miles, their walls and battlements draped across rising peaks and uneven hillsides, making them almost impregnable, at least from medieval means of attack. The destruction of Château Dauncy had made it clear that the thick stone of Carcassonne would be no match for contemporary weaponry, but that did not matter; Dracula was relying on something else staying the trigger fingers of his enemies.

Osvaldo, the Spanish vampire who was the closest thing to a confidant that he had allowed in the aftermath of the death of Valeri Rusmanov, had suggested that a more remote location might have been more suitable for his new base of operations – a Pacific island, perhaps, or a section of the south-western American desert – but Dracula had explained to him that remoteness is only an advantage when you are intending to hide. And hiding was the last thing on his mind.

The ancient vampire looked out across the slanted, unruly rooftops of the city, enjoying the cool evening air on his skin, then descended towards the square near the summit. As he reached the ground, he noted the vampires stationed at its four corners, guarding the ways in and out, and allowed himself a small smile.

They’re not real soldiers. The least of my Wallachians was worth ten of them. But they are so very keen, and so very scared.

Dozens of his followers were milling about in the wide space in front of the hotel, hissing and growling, reliving the attack, but a respectful silence settled instantly over them as he touched down. He turned slowly, favouring the vampires with an expression that was not quite a smile but which contained no obvious reproach.

“Well done,” he said. “All has gone according to plan, and now the real work begins. Do not let me down.”

He saw flickers of glowing red in faces set with determined pride, held their gaze for a long moment, then turned and strode into the hotel. Osvaldo was waiting in the wood-panelled entrance hall; he bowed as his master approached.

“My lord,” he said. “The police have arrived.”

“As expected,” said Dracula. “Where?”

“Most are tending to survivors outside the walls, my lord, where ambulances and fire vehicles have also arrived. However, a small squad of armed officers is making its way into the city.”

“Kill them,” he said. “Have their bodies brought up here. Intact.”

“Of course, my lord. We should also expect to see helicopters shortly. The police will send them, and so will the television news, once word gets out.”

“Bring down the first one that flies inside the border of our walls. That will make the others keep their distance.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Osvaldo, and flew quickly through the hotel’s door. A second later Dracula heard him bark orders at the vampires waiting in the square, and smiled.

After the humbling, harrowing defeat at Château Dauncy, the first vampire had lain low for several months in a farmhouse in northern Italy owned by one of the tiny number of his followers that had also survived the battle. In the first weeks, he had refused to see anyone; he had shut himself away with his rage and disappointment and frustration. He had not been as strong as he needed to be, as strong as he should have been, and it had almost cost him his life; he had been arrogant, and stupid, and he had no intention of making the same mistake again.

When he emerged from his isolation, the survivors of the battle had been joined by almost fifty other vampires; it was a paltry amount in the grand scheme of things, but heartening nonetheless. The new arrivals had sought him out, pledging themselves to his vision of the future, a future in which vampires were the planet’s dominant species and human beings were little more than cattle. He had welcomed them, thanked them for their loyalty, then ordered them to go out and recruit more men and women to their cause.

His followers had done as he commanded, delivering vampires to the farmhouse in steadily increasing numbers; one or two a day at first, then a dozen, then twenty, until they were arriving at the rate of more than a hundred a week. There was quickly no room for them all at the farmhouse, so the first vampire sent them away as they arrived, ordering them to lie low in one of his ever-expanding network of safe houses until they were needed.

Osvaldo had been in the farmhouse when Dracula at last emerged from his isolation. The Spaniard had no military experience – he had been an advertising executive in his former life – but he had already established himself as the de facto leader of Dracula’s followers. He did not shout, or fight, or growl, nor did he manipulate or scheme; he simply possessed a natural air of authority, and when he suggested an idea or a plan, they invariably proved successful.