Pete nodded. “Thank you.”

“All right,” he said. “Goodbye, Mr Randall.”

He turned and walked back towards the infirmary doors, typing into the handset again as he pushed through them into the corridor. He raised it to his ear, waiting for the Intelligence Director’s voice to come on the line.

“Yes, sir?” said Major Bennett.

“I want to know everything there is to know about SSL,” said Turner. “Priority Level 1.”

“We investigated them when they first appeared, sir,” said Bennett. “What do you want to know?”

“Who finances them?”

“Private donors, in theory,” said Bennett. “There’s a limited company behind their charity number, but the trail goes offshore immediately. There’s a holding company underneath about a dozen layers of shell companies and dummy LLCs.”

“Based where?” asked Turner.

“Two guesses, sir.”

“Bermuda?”

“No.”

“Grand Cayman?”

“Bingo.”

Turner grimaced. “Have you seen any other charities with a structure like that?”

“No, sir,” said Bennett. “I haven’t.”

“I want the details of the holding company,” said Turner. “I want to know who’s been paying for all of this.”

“I can request the information, sir. The Cayman finance ministry will tell me exactly where to go, but I can do it if you want me to.”

“Is there any other way?” asked Turner.

“I can ask GCHQ to investigate.”

“Anything else?”

“My division can hack into the Cayman register of companies in about five minutes, sir,” said Bennett. “Although I never said so, and it goes without saying that you never asked me to.”

Turner grinned. “Of course not.”

Dracula looked out over the ruined sprawl of Carcassonne, a sense of profound satisfaction filling him.

The night had gone perfectly to plan; the fires had burned with beautiful fury until the first purple light had appeared below the eastern horizon, and his followers had descended the hill to put them out, drowning the flames with water that boiled into plumes of white steam and choking grey smoke.

The destruction of the city had served as a fine display of his power; now he needed his enemies to react to it as he was expecting them to. He needed them to come for him with everything they had, with every man and woman at their disposal and all guns blazing, so their defeat would be both total and undeniable, and the whole world would see that he, and he alone, was now the dominant force on the planet.

Dracula had not yet decided how many people would need to die once his rule was established. Some of the killing would happen naturally; once his enemies were ground beneath his feet, he expected that vampires who even now remained hidden would unleash a genocidal retribution against the humans who had forced them into the shadows. But that would not be sufficient; an uncoordinated wave of revenge killings would be hugely effective at terrorising the majority of the human population into submission, but would also, he knew from experience, fan the flames of rebellion, and killing those who stood up against him, as publicly and graphically as possible, would be his highest priority. Their deaths would undoubtedly make them martyrs, but with each example that was made, the subsequent resistance would shrink, until it was nothing more dangerous than muttered words of dissent in private homes.

It would be the one absolutely inviolate rule: anyone who publicly opposed Dracula, in any way, would die, and die badly.

Turning new vampires without explicit permission would again be forbidden, as he remade the world. He would allow a certain number of politicians to remain in their posts, for the purposes of administrating day-to-day matters, but he would place vampires he could trust above them all; his new empire would run on fear, which had always been the greatest motivator he knew. It would be hard at first, and brutal, but in the end a combination of terror and desperate relief would make those who had survived the early purges grateful for their lives.

Eventually, they would come to love him.

The eastern sky was lightening, but Dracula was not yet ready to go back inside; he wanted to watch the dying city breathe its last. The majority of his followers had fled gratefully for their beds when he dismissed them, but he had never felt more awake, more alive; he was standing on the precipice of something unprecedented, something he had always known was his destiny.

Footsteps echoed across the cobblestones behind him, and he smiled. There had never been any doubt that Osvaldo would remind him to take shelter from the rising sun; the Spanish vampire was unfailingly conscientious. Dracula turned to face him as he approached, his smile still in place.

“Osvaldo,” he said. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“It is, my lord,” said the vampire. “But it is time.”

“I know,” he said. “But I am reluctant to leave such a view.”

“There will be finer sights than this, my lord.”

Dracula’s smile widened. “How right you are,” he said. “Accompany me to the Basilica.”

“Of course, my lord,” said Osvaldo.

Dracula strode across the cobbled square, the Spanish vampire falling in beside him. Before him stood the Hôtel de la Cité, where the hostages were being kept in relative good health until their inevitable deaths, either at the hands of his enemies or of Dracula himself. Rising above its rooftops was the spire of the Basilique Saint-Nazaire, the ornate church that he had taken as his private quarters, and which few of his army were willing to enter: he had seen otherwise fearless vampires hiss and screech and spit at the mere thought of setting foot on its consecrated ground.

Children, he thought. Heathens. They do not even understand themselves. The church can do them no harm.

Unlike his followers, Dracula loved the Basilica. It was the grandest building in the medieval city, and therefore only fitting that he take it as his residence, but there was more to it than that; the interior of the old church was beautiful, with high walls and carved stone pillars interspersed with stained-glass windows, and it was cold, and empty. He had already decided that once the upcoming battle was won, and his dominion over the planet was absolute, it would be his throne room.

“What if they don’t come, my lord?” asked Osvaldo, as they rounded the corner and walked up into the wide plaza in front of the Basilica.

“Then we will burn another city,” said Dracula. “And another, and another, until they do. But that won’t be necessary. They will come.”

“If you say so, my lord,” said Osvaldo. “I do not doubt you.”

Dracula nodded.

Nor should you, he thought. Not if you value your life.

“Tell me of our new arrivals,” he said. “I trust you are handling them?”

“I am, my lord,” said Osvaldo. “Almost a thousand now since you spoke on the walls, and more arriving with each hour that passes. Many are cowards, seeking nothing more than your favour, but some are proving useful. There are true believers among them, my lord, men and women who will die at your command without a second thought.”

“Excellent,” said Dracula. “See that they are made good use of.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Osvaldo. “The only problem I can foresee is one of space. It will not be long until there is no more room in the city for your army.”

Dracula smiled narrowly. “That problem will resolve itself,” he said. “Providing that all goes to plan, a great many of them will soon be dead.”

Osvaldo frowned. “You believe so, my lord?”

“Of course,” he said. “Only a fool would believe that a battle could be won without casualties on both sides, and our enemies are fast, and strong, and resourceful. They are a worthy foe, and must be taken seriously. Those who fight with us and survive will live like kings for the rest of their days, while the rest will die with honour and glory. What finer possible fate could there be?”