He nodded. “OK.”

“Are you sure?” she asked.

Matt nodded again, more convincingly.

“I’m sure,” he said. “But if I’m not going to France, I want to do something useful. If we defeat Dracula, we’re going to see a lot more vampires come forward for the cure, not to mention the Operators who’ve been turned for PROMETHEUS. I want to see if we can improve the formula, make it quicker and less painful. They shouldn’t have to be cured in padded rooms.”

Natalia smiled at him. “That sounds like a much better use of your talents,” she said. “So back to work, then?”

Matt returned her smile and nodded. “Back to work.”

Victor Frankenstein woke with a heavy heart, wondering if this was going to be the last morning he saw.

He knew it was a possibility; he had long been someone who believed there was nothing to be gained by lying to himself. His previous stubborn refusal to accept reality, regarding certain situations and people, had caused much of the trouble that had befallen him in the first two centuries of his life; it was one of many things that had changed on the snowy New York night he had sworn his oath to John Carpenter, altering the trajectory of his life forever.

The monster lifted his uneven arms above his head, stretched his recycled muscles until they creaked, then set about making coffee. His head felt thick and fuzzy, like it had on so many mornings in Paris and Istanbul and Rome, like it had during the dark, whisky-soaked months after he had regained his memory and been brought home to the Loop. He had not touched a single drop the night before, however; this was something deeper than a hangover, a tiredness that seemed to radiate from inside his bones. Frankenstein pulled on his uniform as the kettle rattled, then poured himself a mug of coffee so dark and threatening it looked like it was made of antimatter. He took a sip, grimaced, then drained the mug and poured another.

For the last six months or so, the monster had felt like a ghost. His condition put him out of commission for three days of every month, leaving him squarely on the sidelines as the country went into meltdown before their eyes and the Department tried frantically to keep its head above water. He had watched as the boy he had sworn to protect had first been turned into a vampire, then rejected him utterly for a betrayal the teenager could not forgive. Frankenstein understood now that he had made a terrible mistake by not telling Jamie that his father was still alive; he had prioritised the Carpenter that was broken – the one that had been his closest friend – over the one who had really needed him, and he would always regret it. But if he was going to die today, he was not going to do so without trying one final time to fix the only thing left that mattered.

Frankenstein stepped out of the lift on Level B and strode along the curved corridor until he reached the door of Jamie’s quarters. He took a deep breath, collected himself, and knocked sharply on it.

A faint groan rang out from inside the room, followed by scuffling sounds and the heavy thuds of disengaging locks. The door swung open, and Jamie appeared. His eyes were red and bleary with tiredness, until they settled on the monster, and sprang open wide.

“What do you want?” asked Jamie.

“To talk to you,” said Frankenstein.

“Not interested,” said the teenager, and swung the door shut.

The monster jammed a boot inside the frame. “Five minutes,” he said.

Jamie glanced down; when he raised his head, red fire was flickering in his eyes. “Move your foot.”

“No.”

“Move it or I’ll move you.”

Frankenstein met the teenager’s gaze. For a long moment, neither man moved; they stood in silence that was thick with tension. Eventually, after an unknowable amount of time, Jamie sighed.

“Five minutes,” said the teenager, and backed into his quarters.

Frankenstein nodded, and followed him inside. Jamie strode across the room, flopped down into his chair, and folded his arms across his chest, an impatient look on his face. Frankenstein shut the door and faced him.

“Well?” said Jamie. “Talk.”

Stay calm, he told himself. Don’t let his petulance get to you.

“In a few hours, we’ll be in France,” said Frankenstein. “And you know as well as I do that a lot of people are going to die.”

“You’re absolutely right,” said Jamie. “I do know that.”

Calm.

“Fine,” he said. “I know you’d prefer it if I wasn’t part of the strike team, and I understand that, but Paul’s right. We’re going to have to work together, whether you like it or not. Personal feelings have to be put aside.”

“I’m totally fine,” said Jamie. “You should worry about yourself.”

“You’re totally fine?”

“Isn’t that what I just said?”

“It is,” said Frankenstein. “I just don’t believe you.”

Jamie’s eyes flashed red. “I stopped giving a shit about what you believe a long time ago.”

“I know,” said Frankenstein. “When you found out your father was still alive. And that I hadn’t told you.”

“I don’t want to talk about him,” growled Jamie.

“Are you sure?”

The teenager stared, his face darkening with anger. “Why are you here?” he said, eventually. “Do you want me to forgive you? Because that’s not going to happen.”

Frankenstein shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t want you to forgive me. I want you to forgive yourself.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I should have told you your father was alive,” he said, and took a step forward. “I thought my loyalty to him took precedence over my loyalty to you, and I made a decision that I will always regret. I can’t blame you for believing I let you down, and I’m not going to tell you that you’re wrong to do so. But what I am going to tell you is that you are not your father, no matter how much you may fear that you are. You took the truth about him out on Larissa, and she left you, just like Julian did. You couldn’t bring yourself to tell her you needed her, just like Julian was too proud to ask for help when Alexandru Rusmanov was moving against him, and you ended up alone. But you’re strong, Jamie, far stronger than he was when he was your age, so you get up every morning and put one foot in front of the other, because you’ve convinced yourself that your mother needs you, that your friends need you, that the entire Department needs you. And you’re right, they do. But I don’t think you’ve ever dealt with what your father being alive really meant.”

Jamie didn’t say a word. The colour had drained from his face, leaving it ghostly pale.

“I know you grieved for him,” continued Frankenstein, “and I know that what happened that night has come to define you, to provide you with the fuel that keeps you going. So if you can’t see why you pushed everyone away as soon as you knew he was still alive, why you’ve been taking so many risks and putting yourself in so many dangerous situations, then you’re either not as clever as I think you are or you simply don’t want to see the truth.”

Jamie stared at him. The red fire in his eyes was gone, replaced by a glistening shimmer.

Say something, thought Frankenstein. Anything.

“That’s the most I’ve ever heard you say,” said Jamie, his voice low.

“It needed saying,” said Frankenstein. “I might not get another chance.”

“Is that why you said it? Because we’re going to France in a few hours?”

He shook his head. “I know you’ll do your job, whatever you might think of me,” he said. “And I will always try to protect you, whether you like it or not. I said it because I care about you a great deal, Jamie, and if the worst should happen, I want to know I tried everything I could to make you see that. Because I don’t want anything left unsaid.”