“Who are they?” whispered Jamie as the monster passed him.

“Vampire lovers,” spit Frankenstein. “Acolytes. They follow vampires around like doting children, give them money, places to stay, hoping to be turned. They’re the worst kind of scum.”

The Blacklight team returned to the helicopters as silently as they had advanced. Admiral Seward had called the four officers into his vehicle, his voice tight and strained, as though he was almost too angry to speak. Jamie was riding in the third of the four armored cars, sandwiched on a bench between two operators he didn’t know. As they crawled along the country road toward the drop point, the inquest began.

“Just bloody groupies. Someone tipped Alexandru off,” said the operator to Jamie’s right.

“You think so?” said another. “What was your first clue? When he wasn’t there?”

“Go to hell,” said the first operator.

They rode in silence for several minutes, until the same man spoke again.

“The director didn’t look happy,” he said.

“That,” said the operator opposite Jamie, “is the understatement of the year.”

They arrived back at the Loop at midnight.

The exhausted men were dismissed and fled for the elevators, while Jamie, Frankenstein, and Morris waited in the Ops Room for Admiral Seward to finish his phone call to the chief of the general staff.

When the director appeared ten minutes later, he was white with anger, the veins standing out on his neck and the backs of his hands like ropes. He walked slowly to the front of the room and took a deep breath, as if to steady himself.

“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you,” he said, his voice that of a man trying his hardest to keep his temper, “that tonight was nothing less than a catastrophic embarrassment for this Department. Do I need to tell you that?”

“No sir,” they said.

“Good. That’s good. The only silver lining is that the men and women we apprehended were clearly already aware of our existence, so the PR damage is minimal. The damage to your careers, on the other hand, and to mine, is likely to be significantly more severe.” He clenched and unclenched his fists, several times. “I’m going to leave it to you to ascertain exactly how this disaster was perpetrated, although I’m sure we all know the answer. I want a full report on how this came to happen on my desk in the morning, or I will have your resignations. Is that clear?”

They told him it was, and he nodded, stiffly.

“I suggest you start your investigation in the cellblock. Beyond that, I have nothing to say to any of you. Good night, gentlemen.”

Seward walked slowly across the room, opened the door, and left without looking back. Jamie, Frankenstein and Morris waited until they were certain he was gone, and then began to talk.

“How did this happen?” asked Morris.

Frankenstein grunted. “As if we all don’t know,” he said, looking steadily at Jamie.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” demanded the teenager.

“It means your girlfriend tipped off Alexandru,” Frankenstein replied, his voice maddeningly calm. “It means she went to him when she escaped, then told him to wait two hours after she left so she could come back here and save the day. It means she played you—again.”

“You’re wrong,” said Jamie, and the venom in his own voice shocked even him.

“It makes sense, Jamie,” said Morris. “Who else could have done it?”

“I don’t know,” replied Jamie, fighting hard to control his temper. “But it wasn’t her. That I do know.”

Frankenstein began to say something, but then the radio on Jamie’s belt buzzed, a thick whirring noise that made all three jump. He pulled the handset from his belt, thumbed the RECEIVE button and held the handset to his ear. When he heard the voice on the other end, he nearly dropped it onto the table in front of him.

“Good evening, Jamie,” said Alexandru Rusmanov. His voice was slick like castor oil. “How are you?”

The color drained from the teenager’s face, and Frankenstein and Morris leaned toward him, concern on their faces.

“Who is it?” asked Morris.

Jamie composed himself. Think of your mother. Think of your mother.

Think of your mother.

“I’m fine, Alexandru,” he said slowly, causing Morris to gasp and Frankenstein’s eyes to open wide. “How are you?”

“I’m a little bit annoyed, to tell you the truth,” the vampire replied, his tone friendly and cheerful. “I was in the middle of a party, thrown by some of my most loyal subjects, when all of a sudden I was told I had to leave. And all because some child who should already be dead has decided to take it upon himself to hunt me down. Can you imagine?”

“I think I—”

“No, you can’t!” roared Alexandru, his pleasant demeanor gone, replaced by the screeching voice of a madman. “You can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve done this night! Your tiny little human brain is incapable of even attempting to grasp the repercussions of your actions!”

Jamie closed his eyes. He had never been so scared in all his life.

“But you will,” continued Alexandru, and now he was friendly again, his voice warm and charming. “You will understand. I’ll make you understand, starting now. I’ve just killed a lot of people, and every single one of them has you to thank for their deaths.”

There was a click, and the line went dead.

Jamie was about to tell his friends what Alexandru had said, was about to try and articulate the way the madness in the vampire’s voice had made him feel, the basic wrongness of it, the terrible, unspeakable horror he had heard, when an alarm exploded through the base, and the giant wall screen burst into life.

ALERT STATUS 1

IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE REQUIRED

ALL DEPARTMENTS RESPOND

Morris ran to a console in the middle of the room. He read the screen, then looked up at Jamie and Frankenstein.

“It’s coming from Russia,” he said.

35

YOU REAP WHAT YOU SOW

Carpathian Mountains, Transylvania

June 17, 1902

The fine layer of dirt and rock shifted beneath Abraham Van Helsing’s feet, and the old man’s center of balance hurtled backward. He spun his arms, his silver-topped walking stick clattering to the ground, and he pitched toward the hard ground. Then a hand appeared, as if from nowhere, gripped him around his upper arm, and steadied him. The professor, blooming red with embarrassment, spun around to see the identity of his rescuer and stared directly into the cool, steady face of Henry Carpenter, his valet.

“Thank you, boy,” he grunted. “Unnecessary of you, though. I was in no danger.”

“Of course not, sir,” replied the valet, and released his master’s arm.

You stupid old fool, Van Helsing told himself. You’re nothing more than a liability. You should have trusted this to Henry, Lord knows he’s proven himself more than capable. You proud old fool.

“Everything is fine?” called a voice from down the trail, and master and valet turned to regard the source of the question.

The man who had spoken was standing beside the low wooden cart, looking up at them with concern on his face. He was small and uncannily thin, his proportions rendered comical by the enormous fur ushanka that covered his head. His face was thin and pointed, the eyes dark, the hair of his mustache and triangular beard jet black.

“Yes, Bukharov,” snapped Van Helsing. “Everything is fine. Bring your men up to me. We should be able to see the castle once we round this bend.”

Ivan Bukharov nodded, then let loose a galloping string of Russian at the three men who sat astride aged horses before the cart. They dug their heels into the flanks of their mounts, and the wheels of the vehicle creaked into life. Bukharov swung himself nimbly up onto his own horse and clattered along the treacherous path to where Van Helsing and the valet were waiting. The two Englishmen mounted their own animals, one with significantly greater difficulty than the other, and the three men trotted slowly around an enormous outcrop of rock that caused the path to make a wickedly sharp turn to the right. They rounded it with great care and then stopped, transfixed by the sight before them.