“Any questions?” he asked. It was something he had heard army officers in films say before they led their troops into battle, and it seemed appropriate.

Everyone shook their heads, and he nodded. “Then let’s go,” he said.

They walked steadily across the causeway that led to Lindisfarne. The mist had closed in, and it was impossible to see more than ten feet in any direction. Jamie heard invisible water lapping on both sides of him, and he shivered.

If they come for us in this mist, we won’t even see them until it’s too late.

They followed the white line in the middle of the road, walking single file. Jamie was in the lead, followed by Larissa, the two operators, and Morris, who was bringing up the rear, his T-Bone wedged hard against his shoulder. Every few minutes, Larissa reached out and brushed the back of his neck with her cool fingers, and his stomach fluttered.

The mist began to thin, and the island appeared in front of them, a dark looming shape that rose into the dark night sky. They walked on, the sharp clatter of their boots on the asphalt the only sound, until two tall, thin shapes emerged at the sides of the road, and Jamie stopped, holding a hand out behind him.

“Oh my God,” said Stevenson. His voice was low and tight, as though a hand was gripping his throat.

On each side of the road was a flagpole, a white metal tube rising from the sediment at the edge of the water to a height of twenty feet. The flags that had fluttered in the sea breeze were lying on the ground, torn to ribbons; one was a Union Jack, the other the yellow-and-blue flag of the European Union.

In their place, impaled on the sharp points of the flagpoles, were two of the residents of Lindisfarne, their teeth scraping on the flagpoles as they twisted in the air.

“I don’t understand,” said Jamie, his voice thick with horror. “Why would he do this?”

“Dracula used to do it,” said McBride. “When he was still a man. He would impale prisoners of war and stand them where opposing armies could see them. It’s a warning not to go any further.”

“It’s not a warning,” said Larissa. “It’s a welcome. He knows we aren’t going to turn back, so he wants Jamie to see what he’s capable of. He wants him to be scared.”

Jamie stared up at the impaled bodies.

Were they alive when he did that to them? I hope they were already dead.

“Come on,” he said, with more conviction than he felt. “Let’s keep moving.”

There were three more pairs of flagpoles, all decorated in the same terrible fashion, but Jamie kept his eyes focused on the island, which was now taking shape in front of him. He could see streetlamps rising up the hill and squares of yellow light that were the windows of houses. At the foot of the hill, to the right of the causeway, he saw waves breaking on the gray concrete of the dock, and a small fleet of fishing boats bobbing up and down on the tide.

The team walked on, and after five minutes or so, the water that surrounded them receded, and they were standing on solid ground. The road wound to the right, and they followed it, their weapons drawn. They reached the bottom of the hill, and Jamie looked around him, up the two narrow roads that led up the hill to his left, along the dock to their right. The team stood still at the dark junction, and he listened for any signs of life.

The island was silent.

Dead. It’s dead.

“Check the dock,” he said. Morris and Stevenson set off toward the fishing fleet. He looked over at Larissa, who returned his glance with a nauseous expression on her face. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“It’s this place,” she replied. “It stinks of death. Can’t you smell it?”

Jamie sniffed the air. He could smell the salty residue left behind by the seawater, and the oily stench of gutted fish, but that was all. “No,” he told her. “I can’t smell it.”

She looked at him with resignation in her eyes. “Just wait,” she said.

They watched Morris and Stevenson make their way back to them, their weapons hanging by their sides, their heads lowered as they examined the ground. They stepped off the dock and walked over to the rest of their team.

“Anything?” asked Jamie.

“A teenage girl,” Morris replied. “Dead about three hours, by the look of it. And blood. Lots of blood. No sign of any survivors.”

Jamie looked up the hill.

Two roads. Maybe forty houses.

“Let’s split up,” he said. “McBride, you come with me. We’ll take the road to the left. Morris, Stevenson, take the one to the right.” He looked at Larissa. “Will you take a look from the air?” he asked. “You can see things we can’t.”

She nodded.

“OK,” he said. “We’ll meet at the top in fifteen minutes. Leave the bodies where they are. Survivors are all we’re interested in.”

The team went their separate ways. Morris and Stevenson jogged quickly across the junction and made their way up the right-hand road. Larissa rose gracefully into the air, smiling at Jamie as she did so and disappeared into the darkness, leaving him and McBride alone.

They found the first bodies immediately.

Blood ran thickly between the uneven cobblestones, pooling in the drain entrances and against the wheels of the cars that were parked outside the large, neat houses. They followed the river of crimson to the second house on the right and found a couple lying facedown in their driveway. The woman’s long blonde hair was matted with blood, the man missing the fingers on his left hand and one of his ears. Behind them, electric light blazed out of broken windows, and the front door of their home hung limply from its upper hinges. The wood panels had been splintered, and the lock was lying on the front step.

“There’s nothing we can do for them,” said McBride, pulling gently on Jamie’s arm.

Jamie was standing at the open gate that led into the driveway, staring at the corpses. He was sickened by the casual brutality displayed by Alexandru and his followers, unable to comprehend the violence that had been unleashed for no reason.

Those poor people. Oh God, those poor, unlucky people.

“Come on,” urged McBride, hauling on the teenager’s arm. “They’re dead. There might be someone up there who isn’t.”

The thought of survivors broke Jamie’s paralysis, and he started up the hill again. He took the left-hand side, McBride the right; they checked the bodies that were strewn across the cobblestoned streets, shouted into houses, and listened for any response, followed trails of red that led to atrocity after atrocity. Jamie felt light-headed, as though he might faint, but he persevered; door after door, victim after victim.

Near the top of the hill, he heard music emanating from a house, a classical piano piece he was sure he recognized, and followed it to a house set back from the road. He checked the woman who was lying on the path outside the front door and moved on, past a house that stood open to the night, a rectangle of warm yellow light glowing out onto the street.

At the top of the hill, where the houses curved around to meet the top of the street that Morris and Stevenson were making their way up, he stood with McBride in the middle of the road.

“Nothing?” asked Jamie.

“Nothing,” confirmed McBride, pushing his visor up. His face was pale and drawn tightly, as though it had been stretched. “You?”

“Nothing.”

Then they heard a high wavering cry behind them, where the road ended and the thick woods that covered the heart of the island began, and Jamie and McBride turned and ran toward it.

They crashed through the undergrowth, snapping twigs beneath their heavy boots as branches whipped against their visors, running between dark trunks and over banks of earth and ridges of shrubs. They got turned around; the trees were dense, and the darkness was thick. The cry came again, but it sounded like it was all around them, like a hundred voices crying in unison. Then suddenly Larissa was next to them, grabbing their hands and lifting them into the air.