Tim Lebbon

30 DAYS OF NIGHT™

FEAR OF THE DARK

Based on the IDW Publishing graphic novel series

If they believe in us, they do not fear us.

If they do not fear us, we can be defeated.

Prologue

Stonehenge, Wiltshire, England

May 2002

WHEN THEY BURIED the King of Stonehenge, they thought it would be forever. But even forever has limits; time is ambiguous, intended, so a scientist once said, simply to prevent everything from happening at once. So event follows event, and death follows life. For this king, time had served its purpose and now he was gone, his mummified remains excavated and transported back to the British Museum in London for closer scrutiny, preservation, and eventual display.

He left behind the buried trappings of his life.

Ashleigh Richards had been working on the site for several weeks. She was the de facto leader of the dig, even though Professor Erikson had been here on the first day and for several days in between. She slept in a caravan on the site, was the first to start work each morning, and was often the last to leave each night. She barely had a social life, unless whispering to herself as she examined trinkets and pottery shards beneath a harsh light in her caravan counted. But Ashleigh had entered middle age with the calm, contented knowledge that she had become married to her work. And if questioned about it, she would smile, and say with some satisfaction that their honeymoon period was still taking place.

She loved the past, and regarded digging it up as moving back time.

“We’ve not brought anything out for three days now,” Max said. Young and lively, the boy had surprised Ashleigh with his depth of knowledge.

“Doesn’t mean there’s nothing still there,” Ashleigh said. “There’s always something we miss. Grains of pottery or gold can slip through the sieve.”

“You’ve said that before,” Max said. “Doesn’t it piss you off?”

“Not really,” she said. “It means there’s always something more to find.” Max was looking at her with an expression she had long grown used to. Most people on this dig deferred to her knowledge and experience, and usually she liked and accepted that. But sometimes it grated. “Don’t you have a bloody home to go to?” she asked.

“Er, yeah,” Max said. He collected his tools and left the covered site, glancing back once before he let the flap of the polythene tent fall back into place. She smiled softly, knowing that he’d see.

Alone beneath the awning, she listened to the soft patter of rain, and watched the gentle breathing of the flimsy structure as an evening wind blew across the plain. The smell of exposed soil was a comforting scent, as familiar as her own breath. She sighed softly, adding to the breeze, and listened for the sound of Max’s motorbike.

Once he left, she knew where she must go.

The storage tent was a more rigid structure, protecting the treasures they had pulled from the soil and those who spent many hours over the days and weeks examining them. There were three examination tables where samples were cleaned, categorized, and labeled, along with several large containers for waste, and on the other side of the enclosure sat an assortment of boxes for transportation. Some were cardboard and already filled with padding and packaging. Others were made of wood, more solid constructs for more delicate samples. And in one of the largest wooden containers were several smaller metal boxes, double-layered to prevent any risk of damage to their contents.

The examination tables were all but empty now, their mud-streaked surfaces barren of anything interesting. A water tank stood at the end of each table, and hung on hooks along the tables’ edges were spray nozzles. They dripped onto the timber floor, most of them not used for several days. The boxes were piled, not stacked, and several cardboard containers were damp and torn.

Ashleigh hated this point in a dig’s life. The beginning was excitement and potential, the possibilities of the next few days and weeks literally endless. Usually what they uncovered in a dig was mostly expected—pottery shards or larger pieces, some coins, weapons. But sometimes there was something so much more beneath the ground, just waiting to be found. When she was a young girl, her father took her to one side, showed her a banana, and told her to watch him peel it. He closed his eyes as he did so, and said, You’re the very first person in the history of the universe to ever see the fruit I’m uncovering now. That had planted the seed. Archaeology was the natural end result of that seed’s blooming, and she relished the idea that it continued to grow.

But the end of the dig held a certain sadness. Much of what was hidden had been uncovered, breathed over by excited people, cleaned, examined, cataloged, and shipped away from the site where it had lain for countless centuries or even millennia. Torn from the womb of its intended eternal resting place, an artifact was unhomed as the sunlight touched it, and she was not the only archaeologist who believed that most of what they uncovered looked out of place in a sterile, artificially lit museum case. The scent of turned soil drying was the smell of the place having lost much of its mystery.

“There’s always something more to find,” she said to the silence, and it whispered back at her.

And then she walked past the examination tables, approaching the small unit in the corner of the compound where she knew the thing still lay.

It was put there because none of them had wanted to touch it, and remained there because she had not wished to examine it.

They had already started calling him the King of Stonehenge. Interred in a burial chamber dating to around 2300 B.C., alongside his remains, they had found around one hundred personal items, ranging from gold earrings, rings, and copper knives to pots, frescoes, and some remarkably well-preserved clothing. He’d lived during the early days of metalworking in Britain—a talent that had been brought from Europe—and Ashleigh believed that this incredibly tall man was in reality an archer who had come from France or, more likely, Spain.

And oh, what he had brought with him.

Ashleigh remembered the first time she saw it. One of the young students spotted the shape buried beneath the archer’s final resting place. He called her over, and at first she thought it was because he was unsure of how to expose the rest of the object. But then she saw the look on his face—as if he’d just smelled shit, or swallowed someone else’s vomit—and her skin started to crawl.

Even before she laid eyes on it, she felt its attention upon her.

No one wanted to touch it. Nothing was said, but the object found its way somehow into the corner of the enclosure, where it was buried quickly beneath cardboard, scraps of wrapping materials, and clumsily thrown groundsheets. The dig was quiet for a while, with those who had seen it brooding, and those who had not picking up on the atmosphere. Nobody said outright that there was something wrong with the thing they had just dug up, because to mention it would be to confirm its existence and, perhaps, invite further analysis. But for the rest of that day those on the dig labored beneath a cloud; not a shadow of possible revelation, but one of potential doom.

Next day everyone was bright and cheery and so damn false that Ashleigh retired for the afternoon, sitting in her caravan and cataloging a handful of coins they had found alongside the archer’s body. The coins passed through her hand, but she always saw something…

Larger. The size of a dinner plate, perhaps, thickened in the center, tapering to a narrow edge all around. Much like the shape a child might draw when sketching a flying saucer. On one side a slightly raised bar passed across a central dip—probably a handle. Heavy, pitted across its surface close to the handle—placings for splayed fingers, most likely—and its edge, she knew, had once been razor-sharp. The keenness was rusted to nothing now, a dulled edge that might hurt through impact but certainly not through cutting. It was not the weight of the thing that disturbed her, or its shape, or the purpose she suspected it had once possessed. It was not even the wet rot that seemed to cover its surface in a slick of rusty red fluid.

It was how the thing felt in her hand.

Now, shifting aside those soggy cardboard boxes and torn sheets, her heart thundered in her chest. What if someone has taken it? she thought, but a moment later she knew that would not be the case. Everyone had wanted to leave it, not take it. Likely some of those here were even now worrying about what would happen to the artifact—

—weapon—

—when the time came to close the dig once and for all. They could not stay here indefinitely. The public enjoyed the spectacle of exploring history, but they liked even more the absence of tents and caravans and the mud of open wounds.

She moved one more sheet and several more slid off in a pile, heavy with water, slumping to the ground as if they wrapped something dead.

Ashleigh caught her breath and stepped back, berating herself in the same instant.

“Stupid bitch.”

She breathed deeply and stared at what had been uncovered. A rusted old artifact. It sat there like something forgotten at the bottom of the garden, not an old thing that had been buried away for perhaps four thousand years. It looked sad and useless, not chilling, and for a moment she could hardly recall why any of them had been so troubled by it.

Maybe it was just me, she thought. It was possible. The student had found it and thrown it into a corner, identified it as part of some broken farming machinery from thirty years ago, and for some reason Ashleigh had attached much more dread significance…

But no, that was untrue. This dig was her dig, and she had not just imagined the reaction to this thing. Strange that no one had spoken of it.

She took a step closer and reached out. This won’t be finished until everything is packed away, she thought. However distasteful, she could not leave something like this lying around. Treasure hunters weren’t only a thing of fiction, and projects like this often attracted professional thieves as well as casual opportunists. They employed minor security measures—her caravan on-site being one of them—but they had yet to suffer any losses. She could not leave that to chance now that the dig was almost over.

“Well, if they steal it, they steal it,” she muttered, but on the back of that came the sudden unbidden thought: They can’t!

She took one last step forward and picked the thing up. It was heavier than it looked, and as she lifted it in one hand its weight shifted strangely, as if it were full of liquid. She shook but heard nothing. It felt solid, but it contained a potential for strange movement. Ashleigh hefted it in both hands.

A breath of wind whispered between the heavy polythene curtains and lifted dust, carrying a cloudy veil and forcing her to blink it from her eyes.

The artifact was cool and heavy and damp, and Ashleigh hurried across to one of the examination tables. On the way she thought, Give it a look over, try and find out just what it is… ceremonial wine holder, ornament, weapon… But by the time she’d reached the table, she was already glancing across at the pile of storage and shipping containers, trying to work out which one would be best.

A metal one, of course. Stronger.

She packed the artifact away, breathing heavily, concentrating on this one task, so focused that she did not notice the blood dripping from her left hand. Into the metal container, soft cloth surrounding the object, tied around with masking tape, then the container itself packed with polystyrene beads, surrounding the packed artifact so that no part of it came into contact with the metal box’s walls. She saw the red smears but did not acknowledge them, because now it was almost away and out of sight.

Ashleigh paused and looked around. The hairs on her forearms and the back of her neck stood on end, and her nipples grew hard. It was as if a cold breeze had passed around and through her, and she felt sweat beading and running down her sides.

“Fucking ridiculous,” she said, uttering a short barked laugh that was meant to be softer than it was. She had never spooked herself before. There was a first time for everything, she supposed, but that still didn’t diminish the anger. How stupid she was.

She clipped and screwed the metal lid on the box with the fittings provided, then addressed the tag on the outside. She was sending it to her own flat a couple of miles away from her place of work, the British Museum in London. She should have been sending it directly to the museum, she knew—this could have been regarded as theft by some—but when this was over and she returned home for a few days’ rest…

Well, there were books she needed to consult. Books that few archaeologists would really take seriously. She’d been collecting them for years as something of a distraction, a creative outlet for a mind so used to analyzing fact and recording intricate detail.

With the box sealed and addressed, she turned off the lights strung beneath the canvas ceiling and exited into the dusky light. As she walked to her caravan, she noticed that her hand was wet, and then she acknowledged the blood she had felt and seen there, the warm blood she had smelled.

Inside, she flicked the light switch and turned on the gas fire. It would take an age for the caravan to warm up. Sometimes she wished she had more creature comforts, but this was the life she had chosen for herself. A life looking for mystery in buried history.

She wiped blood from her left hand and ran it beneath the warm tap for some time, turning her hand this way and that, splaying her fingers, examining her fingernails, looking for a cut that was not there.

Later she sat at the small table, a glass of gin before her as she looked at her left hand and waited for fresh blood that did not come, and which perhaps had never been there at all.

LONDON

PRESENT DAY

1

ROSE, THE COLOR OF BLOOD, wrung the final drops from the clear plastic bag. They dripped onto her tongue, the last dribbles tasting just as good as the first. Chilled, old, dead, still she took strength from this drink and relished its goodness. Some of the others hunted rats and cats, but this was her choice, and the only way she knew to remain undamned in her own eyes. Anything warm would be too much like the real thing.

As usual, as she licked her lips and sucked any traces from her fingers, she wondered who this had been. The blood could have come from anyone in the city: one of the soldiers she saw disembarking from a train the previous night; a stranger looking for love; a lover seeking strangeness. Once, Rose might have understood the act of willingly giving away one’s own blood, but now that things had changed, such an act seemed abhorrent to her. She was glad people did so, of course… but she no longer understood.

She hoped Marty never did it. The idea of drinking something of him… She would know, of course. That would make it worse. She’d know, and she would not be able to stop.

She sighed and closed her eyes, relishing the power and strength the blood gave her. It’s just food, she thought, and she imagined Francesco’s mocking grin if she ever said that aloud. He was the oldest among them, and sometimes he disturbed her. It wasn’t that he had seen more than she could imagine; it was the fact that he found no compulsions to talk about it.

Rose buried the blood bag at the base of the garden wall, pushing it deep and compacting the soil on top of it. Then she sat motionless for a while, hiding in shadows and looking around to make sure she was not being observed. There were still several lights on in the terraced street—she rarely saw places like this where everyone was asleep—and from the open window twenty feet from where she crouched she heard the sounds of lovemaking. She felt a twinge of sexual stirring, but only a pang, a memory more than a sensation. As the man groaned and the woman cried out, Rose leapt the wall and started making her way through the gardens.

She startled a cat and sent it scampering. An urban fox drew back, hissing, hackles raised as she ran past and jumped into the next garden. A dog started barking, but quickly stopped again when she moved beyond the range of its delicate senses. She climbed the walls with ease and cleared the gardens in three paces, and within a minute she lowered herself into the street and watched again for the boy. She had only been away from him for five minutes—she knew the route he always took home, and she could already smell him on the still night air.

A taxi passed by, driver a vague hunched shape. Sometimes—on late evenings, mostly—she rode in taxis, enjoying the driver’s banter if he was a talkative one, relishing the silence if not. Sometimes she simply craved the company of humans.

She walked quickly, passing through the oases of light beneath streetlamps. A few late revelers approached on the other side of the street. Rose kept her head down, her stride confident, her bearing assured. Passing before the barred gates of a small garage forecourt, security lights flashed on and threw her shadow across the road. The revelers’ voices grew quiet, and then stopped altogether. Still they walked, staggeringly drunk, only one of them looking her way. The man had a smile frozen on his face, and she almost felt the way his eyes rode up and down her body. She met his gaze, and he looked away. Tonight, she thought he might have a nightmare.

She passed across an area of derelict land—it was rumored the houses here had been bombed during the Second World War, and ever since the place had been “scheduled for development”—and heard a gang of winos arguing over the last sip in a bottle. They were gathered around a fire, shielded from the road by a thick mass of shrubs and small trees. She passed close enough to smell their blood, and it was rank. Their shouting accompanied her into the darkness again, and she slipped through a rent in the wooden hoarding surrounding the forgotten site.

The boy was close now. This was his usual way home from his friend’s house, and ever since she’d diverted to pop one of the blood bags she always kept on her, a consistent clock had been ticking in her mind. She knew where he would be, and berated herself a little for losing sight of him.

But she couldn’t be there for him all the time, could she? He was growing now, seventeen years old, tall and lean and strong, and one day he’d have to face the future without her because—

Why? Why should he? I can always be here for him, and perhaps as he’s starting to grow old…

But she couldn’t face the idea of turning Marty. She was handling her own condition as well as she could, but she would never visit it on someone she loved. Not without giving him the choice.

She crossed a street and jogged along another road, and just as she caught sight of Marty disappearing around a corner at the far end, she sensed that she was being followed.

Rose’s first instinct was to turn and face her pursuer, but she kept jogging as if unaware. She tried to work out exactly how she knew. Even after five years, it sometimes felt as if she were still settling into this new life, a stranger thrust into an unknown body and told to live with it. The disorientation sometimes sickened her. So she listened, tasted the air, felt the caress of a gentle breeze passing along the street, and it was all and none of these things. She heard and felt and tasted nothing out of the ordinary, and yet the night was suddenly alight with glee.

For a moment, Rose was taken aback with shock. She paused directly beneath a streetlamp, wide-eyed, and when a curtain to her left twitched she saw a young girl’s face watching from an upstairs window. The girl did not blink or look away, and the shadows at her throat danced minutely to her heartbeat.

Rose ran.

Something after him. Chasing. Hunting!

Her feet slapped the pavement without making any sound, and she started moving only by shadows, avoiding the streetlights and passing through the night like a part of it.

It was only as she heard the cry of terror that she let herself speak her brother’s name.

“Marty.”

Marty Volk was not a people person. His T-shirt attested to that—Do I Look Like a Fucking People Person?—and his friends were often eager enough to confirm it as well. Usually when there was a girl he was trying to chat up. Sometimes it worked in his favor, when the girl saw him as the strong, silent type. And when he was just a miserable bastard, sometimes not.

There’d been no girls that night. In fact there had been just him and Gaz, spending the evening in his friend’s room playing CDs, downloading music, and drinking cider. It had been a fun night, and Marty always felt comfortable and safe in Gaz’s company. They were best friends, and he even believed that Gaz understood a lot of why he was quiet and withdrawn. More than the others, at least. They’d been friends five years ago when Rose disappeared, and as Marty had watched his parents crumbling before him, Gaz and his family had been a great support.

He could still be a bit of a dick, though. Like tonight, drinking a flagon of cider before Marty even arrived and ending the evening puking from his bedroom window. His dad’s lean-to greenhouse was below, and the sound of his friend’s vomit striking glass had turned Marty’s stomach. It wasn’t the first time it had happened and it wouldn’t be the last, and he knew that Gaz would be busy with a hose and scrubbing brush next morning. Twat. He smiled softly as he walked along the darkened streets, and realized for the hundredth time how much he treasured his friends.

Marty never got that drunk anymore. He’d done it once a couple of years ago when their little gang had managed to procure a bottle of vodka from a shop owner who should have known better. That night had ended in a fight, Gaz falling and slicing his hand open on broken glass, and Marty passing out in the gutter on the way home. Right about where he was now, in fact. He’d banged his head somehow as he went down, and when he came to…

It had been early morning. His parents had agonized later about how many people must have passed him by in cars and on foot, but Marty could understand their caution. He was out later than his parents most nights now, and he’d seen enough stuff on the streets to make him just as reticent about helping others—junkies, pissheads, and once a dead guy who they reckoned had been a hit-and-run victim. Marty had opened his eyes, and through the alcohol haze and the pain of his bashed head, in the weak streetlights, against the background of all London’s night lights reflected against low-lying cloud…

Rose.

He shook his head and looked down at the gutter where he’d lain so long ago. Standing about here, he thought he’d seen his sister. Missing now for five years, presumed dead by his parents, but not by him. He could never say why he thought she was still alive, and they didn’t ask. Sometimes he thought he saw jealousy in his father’s eyes that he could hold out such hope.

Whoever he’d seen at the time, she had helped him up and sent him on his way.

He glanced at his watch now and walked on. Almost one A.M.; he should be getting home. His parents were pretty liberal when it came to allowing him out, insisting only that they know where he was going. But Marty was a bright kid, and he knew the worry he must be putting them through. They’d lost one child, and they’d do anything within their power to avoid losing another. Once he got home, they’d go to sleep at last.

He passed a bunch of drunks, yuppies in sharp suits and high skirts, and one of the women called something to him. He walked on without looking. Male laughter followed, and he was glad to turn a corner and put buildings between them.

It was the eyes that had convinced him it was Rose. It had been too dark to see their expression, but it had been like looking into his own.

He followed his familiar route, the couple of pints of cider he’d drunk tiring him more than anything else. He was looking forward to bed, and perhaps he’d dream of Paulina. Gaz kept telling him he didn’t have a chance, but the sexy Spanish girl he’d met at their local pub two weeks before had been on his mind ever since—olive skin, dark eyes, and a permanent smile that held a promise of wonders. She’d apparently moved into the area with her extended family—there had been at least six of them at the Dick Turpin that evening—and that first time she’d got drunk on white wine and made out with Marty in the pub’s beer garden. He’d slipped his hand inside her blouse and held her breast, small and smooth, with a nipple as large and hard as an acorn, and she’d giggled and pushed him away, wagging her finger as she staggered backwards toward the pub. Since then she’d given him only coy smiles, and Gaz didn’t believe for a second that Marty’d had a handful.

Yeah, Paulina. Maybe tomorrow he’d—

Something came. Marty paused, looked around. Nothing had changed, but the night suddenly felt loaded, silent darkness thickening, breeze faded like a held breath. He was standing in front of a Laundromat, its neon sign flickering on and off as it had for years. Beyond that was a closed restaurant, then a bank, then…

Nowhere to run, he thought. He looked around in a panic, searching for whatever had scared him but seeing nothing. A car drove along the street, not too fast, not too slow. A woman drove, hunched over the wheel and not even sparing him a glance. Should’ve flagged her down. Asked her for a lift home. He knew she wouldn’t have stopped, but…

But something was here.

Marty backed into the Laundromat’s recessed doorway. It stank of piss. His bladder suddenly felt full and hot. The darkness gathered, not increasing but solidifying, and then there was someone standing in the middle of the road. A man. Marty hadn’t seen him before, didn’t know where he’d come from, but he started walking toward Marty, with a casual gait but unbelievably fast, and in the second it took the man to cross the road and pavement and let his shadow fall across him, Marty had time to see what was so wrong.

The man’s fingers were too long and tipped with claws. His legs bent unnaturally, like an animal’s limbs grafted onto a person. And his face… it was inhuman. It bore all the normal features, but their combination produced something other than the man it pretended to be: nostrils flared as if smelling fine food, not a drunk’s piss. Eyes deep and impossibly dark. And his mouth… was crammed with teeth.

Marty screamed, the man crouched and hissed as if ready to leap, and then something else powered into the stranger, knocking him out of the streetscape framed by the shop doorway. Marty froze, unable to move as he listened to the terrible sounds emanating from somewhere out of sight. A scream, a growl, and then a noise that could only have been claws ripping flesh.

He leaned forward so that he could see fully into the street, staring to the left. The pavement was wide here, but the two fighting things seemed to span from shop to curbside. Limbs flailed, shadows twisted and tore, strangled and pulled, and here and there Marty saw the gleam of streetlights reflected from something pale and wet. At first he thought they were those teeth he’d seen, gnashing in a black maw. But then he heard a sickening snap, and knew that they were exposed bones.

The person he’d seen coming at him from the road—the thing—pounced from the melee, reaching for him with one clawed hand. His face was that of a ravening animal. His mouth opened wide, and something squirmed in there, as if a snake had replaced his tongue and was now tasting the blood-flecked air.

Marty was so shocked that he did not even pull back.

The other thing—he hadn’t yet made it out, couldn’t concentrate long enough to see who or what it was—swung a limb around the attacker’s face and pulled, twisting and rolling backwards. Marty heard the snap of bone, and through the paving slabs he actually felt the thud as bones gave way.

Marty retched, puking a thin gruel of cider and peanuts onto the pavement before him. All the while, he tried to keep his eyes open and focused on the conflict.

His potential attacker stood, seeming to rise and rise, even though he stood not much taller than Marty. Though he looked ragged and broken, still he retained the power and threat Marty had seen moments before. Head tilted to one side, mouth still open and displaying those terrible teeth—too many teeth, too long—he faced Marty’s savior, hissing words that he could not understand.

“Speak English, fuckhead,” his savior said, and though she had her back to him—he could tell it was a she by the curves, even though she wore a thigh-length jacket, and the stance, even though she stood crouched to repel another attack—something jarred in his chest. He did not recognize the voice or the words she spoke, but there was something there… an attitude…

“Rose,” Marty whispered, and the attacker’s eyes flickered to him again. The stranger grinned. His mouth seemed far too wide for his head, and a moment of disbelief made Marty nauseous again. This warm night was suddenly unreal, and he wondered whether Gaz had put something dodgy in his cider. Gaz had been experimenting with drugs, Marty knew that. Nothing too heavy, he claimed, but who knew what was in some of those pills?

Rose, if it was Rose, did not react to his voice. Instead she leapt at the man-thing again, knocking him back into the road. A taxi had been approaching and its brakes screeched, tires laying rubber, but when the driver leaned from his window with a curse on his tongue, Marty saw him quickly change his mind and duck back inside. Instead of driving around the fighting pair, he reversed, ricocheting from several parked cars and setting off an alarm. The screaming engine provided a counterpoint to the all-but-silent struggle before him.

Marty slipped from the doorway and started moving along the shop fronts. Thirty yards along the street was an alley; he could cut in there, jump across a few gardens, and exit into the next street. From there he could lose himself, and it would only take a few minutes…

That thing will sniff me out. His legs weakened at the thought, but it could not be denied.

The fight was relentless. There was no pulling back, circling, stalking; just close-in fighting. The shapes crashed across the street, piling into a car and setting it rocking. The windshield and side windows shattered, the glass sparkling to the ground, and by the time each shard had fallen they were already twenty yards away, one shadow holding the other against the side of a white van, pummeling a fist into the other’s face again and again, metal buckling, paint darkening as it was splashed.

Lights came on in several houses, residents reacting to the singing car alarm. Marty saw curtains shifting, and most of the lights went out again. One stayed on, and from that window he saw several flashes as a camera started snapping away.

The fight stopped as quickly as it had begun. The woman stood and backed away, hands held away from her sides as if ready to strike again. The man stood in the center of the street, in almost exactly the same place he had been when Marty first saw him. He looked as if he’d passed through a thresher, shredding skin and flesh, breaking bone… yet still he grinned. Swaying, he appeared ready to fall.

“Weakling,” he said, his voice heavily accented even through the damage done to his face. And then he turned and was gone, darting away between blinks. Marty looked left and right, trying to see where he had vanished to, and for a moment he glimpsed movement on the terraced rooftop across the street. There was a distant scream, the smashing of glass, and the window that had flashed with camera shots suddenly grew dark.

The woman started walking away.

“Wait!” Marty shouted. “You saved me from… You can’t just…”

She paused, motionless, and Marty thought, That’s how Rose would stand if she was thinking about something, a bit of tension on the shoulders, looking down at the ground in front of her as if the answer might be written there. She stood like that for some time, her left hand clenching and unclenching, and Marty wasn’t sure whether it was the newly revealed moonlight that made her appear to be shivering.

And then she turned around.

Without a body, there could be no death. That was always Rose’s concern. Once turned, she had disappeared from the map of London life, becoming something else entirely and viewing the city through different eyes. She had left her family behind, guided into her new life by Francesco and the others, but her thoughts had always been for young Marty. They had fought like cats and dogs but loved each other with an intensity that only siblings could achieve. He would be bereft, and she knew that the wondering would be the most painful part of her disappearance, for him and for their parents. Wondering if Rose had run away or been murdered; whether she lay in a shallow grave, or chopped up and stored in a killer’s freezer; or whether she had been dragged into prostitution, drugged and beaten, as so many had through the years.

She had wanted them to think she was dead. But she could not give them a body.

Now, turning and looking Marty in the eye for the first time in five years, she realized that Francesco had always been right: disappearing would have been best.

“Marty,” she said, and his eyes grew wider. She was still wound up from the fight, and knew that he saw her teeth. She could do nothing about that. Becoming involved had been her choice; now she had to deal with the consequences.

That thing would come back. Perhaps in moments, or maybe in days, sniffing Marty out, following him home, taking later what it had intended on taking tonight. She’d seen its kind before, and knew what this meant. She could not let her brother die.

“Rose,” he said, and there was not as much surprise in his voice as she’d imagined. “Rose.” He came toward her and she held up both hands.

“Stay back,” she whispered, and her jaws ached. She could smell Marty’s fear.

“Rose, I knew it was you. And it was those other times, too, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That time, when I fell over drunk and banged my head. I really caught it from Mum and Dad for that, I can tell you, but they were glad enough to have me home that it wasn’t as bad as it should have been. And when those shitheads ganged up on me a couple of years back outside the leisure center, and that one big bastard pulled a knife… that was you too? You ran by and grabbed it out of his hand, broke his wrist?”

“No,” Rose said, remembering the thrill she’d felt while snapping the thug’s arm like a twig.

“I saw your hair,” Marty said, “and the way you ran.”

“I run differently now,” she said.

“Yeah.” He was staring at her, and Rose was surprised at how uncomfortable she found it. No one ever stared at her. Francesco and the others looked and saw someone like themselves. Lee Woodhams didn’t even know what she was. And other humans… generally she kept away from them, or if she was close she would hide herself away. Dark glasses, a scarf, a hat. Anything to avoid their stares, because if they saw something that scared them and their heart rates increased, she’d see their pulse, and hear their hearts, and consider the blood that should be her food.

She had only ever drunk warm once, and she had vowed to never do so again.

Marty stared but did not seem afraid. He was happy to see her.

“Marty, I’m gone,” she said. “Pretend you never saw me.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You have to! I’m not here anymore, not like I was before. I’m somewhere else. Some thing else. A memory for you, that’s the best I can be.”

“My guardian angel,” he said, and Rose almost crumpled. He’d encapsulated her weakness in two words, because she had never been able to fully let go. It was a weakness some of the Humains shared, and though the vampires did not acknowledge it as such, they all knew deep down that it was a fault. They were no longer human, yet they viewed the world of humans in a way that could not sit right with their existence. They had always known of the existence of the more brutal vampires—like the one she’d just fought, and which she and the others would have to hunt down and destroy—but they viewed themselves as something more controlled, and more natural. They existed alongside humans rather than killing them for food. But this meant that they all carried links to their old lives and ways of life that was often difficult to break.

Ten years before, when the Barrow thing happened in the United States, the Humains’ sheltered and unusual existence had been brought home to them more powerfully than ever before. When Rose had been turned, part of the care they gave her was lessons in their species’ history.

“I can’t ever be your guardian angel,” Rose said. “I can’t be with you all the time. You were lucky I was passing by this time, otherwise that thing—”

“That… vampire,” Marty said, and she saw his eyes watering with terror.

“You’d be dead,” Rose said after a slight pause. “But you can’t count on me.”

“Oh my God, you’re one too.” He took a step closer and Rose stepped back into the road. She looked around for cars and scanned the shadows for the thing she’d fought. She had sensed his surprise as she bettered him, felt his flesh and bones breaking beneath her grip and punches, but she had no doubt he would seek revenge. That’s what his sort were like. Proud of their monstrousness.

What have I done? she thought as Marty kept walking toward her.

“Marty, stay back,” she whispered, injecting as much menace as she could into her voice. His eyes went wide and he scampered back a few steps, tripping over his own feet and sprawling on the bloodied pavement.

“I won’t tell anyone!” he blurted.

“Fuck,” Rose muttered. She looked around, saw that a couple of lights had come on again. She’d heard the scream soon after the thing fled and knew that in one of those darkened rooms, walls and ceiling would be dripping and the stink of death would hang heavy. It didn’t matter so much if she was seen, but if Marty was spotted and identified by anyone watching now…

“Come on,” she said. Faster than he could blink she grabbed his arm, and his warmth bled through the leather jacket. She steered him along in front of the shops, moving through shadows and using her body to shield him from the view of houses across the road. All the while she kept watch for things that should not move, wondering who that vampire had been and where his strange accent originated. Since she’d been turned, they’d had only one vampire in London, and the Humains had acted quickly to hunt her down and eject her from the city. Still, she had killed fifteen people before being caught. It had been a terrifying time for Rose, the first time she had confronted the naked truth of what she was. The Humains had shielded her. But in a way, Francesco had said afterward, it was good for her to know.

Now there was another. And for some reason which she dare not attribute to chance, the thing had come for her still-living brother.

They ran through the night, Rose having to hold back because Marty could only sprint so fast. All the while she felt him burning with questions, but she ran him so hard that he could not find breath to ask them.

Before he even seemed to realize where they were going, they stopped at the end of his street.

“Rose—” he began, but she cut in. She’d spent the time running planning what to say.

“Rose is dead,” she said. “She died five years ago when she was bitten by a vampire. Okay? I’m what’s left of her. A husk. I drink stolen blood to survive, occasionally animal’s blood. I’m not glamorous, I’m pathetic. I’m not your guardian angel. I don’t mourn my old life, Marty. And that is the truth.” She paused, wondering how far to go, how much she should say about what she had become and how it made her feel. Running with Marty had once again displayed to her the constraints of being human.

“But I’ve seen you,” he said. “Always knew you weren’t really dead.”

“But that’s just it,” Rose said, leaning in close so that he could feel her cool skin, smell her stale breath, see the teeth that no living human could ever have. “I am dead, as far as you’d judge it. I’m beyond any life you know. The Rose you think you’re looking at is just a memory.” She stood up straighter again, and she could feel the fear in his gaze.

“So, what do I do now?” he asked. And that was what she was conflicted about: she’d started something by saving Marty. She’d started it years ago by following him, keeping an eye on him, making sure he never came to any harm. Now was the time to move on.

“You’ve got to leave London,” she said. “Tell your mother and father they have to get out, before sunset tomorrow. Daytime’s safe.”

“You mean it’ll come back? It knows where I live?” His eyes were wide, and she hated seeing her little brother so scared. But she couldn’t show him any emotion. Could barely show it to herself. She sometimes thought that undead made her truly dead inside.

“He didn’t like being beaten,” she said. “And yeah, good chance he’s been stalking you.” I would, she thought. Wounds in her side were itching, gored flesh knitting and burning as it healed. The back of her left hand had been stripped of skin and flesh, sucked into his mouth when his teeth had torn her open there. Bones showed through. That would take a couple of days to grow back, she knew. Her long coat hid the terrible damage to her right thigh and buttock, where she knew that pounds of flesh had been stripped away. If she wasn’t already undead, she’d be dead now, but that didn’t detract from the agony of the healing as it commenced. Her only comfort was that he’d be feeling a lot worse.

“But… you’ll make sure he doesn’t, right? You’ll talk to him?”

“I don’t even know him. He’s not one of…” She trailed off, knowing that she’d already said too much.

“There are others like you?”

Rose didn’t answer. Instead she walked along the street, keeping to shadows just in case her old mother or father happened to be looking from their window right now. Awaiting Marty’s return, perhaps. Or maybe just looking out into the darkness that had eaten their daughter.

She heard Marty following her. She’d already said too much, interacted with him when she had no right doing so. She’d planted hope in his young heart when there was no hope. And her own thoughts confused her. To begin with, there had been a subtle sadness at what she had lost. But now it felt more like resentment at the weakness she’d left behind, and at the weak thing her brother still was. And that sat heavy on her vampire heart.

“Get out of London,” she said again over her shoulder. “You’re in danger and I can’t protect you again.”

“Rose…”

“Forget about Rose.” And without glancing back she moved quickly into the night, Marty’s astonished gasp the only sound that marked her leaving.

She moved quickly, climbing to cross the warren of terraced streets across rooftops high above, avoiding chimneys that might crumble, stepping lightly over loose tiles. She became unseen and unknown once again, cursing herself for letting Marty see her. She’d had no choice, but she knew exactly what Francesco would say when she told him what had happened.

And she had to tell. The Humains had to group together again, hunt down and expel this new London vampire. Murder and exposure threatened the delicate existence they had built up for themselves over so long. She knew their history, and she also knew what something like this could do to their future. Once the living believed in and feared them, their days were numbered.

Francesco… yes, she knew exactly what he would say.

2

“YOU SHOULD HAVE LET him die.”

“He’s my brother.”

“You have no human brother! A blood brother, yes. I turned you. Would you do the same to protect me? I wonder.”

“You know I would, Francesco.”

“‘I know you would.’” It was part statement, part echo, but Rose knew that he knew the truth. They were as close as lovers without sex intruding to complicate matters. The same blood ran in their veins. She would do anything for him, and despite his bluster and posturing she knew that he would do the same for her.

“I couldn’t let him die like that. You know it well.”

“I know you’re a fool.”

“What would you do if it was one of your family?”

“My family died out over a hundred years ago,” Francesco said, and there was not a single note of sadness in his voice. “Ypres, the flu, murder, and a suicide finally finished the line.” He chuckled. “I’m the last one left. Irony playing games, perhaps?”

“So you know what happened to them all.” Rose looked straight ahead, but she could not keep the slight smile from her lips. She felt Francesco tense slightly on the bench beside her, and then he chuckled again. It was only in his laughter that he sounded so old.

They were sitting beside a canal; darkness hunkered around them in a hundred shadows. The water stank, rats scuttled to and fro, and smashed bottles and used condoms carpeted the towpath. The canal’s opposite side was lined with dilapidated factory units. The shadow of a forgotten company’s name was picked out by moonlight, and the staggered ridges of a series of pitched roofs were shattered by time and vandals. Weeds had taken root atop the buildings like sparse tufts of hair.

Francesco liked sitting here, and it was the first place she’d come to after leaving Marty. She’d only had to wait for an hour before her friend showed. He hadn’t seemed surprised to find her waiting, but then, he rarely showed much emotion. He claimed that the sixteen decades he’d been a vampire had bled him of trifling sentiment, but she believed he had merely learned to hide it well.

She could smell stale blood on him. He’d fed tonight, from one of the same blood pouches Patrick had stolen from the blood bank three days before. Rose supposed it was a treat, but every time she fed this way, she remembered that one time she’d truly fed. With the memory came a flush of guilt and remorse, and a thrill of excitement and joy that belittled the greatest sex she’d known as a living human. Francesco had found her that night, and held her, and told her that it always took time to adjust. He had not fed on a human for over forty years, or so he claimed. She had no reason to doubt him.

“So we have the problem again,” he said, sighing. “It was inevitable. More has happened to our kind over the last ten years than in the previous hundred. Exposure. Ambition. Both are dangerous.”

“He was strong,” Rose said. “Surprise helped me, but I’m not sure I could beat him next time.” She closed her eyes.

“Strong because he feeds well. I’ve scanned the news but seen nothing yet. Perhaps he’s taking vagrants or runaways, but it’ll be noticed soon enough.”

“But why Marty?”

“Coincidence,” Francesco said. “You said the vampire was surprised. If he’d targeted Marty on purpose, he might have expected you to defend him.”

“I don’t believe in coincidence.”

“When you’ve lived as long as I have, you’ll find it everywhere.”

Fucking hell, Rose thought, closing her eyes and sensing the night. She hated it when he fell back on his age. He had wisdom, yes, and knowledge, but when he talked to her like a kid…

She smiled softly. Perhaps he thought of her in the same way that she thought of Marty. A quiet superiority.

“Dawn’s close,” he said. “We should go down. Use the day to talk to the others, and tomorrow night we’ll catch him.”

“How?”

“By using your brother as bait.”

“The bastard will be expecting that.”

“Of course,” Francesco said. “So you’ll be bait as well.” He stood and stretched, and Rose heard his joints clicking, his muscles flexing. She could sense the dawn coming, a soft brightening to the clouds in the east, and for a moment she felt queasy. She hadn’t seen the sun or felt its heat in five years, and she still missed it.

Beneath them, the warren of London’s underworld.

Time to go down.

Marty knew he wouldn’t sleep a wink that night. He entered his house sober, watching the shadows around him, jumping at the slightest sound—a cat bursting from undergrowth in their small front garden, a car horn in the distance. Inside, the familiar shadows and shapes that made up the geography of the house were no longer comforting. They were somewhere for that thing to hide.

But Rose is one too.

He shook his head as he stood in the hallway behind the closed and locked front door and tried to make sense of his night. But there was no sense to be made.

“Marty?”

He jumped, letting out a small strangled cry halfway between laugh and scream.

“Mum! Thought you’d be asleep.” She was standing at the head of the staircase, a vague shape that he knew so well. Comforting. At least that hadn’t changed.

“Just been to the loo. You’re late. Are you drunk?”

“Not at all. And yeah, sorry, Gaz and I were watching a movie and time ran away with us.”

“Just you and Gaz?” There was that tone, the half-playful, half-concerned voice of a mother knowing her son was old enough to be fooling around with girls. It embarrassed him to hell, but he also found it quite sweet.

“Just the two of us. He got really drunk. He’ll have lots of cleaning up to do in the morning, and—”

“It almost is morning, son. Three o’clock. Don’t make a noise when you come to bed, sweetheart.” And she disappeared, shuffling across the landing into her bedroom to get some sleep at last. He felt a pang of guilt, and then he thought of Rose.

I saw Rose tonight, Mum. She’s a vampire, but other than that she’s okay. I’ve always known she wasn’t dead, but never guessed she could be undead. And she saved me from another vampire, a really nasty one, one that wanted to drink my blood and butcher me and… she didn’t. He barked a short laugh, startled at how loud it was, and as he walked through into the kitchen it turned into a silent, shoulder-spasming sob. He rubbed his eyes but the tears kept coming.

“You’d never believe who I saw tonight, Mum,” he whispered, and saying it, however quietly, seemed to settle him a little.

He poured some orange juice, but the darkness pressing against the kitchen window terrified him, so he decided to take the drink upstairs. He made sure all the doors and windows downstairs were locked first, moving quietly so as not to alert his parents to what he was doing. On the landing he passed the closed door to Rose’s old bedroom and a sense of unreality hit him.

She was in there, asleep. She had to be. He’d got really drunk, and on the way home he’d suffered a waking nightmare about Rose disappearing and being presumed dead, her reappearance, the thing that had almost torn him apart for the stuff in his veins… and as he closed his own bedroom door, he just managed to put the glass down before the shakes hit him.

He collapsed on his bed and sobbed into the pillow, desperate for his parents not to hear. If they did and came to see what was wrong, what could he possibly say?

Marty tried to remember what it had been like having Rose in the house. He’d been twelve when she disappeared; she was ten years older, and they’d had so little in common that sometimes they spent days, even weeks without really having conversations. They’d talked, of course—Hey, Hi, Shut up, Get lost—but he could not recall a time when they’d sat in his or her room and really talked. Sometimes she’d chatted at him, telling him about her plans to move to America and become a personal trainer. In his memories she was always doing something to keep fit, whether it was running in the streets or working out in her own room. Her weights were still in there, along with all the other things her parents had never got around to throwing away.

Marty wondered if she wanted her things back. The weights and clothes, the books and CDs, and… and what the fuck would a vampire want with all those things?

He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. It had not been a nightmare, and he hadn’t made it up. Perhaps it was shock, but there was a curious detachment between him and the unreality of what had happened. He remembered the vampire coming at him and Rose barreling into it, their fight, the thing fleeing after calling Rose “Weakling.” And he believed it all. Those couple of times he’d imagined seeing his sister over the past few years probably helped, but what made it easier to accept was the way Rose had changed. He’d recognized her more from her stance and movements than from her face and voice. And although even they were different—he’d never seen her fighting before, and she’d run as if the darkness eased her way—they were still more familiar to him than those dark eyes, so much older than he remembered. They were eyes that had seen things, eyes that craved. As well as scaring him, they made him pity Rose more.

Before tonight, his only thoughts of vampires had had to do with movies and comics. They were cool monsters sometimes, like in Near Dark. Not so cool in that Tom Cruise movie: too many fluffy collars and cuffs. Now he knew them to be real. Doubt had been shoved aside as quickly and surely as that vampire ambushed by his dead sister.

As the night drew on and sleep eluded him, the situation started resolving itself for Marty. Setting to one side Rose’s reappearance and its repercussions, the main factor to consider was the danger he was obviously in. As Rose had suggested, wounded pride and anger might bring that man-thing back for him tomorrow night—she should know—and, alone, there was nothing he could do to protect himself. Leaving was the only way he could ensure his own safety and that of his mother and father.

He had to persuade them to leave. Tomorrow. Without telling them about Rose, or claiming that a vampire had come for him…

And that would be impossible. They were physically attached to this house, the last place that Rose had been seen alive, so much so that he thought the end of the world might be just about the only thing that would persuade them to leave.

So, should he tell them? Sit them down with a cup of tea in the morning and tell them everything that had happened? Daytime would be safe, Rose had told him.

Tomorrow night, death would come for him again.

As dawn stained his curtains pink, Marty tried to think of how he could force his parents to flee the city.

People had written books and made movies about these places, and some of them had been close to the truth. But none had quite reached the level of wonder and horror contained in the city below the city.

Francesco had lived in London for over seventy years, but even he admitted to only knowing a small part of the underworld. Tube tunnels and stations, sewers, air raid shelters, nuclear bunkers, storage tunnels, deep basements, culverts, rivers… there was a whole other city below London, much of it uninhabited, but some of it home to a mix of people. Down-and-outs often slept belowground, venturing down from the open streets above to avoid the cruel coolness of night. Criminals found themselves a convenient hidey-hole or two in which they stored stolen goods or sometimes hid themselves away when the upside grew too hot. There were people who had chosen to live down there as an alternative to the bustle up above, some of them going so far as to construct ”homes” in abandoned tube stations, with furniture, pictures, and working electrical goods. Some said that deeper down amongst the roots of the city lived more basic tribes, some of whom had not seen daylight for generations.

But perhaps that legend had evolved from knowledge of the vampires.

They called themselves Humains: vampires that did not prey on humans. Four of them had adopted a deep basement as a home in the months following Rose’s turning. Francesco and Rose spent most of their days there, along with two others. Patrick was an Irishman, turned just after the Second World War, a quiet man who kept to himself but who so obviously needed company to get by. Patrick had come to London in the eighties after spending years hunting across the rural parts of Ireland, growing more and more disillusioned with his lot. He’d only ever taken sick or old people, hating the dealing of death but driven by what he was and what he must have. It was only in London, when Francesco had found him and shown him a different way, that Patrick had found some form of peace. It was an uneasy peace and, Rose believed, one liable to be upset at any time. Out of all the Humains rose knew, Patrick was perhaps the least human.

The other Humain sharing their hideaway was Jane, a middle-aged woman turned by Patrick in the nineties. Jane had never eaten of a living human, and she was proud of that, often using it to justify herself if there were arguments. Because she sought the recently dead, she often found what she wanted belowground, stalking a sickly person and pouncing at the moment of their passing before the blood stopped flowing and took on the taint of death. Sometimes she was too late and the blood had gone bad in the corrupted body; then she would spend days curled in an agonized ball as the bad blood was purged from her system. Other times, Rose and the others believed, Jane was a little too early. But she would never admit to that.

The journey down felt familiar, but this time the world had changed for Rose yet again. As they descended from the tube station platform, passing through maintenance tunnels and gratings, down a forgotten staircase leading to a station that had never been completed, she brought with her knowledge that someone living knew of her and what she was. Francesco would have more to say about that later. Right now he walked ahead of her, moving with a grace and poise that she had never seen in anyone else. She had always felt that his was a conflicted existence: he fit the vampire mold so well, and yet he denied its basic tenet. She wondered what he thought about during his darkest moments, and whether sometimes… but it was wrong of her to think that way. Francesco was stronger and wiser than them all, and if he did take an occasional warm meal, there would be no reason to lie to them about it.

They crossed the uncompleted station platform, bare concrete crumbling beneath their feet, and approached the doorway at the far end. It was one of six entrances into the subterranean room they used, and all of them were kept guarded. They paused at the door, which stood ajar.

“Seal’s gone,” Francesco said. In the darkness he quickly located a small mark on the metal door frame, a smear of saliva from one of the others dried in a particular shape. “Patrick.”

“Good,” Rose said, and Francesco glanced back at her.

“It won’t even know we exist,” he said. “And even if it does, there’s no way it could find us down here. And even if it could…” His shrug said, You’ve beaten it before.

“Maybe there’s more than one,” she said. “You know what’s been happening out there, in the wider world. Lee’s made it all clear to us.”

Francesco raised one eyebrow and the corner of his mouth, the closest he came to a full smile. “And we’ll be seeing Woodhams tonight,” he said. “I’ve already put a call in. If that vampire’s here for anything other than a random hunt, he should have heard something.”

“We put too much trust in him,” Rose said. Francesco shoved the door open and she followed him inside. “He’s a rat. Surfing the internet, listening for whispers. He sees less daylight than we do, and he’s human.”

“And the fact that he hates vampires with a vengeance makes him our greatest ally.”

“Yeah,” Rose said. She had to admit, the irony always amused her. Woodhams wasn’t a very nice man. And one day, when he found out what they were—which was inevitable—they’d have to deal with him. But for now he was their ears and eyes on the wider world, and it was a world in which much had happened and was still happening.

The time when keeping their heads down would keep them safe seemed to be coming to an end.

A curved staircase led down to the large plant room that they called home. Whatever plant it had been intended for had never been installed, and instead they’d brought down a selection of blankets, mattresses, and folding chairs. There was also a large fridge, the power supply snaking back up through the tunnels to where it was spliced into an underground cable. Patrick had been responsible for that; during the war he’d been an electrical engineer working on aircraft and radar installations.

Rose still remembered the first time Francesco had brought her down here. She was still feverish from the change, shaking with ravenous desire, and she’d vomited when she’d seen the fridge in the corner, laughing afterward because what could she possibly want with salad, or milk, or butter? She’d collapsed in the complete darkness, seeing as though it were daylight. And later, cold blood trickling down her throat and Francesco leaning over her with a plastic bag in one hand, she’d realized the truth.

Nodding at Patrick where he sat upright in a folding chair, glancing at where Jane seemed to be sleeping on a double mattress, Rose went straight to the fridge. She’d already fed that day, but the fight and what came after had drained her. She didn’t feel weak, but she did feel challenged. Her new world had crossed with her old that day, more than it ever had in the five years since she’d become Humain. The fridge hissed cool air as it opened, and she plucked out one of the dozen bags left inside.

“Running low,” she muttered, biting the corner of the bag open. Her jaws and teeth ached, tongue swelling with bloodlust. She faced away from the others as she fed. Unlike them, she still felt something that might have been shame, as if to be seen feeding were like being caught masturbating back when she was human. Francesco said it was her age, and that she would learn contentment. As far as Rose was concerned, that all sounded a bit too fucking Zen for her liking.

The blood settled in her stomach, the power thrummed through her, and she looked to the ceiling and sighed, closing her eyes and seeing the wide, frightened eyes of a man in a suit.

“Rose,” Francesco said, and she was glad. “We need rest, but before that we have to discuss what the night will bring.”

“Death,” Rose said. As she turned, she chuckled at the melodrama in her statement. But Jane was sitting up now, Patrick was staring at her, and she could see that they already had an inkling that something significant had happened.

“We need to gather the others,” Francesco said to the other two. “Two hours, then back here with whoever you can find.”

“What is it?” Jane asked anxiously. Rose could see that the older woman had fed well that night. She looked strong, so she must have caught death just in time.

“A vampire?” Patrick guessed. He looked from Rose to Francesco and back again. “Oh, great. I remember last time.”

“Rose has already met him,” Francesco said. “He’s a true vampire, and he might not be on his own. Lee might have heard something, but either way we’ll likely meet this thing again tonight. We have a plan.” He looked at Rose, an eyebrow raised. “Don’t we, Rose?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “A lure, and bait. Just not sure which one I am yet.”

“You’ll be fine,” Francesco said. He sent Patrick and Jane out into the tunnels to see if they could find any other Humains. There were a dozen more living in London, some willing to be included in group decisions and discussions, others more inclined to live on their own, but all dedicated to preserving their secret and avoiding targeting humans. That was the one principle that did unite them all, however reclusive some might be. Taking humans would bring attention; attention would eventually reveal the truth; and if people knew the truth and believed in them, there would no longer be any fear. Vampires—and that’s what the Humains were, whatever they might call themselves—relied on fear for survival. Without that, there would be only hunting, and violence, and killing. Eventual extinction.

And however conflicted they might be with the facts of their existence, they were nothing if not tenacious.

To begin with, the suit is all she sees. It’s a camouflage and a marker, a shield between the man and his humanity. It makes him an object, not a living, breathing thing, and the briefcase he carries is an extension of that objectivity. It makes what she wants to do all right.

The platform is crushed with people, and she is cold amongst their warmth. Sometimes she’s enveloped in a crush—she doesn’t like it, but she can do little to avoid it—and a pair of startled eyes glance at her. She stares back and they look away, their owner clawing away from her through the crowd. People are everywhere: women with families waiting for them at home; men laughing and muttering and looking forward to seeing their lovers; children chattering excitedly about all the London sights they’ve enjoyed today. The train trundles quickly away, and the crowd moves en masse toward the exit. All of that blood, none of it allowable, but there is the suit, only a few people ahead of her now, heading for the escalators and up into the night. She follows, avoiding the people around her as much as she can and concentrating on the suit. It moves with the crowd but contains nothing like them. They’re all human and protected by the oath Francesco made her take as soon as he’d turned her. They are forbidden.

But the suit is food. She can smell it inside, hear its passage through veins, sense the heart beating in a healthy rhythm.

As she mounts the second escalator and smells the night beyond, she has lived this moment a thousand times before. That does nothing to lessen the thrill of what is to come, and the excitement is real and rich and pure. Everything is familiar—the faces around her; the smells; the electronic adverts promoting books she will never read and shows she will never see; the sense that all these people are cattle, herded this way and that by convention and time and the need to do what is expected—and still the suit draws her on, enticing her with its thrilling warmth.

Her hunger is a solid thing. She’s surprised that the people around her don’t start bleeding beneath its weight. She closes her eyes and someone asks if she’s all right. She glances at the woman and she pulls away, running down the up escalator to annoyed comments from fellow travelers.

Through the station lobby, up the steps, out into the night, pavement thronging and lights glaring, heavy traffic poisoning the air, people talking on mobile phones because they can’t wait five minutes to reach home, and the suit turns left and settles into a steady pace. She doesn’t know how close or far away its home is, but she is settled in her course now, and she’s ready to—

That’s a man in there with a lover and maybe children: someone expecting to see tomorrow.

She coughs and growls, fisting a hand into her stomach to try and ease the hunger throbbing there. Her mouth is aching and she does her best to keep it closed. She wants to slaver, and growls, and feels her tongue swelling and becoming slick with saliva.

The suit turns left, right, passes into and out of a shop carrying a bottle of red wine. She laughs. The suit glances back and she looks away, and now it’s walking more upright, more cautious.

Not much time.

He’s human. You’re not allowed.

Her mouth hangs open now, tongue tasting the air and the blood pulsing through the suit’s veins. Her teeth feel heavy and sharp, and she’s more aware of them than ever before. Someone laughs in the next street and the suit glances that way, as if pleased that there’s still normal laughter somewhere. She can see a nervous smile on the man’s face.

A man, see? A man. Turn and flee, find Francesco, let him teach you what he says you need to know.

But the hunger is strong upon her now, and the suit is leading her toward food. There are no vestiges of her old humanity as she considers what she will do to him; it’s hardly even conscious thought. Instinct takes over as she slips into shadows, darting ahead, past the suit and across a series of rooftops to where she will set her ambush. Cars pass by but no one sees her. She has melded with the early night, and the sunken sun in the west is not even a memory.

There are no more pleas, not even as she recalls this moment. There is simply the hunger, and the blood, and then the suit is in her hands and pressed back against a wall, his eyes wide and his mouth opening to scream in terror. She presses one hand across his mouth and holds his scream inside, feels his heavy breath warm against her palm as for an instant he thinks, perhaps, that this is something else. And as she lurches forward and bites into his neck, it’s as if the blocked scream is building pressure, tensing his muscles, hardening his cock as his neck is constricted, and then softening again as she rips her head sideways and tears out his life. Blood sprays and gushes, muscles relax. His eyes roll and then turn glassy.

There’s no shame or guilt as she feeds. Only instinct.

“They’re here.”

Rose snapped awake. She sat upright and looked around the pitch-black basement. Francesco squatted beside her, and he blinked slowly as he saw her engorged tongue and split lips. He had never commented about her dreams, though he knew what she was reliving. They all understood that their subconscious must battle with decisions they made consciously.

“How many came?”

“All those Patrick and Jane could find.”

“So, how many?”

“Three. Rain, Jack, and Connie.”

Rose nodded and stretched. “Seven of us. Unless that vampire’s bringing an army behind him, that should do.” She looked past Francesco and saw the others gathered around the small table at the center of the room. They sat and stood quietly, the Humains, and she felt a stab of doubt that was becoming all too familiar. Perhaps it was a leftover from her dream, but she had a brief, intense conviction that they were all wrong. That their philosophy was destined to failure.

“We won’t know until tonight.”

“What time is it?”

Francesco looked at the pocket watch he always kept on a chain tucked into his waistcoat pocket. She’d laughed when she first saw it, thinking it was a clichéd affectation. But it had been his mother’s. She had been a nurse during the Napoleonic Wars.

“Almost midday,” he said. “We should really be resting.”

“Not sure I can.” She saw that suit, those eyes, and felt the warm blood flooding around her tongue.

“I was hoping you’d say that.” He held out his hand and took hers. It was not often that any of them welcomed contact, but Francesco had turned her. He was special. He’d told her that he had turned her to replace a mad fool called Chase who had turned back to warm blood and taken six children in six nights. They’d hunted him down and killed him, cutting him into pieces and burying him deep in London’s underworld. Rats and deeper creatures would consume the evidence that he had ever existed.

They approached the assembled Humains, and Rose exchanged nods of greeting.

“You know the basics,” Francesco said. “Now that we’re here together, it’s time to plan.”

As they started talking, and Rose realized what might happen that night, she hoped that Marty had managed to persuade his parents—her old mother and father—to leave the city. She hoped she would never see her living brother again.

But she doubted it.

3

MARTY STAYED IN HIS bedroom until his father called him down for breakfast. It was Saturday. His parents usually went uptown on Saturdays, going through the motions of shopping and browsing and having lunch and enjoying themselves, even though a part of them would always be missing. Sometimes Marty went with them, but he went less and less nowadays, now that he was almost an adult and had a life slowly building itself around him. If he didn’t go he’d spend time with Gaz, jamming with their guitars in his friend’s bedroom or wandering the neighborhood with their other mates. Smoking, drinking, laughing. Sometimes the future reminded them of the frightening weight of its potential, but usually at that age they lived for the moment. Some Saturdays he’d have mates around to his house for the evening, and his mum and dad would go upstairs to read or watch TV while Marty and his gang watched horror movies in the living room. They had a thirty-six-inch TV, great for expanding scares. Marty’s favorite had always been The Thing. Gaz liked Underworld.

“Marty? It’s almost eleven. You up?”

“Yeah, Dad.” He’d been up all night. He was standing in front of his mirror, staring into his own tired eyes and wondering just what the hell he could say.

“Fried egg on toast? Me and your mum are going into town later; you want to come with us?”

“Dunno!” He heard his own voice, saw his mouth move, but felt distant from the day and the boy he was looking at in the mirror. He had a pretty decent mustache and beard for a seventeen-year-old. He looked terrified of his own image.

“I’ll get breakfast going,” his father called uncertainly. Marty heard his parents in the kitchen below him, the rumble of their unheard words tinged with concern.

He took in a deep breath, taking in the day. It did nothing to disperse the events of the night before, and when he looked at his hands, he was glad. They were dirty from sprawling on the pavement. Under two fingernails of his left hand was black stuff, and he wondered if it was vampire blood. He wondered if vampires even bled—whether they had blood at all—and what would happen if he scraped it out and watered it down and drank it. Not that he wanted to. It was going right down the sink, down into the rat-infested darkness where it belonged. But still he wondered.

While he was washing and cleaning his teeth, he thought about what he was going to say. As he dressed and sprayed deodorant, trying to clear away the stink of fear that had hung around him ever since he’d seen his undead sister the night before, he formed the words in his mind.

And, sitting down over breakfast, realizing how foolish every one of them sounded, he let them out.

He should have expected such a reaction, he supposed. His mother had left the house in tears, and he’d never seen his dad so mad. Even though he thought they must have seen how serious he was—how he believed every word he was telling them—there had not been a single moment when they had seemed ready to entertain the truth. The incredulity was obvious in their eyes as he told them about the thing stalking and attacking him. He made sure from the beginning that it did not for a second sound like a normal man, and his mother said, “Really, Marty.” His father just scoffed and went on eating his breakfast.

Then Marty told them how Rose had rescued him and they both lost their tempers. True to form, his mother’s anger quickly gave way to silent tears, and his dad ranted for a few moments before falling silent, fuming. Marty tried to convince them, telling them they had to get out of London that night in case the thing came back, but he’d already lost them.

Alone in the house, he wondered whether adulthood made everyone so blind to the incredible. His own belief in the things he had seen had been instantaneous: he trusted his eyes too much, perhaps, but he was more than willing to believe the obvious. He tried convincing himself again that it had been a dream, brought on by some sort of delayed grief at the loss of his sister. He spent some time sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, staring into the small back garden at the birds hopping from the nut and seed feeders his parents liked hanging there, waiting for his memories to take flight. They’d disperse and reveal themselves to be lies, exposing the most inexplicable parts of themselves that could not possibly be true. But now matter how hard he concentrated, now matter how hard he remembered, the memories retained the weight of reality.

“I did see Rose,” he said to the silent room. And then he took his tea back up to his bedroom and opened his laptop.

A simple Google search for ”vampires” brought him sixteen million results. He messed around with various word combinations, not really sure what he was looking for. Pretty soon he came to realize just how much crap there was on the net about such things, and he endeavored to filter out as much of the cinematic and literary content as he could. Discovering some more serious content about vampires was not easy, and once he did, most of it seemed to have been written by mad people. There were vampire clubs he could join in Denmark and Belgium, places where he could go to clubs and drink someone else’s blood to a death metal sound track. There was a vampire family in New Zealand who invited people to their community to be ”initiated.” Message boards, forums, and blogs told the real life stories of vampires, some even going so far as to feature, from what Marty could tell, real murders in their tales. A researcher in France had written a reference book about Hitler’s vampire storm troopers. Nearly ten years ago, a woman in the States had also written one, labeled as fiction but which she went to great lengths to portray as fact, about how vampires had been responsible for an oil pipeline disaster in Alaska. Since then, there had been a slew of sightings and reports, behind which Marty perceived the skeleton of a conspiracy. The word was mentioned many times, and many of the links he clicked on appeared to have been taken down. Several links pointing to “genuine footage of a vampire attack” went to YouTube, but the familiar This video has been removed message always came up.

Marty sat back and sighed. There was so much that he didn’t have a clue what to treat as real or not. And even if he did find something real… what good could it do him?

He looked at his bedroom window and imagined it framing the night once more, and those old stories about a vampire being unable to enter a house without an invitation seemed so foolish. He imagined the glass and frame shattering and bursting inward, that creature leaping through, all claws and teeth and wild hair. But Rose had told him he’d be safe in the daytime, so some of the legends must be true at least. Should he wear a garlic necklace? Arm himself with wooden stakes? Build a fucking stream around the house?

He almost threw his laptop at the wall. He stood instead, closing the computer gently and pacing the room. Maybe Gaz would have some ideas. But he couldn’t imagine facing his friend and saying what he’d said to his parents. With them the disbelief had led to anger; with Gaz it would be mockery. And however serious his situation, Marty didn’t want to be mocked by his friends.

Taking a piss, he realized he had a choice to make. And by the time he finished he’d made it, because there was really no choice at all. There was no way he’d just run away and abandon his parents. And if he knew Rose half as well as he hoped, he knew that she would return tonight. He didn’t have to use the word “angel” to make her his guardian.

With his mind settled, Marty lay down on his bed and fell into a deep, dream-filled sleep.

They’d obviously been talking about him all day. Marty hated the idea that he had caused his parents such concern. Since Rose’s disappearance and supposed death he’d seen them both age greatly, as if grief could remove them from time. His mother’s personality had withered, her humor diluted and reduced to an occasional wan smile where joy had once lit her face. His father’s hair had grayed, but so had his outlook, bled of color and shriveled to the stark black and white of life lived by the numbers. He woke, he ate, he worked, he slept. Marty couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen either of them truly enjoying themselves. And now that Rose had come back, that only made things worse.

“Had a nice day, son?” his mother asked. “We had a good time in town.”

“Okay, Marty?” his dad asked.

Marty nodded and responded as he thought he should, and while Rose was pressing at his mind—and that monster vampire seemed to be squeezing his eyes from memory—he did not mention them again. He knew already that his parents would never listen or believe without proof, and there was little he could do to change that. What he could do was prepare… and he had been doing so all that afternoon.

He only hoped they didn’t notice before night fell.

As his parents bustled in the kitchen, preparing a salad for tea and brewing some coffee, Marty slumped down in front of the TV. The picture danced and some Z-list celebrities embarrassed themselves for his amusement, but his mind was far away, his attention focused on the things he had done around the house. They’ll see, they’ll notice, he kept thinking. But he could hear his parents’ murmurings from the kitchen—an extension of the conversation they’d been having all day, he had no doubt—and the closer dusk drew, the more he thought he’d got away with things.

He’d made a list of what he thought he knew about vampires. Then he’d thought about that thing last night, and Rose, and crossed off the more fanciful notions. That had been a creature eager for the heat and tang of his blood, but that didn’t mean it was a monster from fiction. A crucifix would not stop a man-eating lion from biting out his throat, and a bulb of garlic would not prevent a rabid dog from tearing at his flesh. Wooden stakes, on the other hand, would pierce any flesh and cause pain. Holy water he didn’t have a clue about, but battery acid would blind anything. Around the house, hidden from sight but easily accessible to anyone who knew where they were, he’d hidden several caches of each. He’d even dug out his old catapult from the attic, spending time in the garden collecting some of the harsher, sharper stones from the graveled pathways. It was beneath the sofa right now, the stones in his pockets.

His heart had not stopped galloping all afternoon. I should call the police I should tell the law I should call the army the church Gaz… But each time he considered calling and telling someone about his fears for the coming night, he could hear their response. So he didn’t call anyone at all.

He waited for Rose. Dusk came, darkness fell. His parents joined him in the sitting room, their eyes taking on a blank watery glare as TV gave them false escape. He was glad they didn’t quiz him about what he’d said that morning, and he glanced at them surreptitiously now and then, checking to see whether they’d believed even an ounce of his story. But no: their eyes focused on the bright world beyond the TV screen, far away from their own and safe beneath the veil of shallow fantasy. Not once did he see them looking at the window or turning their heads toward the front door. They didn’t even look at him.

Around nine p.m. he stood, sneaked the catapult from beneath his armchair cushion, and walked from the room.

“Gonna go upstairs and listen to some music,” he said.

“Oh, okay, son,” his mum replied, as if surprised that he’d been with them that evening. “Not going out tonight?”

“Nah, bit tired. Got a good book to read.”

“Don’t scare yourself awake.” It was something she’d said to him from a young age, when he’d started reading horror comics and James Herbert novels, and for a moment he felt a lump in his throat. She’d said it without even turning away from the TV screen.

“Love you,” he said quietly. Perhaps neither of them heard above the TV. Or maybe they’d forgotten how to answer him back.

Climbing the stairs, he checked behind the landing curtain where he’d put the small glass bottles filled with car battery acid. They were still there. In the landing cupboard were the three cricket stumps he’d sharpened up. He slipped into Rose’s room and felt under her bed, and for a brief, horrible moment he expected a hand to close around his own. But then he found the hockey stick that she had last touched when she was truly alive, and he felt the cool kiss of the razor blades he’d taped to its curved head.

If that thing doesn’t come back tonight, I’ve got a lot of clearing up to do tomorrow, he thought. But tomorrow felt impossibly distant, like an eagerly anticipated holiday six months in the future. He craved the sunrise but knew with a sudden certainty that between then and now would lie a deeper darkness.

When he opened his bedroom door, Rose was sitting on his bed. She smiled. His window was wide open, curtains billowing in a breeze, and as he quietly closed the door behind him, the darkness beyond the window growled.

It was the first time she’d been in her old home in five years. Everything was different: the smells, the sounds, the way the walls joined and the floors flexed beneath her. Approaching the house that evening, slinking through shadows and listening and watching for the vampire, she hadn’t expected to feel any nostalgia or sense of loss at all. And she hadn’t been wrong. But the sight of the house had stirred something deep inside that she’d been trying to analyze ever since.

My old room is just next door, she thought as she sat waiting on Marty’s bed. She had no wish to visit. She suspected it might be exactly the same as when she’d last seen it, that evening when she’d showered and dressed and made herself up with subtle, gentle makeup. The best makeup shouldn’t even be noticed, her dad had told her once, and she’d never been one for plastering her face and hiding beneath a new mask every evening. She’d been proud of herself and confident of her looks. And Francesco had been so charming.

Her parents were the sort who would have kept it the same. Shut the door, entering only to clean every now and then, or sit and brood. It wouldn’t be a shrine—they were sensitive but not foolish—but she could also imagine them maintaining some form of hope. Shrunken now, of course, fading with time. But clearing her room would have seemed like the ultimate betrayal.

It would be a stranger’s room. Nothing in there belonged to her anymore, whereas Marty’s room still contained something that had accompanied her across the strange threshold she had stepped over: the memory of her brother, and the desire to watch over him.

She sat there for an hour, knowing that he would come soon. She heard the sound of the TV downstairs and wondered what it would be reporting this time tomorrow. Nothing, she thought. There’ll be nothing, because we’re never seen and never known. And that’s the way it must always be.

At last the door opened and Marty entered, and she smiled grimly because she knew what was to come. Just a few minutes before, she had heard the first scratchings outside, the animal snuffling, and the soft wet rumble of the vampire’s breath as it waited.

“Rose?” Marty said, his eyes flickering from her to the window.

This is going to hurt, she thought, standing to offer herself as a larger target.

“Look out!” Marty shouted. He brought up his left arm, his right hand delving into his jeans pocket. Rose held up one hand, palm out, to prevent him doing whatever he was about to do, but he was quicker than she expected. She heard a leathery twang and then a wet thud from behind her. The attacking vampire screeched.

Rose leapt forward and gathered Marty to her, knocking the slingshot from his hand even as she felt the weight of the thing behind her.

“Rose?” her brother gasped, and then the pain bit in. The thing clasped her hips and pulled, his long claws sinking into her flesh and scraping bone. His strength was immense; she felt the meat in that part of her body stretching and parting, and a red haze of agony blinded her as he snatched her back toward the window. Wasn’t meant to be quite like this, she had time to think, letting Marty go and turning, stretching back with her left hand and closing her fist around a wad of greasy hair. She tugged, not to hurt but to give her more leverage to turn around, and as the vampire backed heavily into the wall beside the window, she found herself face-to-face with him. His right eye was swollen and leaking from the stone Marty had fired, and Rose felt a momentary flash of respect for her little brother.

But he had no idea what he was dealing with.

The vampire hissed and gripped harder, twisting his hands and pulling out two handfuls of flesh and cloth from the tops of her hips. Rose screamed—it came out as a screech, spittle- and blood-flecked, as her teeth chomped at the air.

The vampire laughed and pushed her away, tripping her as she went, and was falling on her even as she sprawled to the carpet. The plan was solid in her mind, but instinct would not let her lie back and submit. So she fought. Hands clawing, she lashed at the slavering thing, going for the wounded eye in the hope that she could temporarily blind him. He kneed her between the legs and slashed across her throat, parting skin, eyes widening at the splash of blood.

He’ll smell the difference, she thought. But then, the vampire must have known that already.

Marty was shouting. Something splashed across Rose’s raised arm and the vampire above her winced, then started screaming again. He reared up and wiped at his face, clawing deep runnels in his own forehead and cheeks as he wiped away whatever Marty had thrown.

Rose’s arm burned, but she ignored the pain, managing to free one leg and kick up with her heel. It cracked into the vampire’s chin and sent him back against the wall. Plaster cracked and powdered, timber split, and then she heard two voices she had not heard for a very long time: Marty’s parents shouting up at him, concern and fear behind their voices.

“Run!” Marty shouted, but he had his back against the bedroom door. In one hand he clasped a sharpened stick of some kind, his eyes wide and determined, and Rose thought, Oh, Marty, what have you been reading?

This was quickly getting out of hand. She stood, made sure she had the vampire’s attention… and then let him fool her with a feint to the left and a punch to the right. He beat her back down, and all the while as he pummeled her she had one eye on Marty, trying to communicate what she had planned.

He came at them, raising the cricket stump. The vampire punched out and caught Marty across the chest, sending him back over his bed. He fell on the other side and Rose thought that he might be safe, that he might be all right, if only he would stay down. Let him be winded, she thought. Let him stay down for a few more seconds.

The vampire paused in his attack. Rose groaned, feigning semiconsciousness. And he started to talk.

Francesco had said this would happen. That most vampires were proud, arrogant and superior. It was what their plan had pivoted upon, and when she had objected to being bait for the monster, Francesco had calmed her with a smile and looked at the other Humains gathered there. We are better than them, he had said. But our superiority is based on truth.

“Foolish fucking bitch!” the thing spat. “I can hardly believe you came back for more.”

“She kicked your stinking ass last time,” Marty said. He’d hauled himself up on the bed, face white, blood speckling his chin.

“You shut up!” the vampire said. “I’ll rip you open soon enough.” He looked back down at Rose and grinned. His mouth was huge, the teeth too numerous, the eyes shrinking into blackened pits, and there was very little humanity left about him. That’s what the suit saw in me, she thought.

There was a sound from downstairs, a muffled scream followed by a thud. The vampire’s attention flickered for a moment… then his grin grew wider, and Rose knew that there were others. They’d expected that, and planned for it. With seven Humains, they could handle anything.

“You’ll find my blood tainted with rat and dog,” she said. His disgust was immediate and extreme. He drew back and looked at the wounds he’d inflicted on her, then down at his hands that had made them.

“How can you… ?” he asked.

“How can you?”

He reared up again, pride taking over once more, and stood with one foot pressing on her stomach more heavily than his mere weight should allow. Rose could wriggle, but little more.

“Filthy fucking dog,” he said. It was muttered, not shouted, and she heard the complete disgust and disdain in his voice. For a moment she wanted to say, But I have killed, I have drunk warm. But that was pandering to his monstrosity.

The door burst open. The vampire looked up, and she felt the pressure of his foot increasing horribly as he prepared to crush down and break her spine. It would not kill her—she’d helped nurse Rain back to health once after she’d been hit by a tube train, every bone shattered—but she knew just how much it would fucking hurt.

For the first time she saw a flicker of doubt on the vampire’s face, and then he roared.

Rose closed her eyes.

Her eyelids lit up, a brief flash that caused her skin to crawl with heat and her nerve endings to burn. Darkness did not return instantly, but faded back again against the painful gray. But from the vampire she heard only screaming.

Marty had started the job with his slingshot, and Francesco had finished destroying the thing’s left eye with the brief flash of UV light. They had only ever used the light four times before, Francesco had told her, and never since she’d been turned. Jane and Patrick called it an evil, but to Francesco it was a necessary one. As the oldest among them, he knew only too much how essential it was to be at an advantage in a fight between vampires.

Rain said such a weapon made them too human.

Rose stood, her first reaction to turn and look for Marty. But then she saw Francesco. He was spattered with blood, his eyes wide, and Jack was not behind him. Plan’s changed, Rose thought, and that could only mean…

Screaming from downstairs, smashing glass, and the whole house shook as something crashed against internal walls, crushing and splintering plasterboard and wooden studs. Another scream, and this one was quickly cut off.

Someone shouted in the language the vampire had used yesterday, and Rose knew that voice could only come from another beast.

“Mum!” Marty shouted. “Dad!” He looked to Rose first, but he was her only concern.

“Rose!” Francesco said. “Go and help them! There were two more, but one was already inside.”

“A trap for our trap?”

“I suppose so.” Francesco was already advancing on the fallen vampire. The monster clawed at his charred, ruined eyes, black fluid running from the sockets as the initial touch of UV light continued to burn its way deeper. It might reach the brain, Rose knew, or maybe he’d managed to close his eyes a fraction when he saw what was about to happen. Either way, she knew that Francesco could not now leave him alive.

Marty darted for the door, but Rose beat him to it.

“Help them!” he pleaded. There was more violence from downstairs, and Rose could tell from the sounds that reached them that this was between vampires. Whether or not her old parents had been caught, they were too late to influence the outcome now.

“If you want to stay alive, you do as I say,” Rose said. “I need you to—”

It was a stupid trick. They’d pulled it on each other a hundred times before she was turned, sometimes just for fun, other times to steal each other’s food or sweets. Marty looked over her shoulder, eyes growing wide, and shouted, “Look out!” and even as Rose ducked and turned she knew what he’d done. She reached without looking and her fingers snagged on the back of Marty’s shirt, but the fabric ripped and he was gone.

“The boy’s not our concern!” Francesco said, kneeling on the fallen vampire’s neck.

“Fuck you, Francesco,” Rose said. She left the bedroom and went after Marty. If she was very fast, and her brother was very lucky, he might still live.

From the landing beyond the bedroom door she could already see the extent of the chaos. It was a balcony landing with a view into the hallway—she remembered her parents saying it was what had attracted them to the house over three decades before—and down there she could see two struggling figures. One was Patrick, the other a short, thin woman whose face was split by a sharklike mouth, and they were slashing and snarling and biting at each other like fighting dogs. Even though Patrick had the advantage of height and reach, the woman seemed to be faster and more familiar with such violence. Patrick’s growls were anger and effort, while the woman’s snarl was pure ferocity.

There was blood splashed up the walls. The remains of something living was being kicked around the hallway and stepped on, flesh slick on the tiled floor. A knot of bloodied gray hair attached to a chunk of dripping skin swung gently from the hall lamp shade. Rose’s father had been bald even before she was taken, and her mother had refused to dye her grayness.

At the bottom of the staircase, Marty sat huddled against the wall. The bravado he’d shown in his bedroom minutes before was gone. Rose felt a pang of pride in her little, living brother, a terrified kid who’d used a slingshot against a fucking vampire and then still found the courage to come close enough to splash it with battery acid. Faced with danger, he’d reacted with real balls, but faced with the ruin of his mother—the blood and meat; the shattered bones scratching across floor tiles as Patrick and the woman kicked them; the spattered hair and chunks of glistening things that belonged inside a body, not outside—he had crumpled.

Rose looked at the mess of meat and tried to feel something, but the only sensation was hunger.

She growled in anger at herself and descended the staircase in one leap.

Marty looked up and screamed. She grabbed him, no more niceties now, and tried to assess the situation.

Patrick had the woman vampire against the splintered front door, and he was trying to force her through. She fought back but he stood his ground, taking the terrible wounds and pummeling her harder and harder against the vicious splinters. It was a hardwood door, Rose remembered that much. She hoped it would hurt the bitch when he finally impaled her there.

Across the room, the living room door was off its hinges. Furniture in there lay scattered and broken, but Rose sensed that whatever drama the room had witnessed was now over. She should get in there and then out through the window, flee this chaos and get Marty hidden away. She would take whatever Francesco would do to her for leaving them to fight alone, but for her this had always been about Marty. Always.

She darted across the hallway, carrying Marty under her left arm like a bag of meat. She heard his groan as she splashed through the remains of their mother, and her tongue throbbed with bloodlust.

In the living room, she found Rain’s body propped against the wall beside the fireplace. The Humain’s head been torn off and crushed on the marble hearth, the stark shell of her broken skull surprisingly bright in the artificial light. For the first time she understood the look of shock on Francesco’s face when she’d first seen him upstairs.

From the hallway she heard the vampire’s scream as Patrick forced her down onto the sharp shards of the broken door. From beneath Rose’s left arm, her brother whimpered.

“Rose!” Jane appeared at the shattered sitting room window. She had been running, and there was a vicious gash across the bridge of her nose, the wound having just missed both eyes.

“What’s happening? Where’s the third?”

“We lost him. He was…” She looked at Rain’s remains. “Fucker. He was waiting under the stairs.”

“Dad?” Marty whimpered.

“He took the old man,” Jane said, glancing at Marty and raising a disapproving eyebrow at Rose. Dinner for later? her look said.

Patrick entered the room behind her. His face was a mess, teeth and lips dripping with blood, and Rose took a step back toward Jane and the shattered window.

“It’s my own,” he said. “That one’s dead. Francesco’s coming down; we need to go.”

In the distance Rose heard police sirens. Some of the neighbors must have called for help. It was one of their golden rules to avoid contact with police at all costs, whether it be a random check when they wandered at night or something more serious.

“Dad…” Marty whispered. He started struggling and she held on harder, not wanting him to go back out into that hallway. She could smell the rich stench of spilled blood and insides, and when she glanced down at Marty, for a second it was the suit glaring back in terror.

After several thumps from the hall, Francesco appeared in the doorway. “Come on,” he said. “Where are the others?”

“Jack and Connie are still trying to find the one that ran,” Jane said.

“Might be a trap. This was. Jane, go and find them, tell them to meet back underground. And for fuck’s sake, make sure you’re not followed.” He nudged the door open so that they could see the prone vampire he was dragging behind him. His neck was broken, arms crushed and bent at awful angles, both eyes a melted mess. A long way from destroyed, but further from alive than he’d ever been.

“What about that one?” Patrick asked.

“This is just what we came for,” Francesco said. “He’ll talk, given time.” Then his eyes settled on Marty, still struggling feebly in Rose’s grasp. “Rose, you know you can’t take him.”

“I know,” she said. “But…”

“He’s not your brother anymore, Rose,” Francesco said.

“I am,” Patrick said. “We’re all your brothers and sisters.”

“I know,” she said again, trying to project confidence. They have our father… and I just stepped through our mother.

“Meet us,” Francesco said. He gave Rose a last, lingering look which she did her very best not to translate as she saw. But as he left with the damaged vampire, Patrick set about gathering Rain’s and the dead vampire’s remains, and Jane dashed away to find the others, Rose knew what the unspoken command had said.

Kill him.

4

MARTY FELT NUMB. He ran because Rose ran, her hand grasping his right arm so tightly that he’d lost all sense of feeling in his wrist and hand. If he stopped running she would drag him, and then carry him, and he had no wish to be carried by his sister again. She’d hauled him through the house as if he were little more than a sack of straw, and he had no desire to be a straw man. He was of flesh and bone and blood, all parts in the correct place. He wanted to stay like that.

He attempted to think of his mother.

Rose seemed to know where she was going. There was a sense of urgency about her, though he could not hear her breathing quicken even a little. For the first time he noticed her smell, a hint of human with more complex, richer scents hiding underneath. There was something basic and animal there, the aroma of something that existed with little thought of its relationship with others. It was not a dirty, sickly smell but something more powerful. He thought she smelled of the wild.

But perhaps that was the blood. Once, when he was six, Marty had fallen from his bike when he and his father were out on a ride, gashing his knee on the rough edge of the pothole that had thrown him. His dad had taken a look and said, It doesn’t look so bad, and then the blood had started to flow. What he remembered more about it wasn’t the blood but his father’s panicked, fearful reaction, and it had taken him a few seconds to take control and act. That was the most blood Marty had ever seen before, and it had been his own.

Now he had bathed in blood. He felt it sticking together the fingers on his left hand. It made his shoes and jeans heavy. It filled his nostrils, the stench so rich that he thought he must have been smashed in the nose. He hoped he had; that would mean it was his own blood he was smelling, not…

Not his mother’s.

He realized he was still clasping the sharpened cricket stump in his left hand, and he thought he couldn’t let go even if he wanted to. He almost laughed at the feel of it—as if that thing could have done anything against the vampire. He’d fired the stone into its eye, true, a lucky shot that had seemed to enrage it more than anything else. But perhaps he’d angered it enough for that weird flash of light to take effect, the tall guy with the light—

Another vampire, that’s what he was: just like Rose, different from the thing they’d been fighting.

—bursting in at just the right time.

“Rose,” he said. He wanted to hear her voice, however different it now sounded.

“Quiet, Marty. They could be anywhere.”

He realized then how much danger they were still in. The night sang to him with streetlights and shadows, sirens and silences, and in the few illuminated house windows they passed he caught memories of his mother. TV light flickered, the rooms behind those curtains warm and welcoming, and he could sense the love and safety behind each window. That’s what his mother had been: safety and love. And he had betrayed both by not trying hard enough to persuade her and his father to run. The threat of death still upon him, he could consider her fate and what it meant. And while the numbness kept his tears at bay for now, it also allowed him to remember the particulars. Blood and bone and… meat. The flesh of her he had hugged, the hands he had held on to when he was a child, the comfort he had taken from those eyes… all of them taken apart and spread around their home like an insult.

And his father…

“He’s still out here somewhere,” he said.

“Probably dead,” Rose said, pausing at the junction of two streets. She looked left, then ran right. “They’ve probably—”

“Fed on him? Drunk his blood? That’s not what they did to Mum, is it? She was… all torn up, Rose.”

“Quiet.”

“They ripped her up, and just for blood?”

“It’s not like in the movies,” she said. “They’re animals, not dandies.”

“So you’re an animal too.”

She stopped again, pushing him back across the pavement until he was pressed against a brick wall. It was cold. “Shut up, Marty. I’m trying to save your life. Understand?”

“He told you not to, didn’t he?”

“He’s not my boss.” She moved back a little, looking around the street. It was mostly silent; a fox trotted across the road, and from somewhere out of sight came the distant hiss of music. “But I’ve got to ask you one thing, Marty, and it’s important. Very important.”

He was shaking now, and not from the cold. He tried to blink away the shock but felt it circling, just ready to settle down at any moment and reduce him to a wreck. Each blink showed him another view of his slaughtered mother.

The slap was soft but shocking. It focused his vision back onto his sister, and her altered face. She’s not beautiful anymore, he thought, and it was more to do with her eyes than her subtly altered features.

“Marty, there’s so much behind this, and I don’t have time to even begin. But do you trust me?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Completely?”

He nodded.

“Even knowing what I am?”

“You’re nothing like the thing that killed Mum.”

Her eyelids flickered, and she glanced away before looking back at him. Something there, he thought, but right then he didn’t want to know. All he needed was for Rose to keep him safe.

“I’m taking you to someone we trust. His name’s Lee Woodhams. He’ll keep you safe until we find the rest of them.”

“A vampire?” Marty asked, but already he knew this was something different. This was her doing something the tall guy would have been angry about.

“Lee’s… He hates vampires. With a vengeance, you could say. That’s why we’re in touch with him, because he knows what’s going on.”

“What’s going on where?”

“In the wider world. And I can’t tell you any more. Just trust me.”

“But if he hates vampires…”

“He doesn’t know. He thinks we’re like him: vampire hunters.” She laughed softly. “That’s what he calls himself, anyway. It’s all about security with him, which is good, because he doesn’t know anything about us. But we use him to keep track of…”

“The wider world.”

“Yeah. So you can’t tell him a thing, Marty. Not a single thing about what’s happened, or me, or anything. Understand? Not if you want to stay safe, and if you want me to be safe. Now come on.”

“But—”

“No more questions. Time’s short. Dawn’s not far, and between now and then anything could happen. Those bastards were here for a purpose.”

“And they came for me,” he said.

“Yeah.” She turned and walked away, letting go of his arm for the first time since they’d fled. As they were running he’d heard sirens closing in, and the sky behind them had started to glow. Home wasn’t even there anymore.

So he went with his sister, because he had to trust her, his guardian angel.

“Sunlight hurts you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Garlic?”

She turned back, and in the reflected light from a streetlamp he saw the sarcastic smile she’d once worn when talking to her little brother.

“Fuck’s sake, Marty.”

It took another half an hour to work their way through streets and squares, across a park, and into a more expensive district. They moved in silence. He noticed that Rose seemed more and more nervous, and at first he thought it was because there were more people on the streets now. Not many, but more than just the usual London nighttime contingent of down-and-outs, junkies, and cops. In one street they hid from a milk truck, the electric hum of the vehicle’s motor causing a dog to bark its early-morning wake-up call. In a park they stopped running when a group of bag-toting workmen strolled through, throwing them curious glances. Marty hoped they didn’t see the blood coating his clothes and drying on his hands. If they did, they obviously didn’t want to get involved. And as they walked down one well-appointed street, a façade of four-story buildings looming to their right, a van dropped off several women who dispersed quickly, cleaning equipment protruding from their rucksacks like strange weapons.

It was only when they dashed across one street faster than usual that Marty realized why Rose was so perturbed: it was almost dawn.

“Here,” she said. “This is his place.” They stood before a narrow town house three stories high and unremarkable compared to its surroundings, but Marty still reckoned it was probably worth a million. “I won’t be able to stay long.”

“I understand.” He felt a tug of loss and almost hugged his sister. But that felt all wrong.

“You’ll be fine. I’ll come back to see you tonight. Stay hidden; don’t be tempted to call the law or your friends. And don’t tell Lee a word about what happened. Understand? He’ll ask, but don’t tell him. Just act… shocked dumb.”

Marty nodded.

By the time they climbed the six steps to the front door, it was already opening.

And once inside, the strength left Marty’s legs and he slumped to the cold tiled floor. The hands that caught him beneath the arms did not belong to his sister. They were warm.

As darkness took him, he was already dreaming of blood.

* * *

Fucking stupid fucking idiot, what the fuck have I done?

Rose ran, to any observers just someone late for work and needing to catch the next tube. As she ducked into the station entrance and descended, she could already feel patches across her arms and the back of her neck that would blister later. They would hurt and then heal. But where she had placed Marty…

That was just stupid. Lee Woodhams had stared wide-eyed as she recounted a brief, vague tale: the boy’s family had been taken by vampires, Francesco and the others were hunting them down, Lee had to look after him for a while as they regrouped. Lee had wanted to go hunting himself, of course, but Rose had shaken her head. He’s important. They targeted him, so you have to keep him out of sight, quiet, hidden. Charged with a task he could feel good about, she hoped that he could do just that.

But he’d also talk to Marty about what had happened. One slip, one wrong word from her traumatized brother, would sign Lee’s death sentence. The Humains had agreed years ago that he was useful to them only while he knew nothing of their nature.

Lee was ex-SIS, and he’d first encountered vampires on a mission ten years before in Europe. They had killed his friend and colleague, and, disillusioned by layers of official denial, he had left the service distressed and vengeful. The pursuit of vampires had quickly become a consuming obsession that cost him his marriage and liberty, and he spent most of his time in the home that he’d bought with money from his early career.

Patrick called him their human pet.

She settled into her seat on the tube train, innocuous among dozens of early commuters, and looked down at her sneakers. She always made sure not to catch anyone’s eyes. There was blood dried on the shoelaces and around the heels, but from a distance it would look like dirt.

Francesco was going to be mad.

As the train rattled from station to station, Rose closed her eyes and tried to rest. But she knew that much of the night’s activities had been but a prelude to what was to come. Francesco had what he wanted—the vampire, still barely alive—and now would come the questioning. There had to be a reason for them being here. And it couldn’t have been a coincidence that they’d targeted Rose’s brother. Which meant that they had some insight into the Humains’ loose society, and some reason to challenge or infiltrate it.

What that was, Rose could not even guess.

Commuters came and went, and eventually she exited the train and waited until the platform was relatively quiet. Then she slipped down into the tunnels, working her way deeper and deeper. She could sense dawn sweeping across the city above her, but it was always night down here.

As she neared the cold place they called home, it was the scream she heard first. Then a shadow grew before her and a hand closed around her throat.

Rose tensed and readied to fight, thinking, They’ve found us! But then she smelled Jane’s particular odor, that curiously stale breath which Rose believed came from the meals she chose to take. The blood of the recently dead, even if they had only passed moments before, seemed to take on a taint.

“Where’ve you been?” Jane asked.

“Making sure I wasn’t followed.”

Jane didn’t respond for a few seconds, and Rose felt her fellow Humain’s attention upon her. Then she grunted, and said, “Francesco’s got him down here. Been waiting for you before he starts interrogating him.”

A chill ran through Rose as she thought of the vampire’s ruined eyes. The glare from the UV lamp was a tingling memory on her skin.

Jane turned and descended to their room, circling down an old metal spiral staircase that had once rung to the sound of human feet. Even before they entered, Rose felt the tension, a stillness emanating from the normally comfortably quiet room. When they walked in, she saw some of the others sitting there—Patrick, Connie, Francesco—and the unknown vampire strapped into a heavy metal chair. Where the chair had come from, she did not know. He seemed to be asleep, as much as any vampire sleeps. His arms were still forced into awkward angles, and she suspected Francesco had been rebreaking them at regular intervals.

“Where’s Jack?” Connie asked.

Rose shrugged. She didn’t want the vampire hearing weakness, and Connie should have known that. Sometimes the girl—her body was that of a thirteen-year-old, although she had turned thirty years before—almost appeared her age, and that annoyed Rose because she knew it was all an act. They all suspected that Connie took humans from time to time. For some reason, Francesco prevented any of them confronting her over it.

“He’s probably still tracking the one that escaped,” Francesco said, directing a warning glare at Connie.

The vampire’s head remained slumped, chin on his chest. But Rose sensed something about him, and saw his shoulders moving so slightly that it could have been an effect of the candlelight.

“He’s laughing,” she said. Then she stepped behind him and twisted his arms. They moved unnaturally, and she felt and heard the grinding of fractured bones. The vampire flung its head back and hissed up at her, teeth bared and slick. She stared down and held on tight. No weakness, she thought. If it senses a moment of doubt in us, it’ll clam up and not say a word. It has to believe that we’ll torture and kill it.

It shouldn’t be too difficult to convince it.

“You go first,” Francesco said. Rose blinked slowly, seeing so much more in his eyes. He wanted to ask her about Marty, where she had been, why she had taken so long, who she had seen, what she had done… but she knew as well as he did what was at stake here. They had to find out what was happening and prevent any more deaths. London was a peaceful home for them, a safe retreat, and none of them wanted that jeopardized.

And there’s Mum and Dad, she thought, a mental experiment that threw up little compassion. Even the look of Marty’s haunted eyes… even that could not make her feel very much.

“The choices we make,” she said, talking to herself and to their victim as well, “ring through the ages with us. We choose to follow one route and shun another, and slipping in between is never an easy option. Last night you called me a weakling, and now you’re tied in a chair and waiting to die.”

“You’ll not kill me,” he said, voice thick and heavily accented, though his English was perfect. “You’re superior. Think you’re special. Soft, weak, pathetic human-fuckers, every one of you. You’re not killers.” He smiled at Connie, and Rose chuckled. If he thought he’d marked an easy target there, he was in for a surprise. Rain, perhaps, if she were still alive. And me, Rose thought. But I’ll not show it.

“True,” Rose said. “We’ll not kill. But you’re undead already. That’s a precarious balance. Far as I’m concerned it’d just be… a nudge over a cliff.”

“You think that scares me?”

“Yes,” Rose said, and she sensed his flicker of contemplation. He snorted.

“I could be out of this chair in moments, at your throat, eating your meat. I’d destroy you. Same way my friends destroyed your precious companion. You’re lower than cattle to me. At least they have a purpose.”

“Then why come after me?”

The vampire lifted one corner of his mouth in a wry smile. He turned his head as if he could see them all despite his ruined eyes. Perhaps in some strange way he could: Francesco had told Rose some outlandish stories about these true vampires.

“Orders,” he said.

“Orders from whom?” Francesco asked.

“Fuck you.”

Rose twisted his arms some more, straining them against the bonds holding them tightly to the chair. The bones grumbled together, skin tore, flesh split, and he hissed in anger more than pain, his swollen tongue flickering at the air as if tasting it. For a second she considered snatching at that tongue and ripping it from his head.

“We need to hear this,” Patrick said. “Orders. Organization. They’re here for a reason, not just to hunt and feed.”

“Lily-white fucking freaks,” the vampire growled. “Pussies. What’s that I smell? Oh, yes. Rat.” The language was exact, the accent heavy. And Rose could see an expression on Francesco’s face that she had never seen before. Not fear, exactly. No vampire she’d ever met displayed fear at anything, a product of their existence rather than anything so human as arrogance. But he was unsettled. This thing’s stream of obscenities and abuse wouldn’t do that… so perhaps it was the accent.

“You came for my brother,” Rose said, bending closer and lowering her voice.

“He’s cattle.”

She twisted his left arm as hard as she could. The strong bonds gouged into his flesh and then it snapped, the arm flipping up, and with a final harsh wrench she pulled it from his shoulder. It seemed much heavier unattached than it had when it was a part of his body.

The vampire screamed and then descended into laughter. Rose threw the arm into the darkness. They’d have to burn that. Didn’t want rats feeding on it.

“You had orders to come after me,” she said, “and now you have us. Not where you wanted us, perhaps. But you have our undivided attention.”

“Pussies.”

Rose sighed. Glanced around the room. Patrick looked interested, Jane feigned boredom, Connie projected the image of an innocent young girl. She could do that very well, though not even the weakest artificial light could hide the pallor of her skin or her distended mouth. Only darkness could do that.

She did not even look at Francesco. From the corner of her eye, she could see the way his face had changed.

Grabbing the vampire’s other arm, jarring it so that the already-healing bones snapped again, she started to pull.

“Wait!” he shouted. Was that an air of panic in his voice? He seemed to settle in the chair again when she lessened the tension, then he spat.

“Five seconds,” she said.

“Give him three,” Connie said.

“Fine. One… two…”

“Duval told me to make contact with you. You Humains. But you’re worse than the shit on my shoe.”

“We still managed to kill your friend,” Rose said. “Patrick there bent her over backwards until her heart was crushed, then he ripped off her head. Did she whimper, Patrick?”

“No. Just spat.” He’d never had much of a sense of humor, or even an imagination.

“Why make contact with us?” Francesco asked. Connie glanced around. Had she heard the subtle change to his voice as well?

“In case you know where the Bane is… the bleeding Bane.” The vampire uttered an unsettling chuckle and shook its head.

“What’s a Bane?” Rose asked.

“Holy Christ,” Patrick said. He only ever blasphemed when his reaction was unconscious. He believed them all to be children of God, and he and Rose had had many intense discussions about all that should and shouldn’t mean.

Francesco was across the room in a second. Rose blinked at the dust his movement raised, then took a step back as he grasped the vampire’s head between his large hands.

“Who’s Duval?” the old vampire snapped. “Where is he now? What does he know of the Bane?”

“Fuck you and the horse—”

There was a crunch, like a bag of apples crushed under immense pressure. The vampire thrashed for a while as Francesco grimaced, pressing his hands harder together, twisting them in the mess the thing’s head had become and grabbing the remnants of its brain. Tied to the chair, he could not move very far, but for a few seconds the thrashing seemed almost more violent than the act that caused it.

“Gross,” Patrick said. He put a cigarette between his lips and lit it, an affectation that Rose had always found amusing. Now she was jealous that he had something for his hands to do. Her own twisted into each other, and when she met Francesco’s gaze she had to fight with herself not to look away. Eventually he gave her a slight smile and then looked down at the stuff his hands held.

As he started wiping them, they all waited for him to tell them why.

“The Bane,” he said.

“Yeah,” Patrick said. “The fuckin’ Bane.”

Rose knew then that this was only just the beginning.

5

SOMEONE WAS WATCHING HIM. He’d always been able to tell—his sixth sense, his dad had called it—but Marty knew it was a sense made up of the subtler facets of the other five. The person’s bulk caused a blank and swallowed noise, giving no echo. Their heart beat, blood flowed, breath stirred the air. There was probably a scent too. All of these undetectable traces combined to form a certainty in his mind: someone was watching him.

Someone close.

He opened his eyes a crack, taking in the surroundings. He was lying on a comfortable bed, and the bedroom around him, though large, was stark and cold. A wardrobe, a chair, a fine carpet… nothing to show that someone used this room or ever had. The duvet he lay on smelled clean but slightly musty, as if it had not been turned down or shaken for some time. He could not see the watcher.

It’s daytime, he thought, and that brought the dark memories flooding back. His mother, the house, Rose. He recalled her leaving him here just before dawn and telling him about the man she hoped would look after him. And she had made him swear not to reveal what he knew.

About the vampires.

He closed his eyes again and twisted the duvet cover in one hand, fighting back tears.

“You okay?” a voice said. Low, calm. “Want a drink? Something to eat? Breakfast?” He said the last word quieter, as if to himself. “Breakfast. Er… got some bread. Toast? Don’t have any jam or honey or anything, and I don’t want to go and get some because I promised Rose I’d look after you.”

“Daytime,” Marty said, opening his eyes again. The curtains were thin, and sunlight streamed through and around them.

“Yeah, well. Daytime’s safer, but not totally safe. Sometimes they have their servants.”

Marty blinked, trying to absorb what the man was saying. Servants? From what Rose had told Marty, that’s exactly what this guy was. Except he didn’t know. You work for vampires, Marty thought, and sat up.

There was a black guy sitting in a chair close to the bed. A liter bottle of water was propped in his lap, a book rested open and facedown on his right knee, and leaning against the expensive-looking chair was a crossbow. Marty had never seen one like it before. It looked very modern, not old, and was made entirely of metal, apart from the stock, which seemed to be heavy rubber. Bolts were fixed in several positions around its body. Their tips were bulbous and silvery.

“Vampire killer,” Marty whispered.

The man smiled and touched the weapon almost lovingly. “You’re safe here,” he said.

“You’re Lee Woodhams.”

“Yes. Rose told you about me?”

“A little.” He doesn’t know she’s a vampire… he doesn’t know, don’t forget that. Marty eyed the crossbow some more and thought of Rose pinned against a door by one of those cruel bolts.

“A little’s more than enough for now,” Lee said. “Come on, you can ask all you want while I’m doing the toast.”

Marty nodded and stood up from the bed, swaying a little uncertainly. He was still wearing his clothes from the night before, and he could feel the weight of dried blood on the legs of his jeans. It crackled as he walked. His sneakers also felt heavier.

Lee looked him over. “Oh, yeah. Clothes. Come on. You’re about my size.”

They exited the room onto a wide landing, one side overlooking the hallway below. Two floors above them was a half-globe glass ceiling letting in a flush of sunlight that warmed the air and danced with dust motes. Quite a place. Marty followed Lee blankly, his mind still half-asleep, ideas and memories leaping around and over each other. He was glad, in a way, that he could not pin down one or another. Sometimes there was blood, sometimes darkness. He knew that firmer memories would come soon, and with them the crippling grief.

In another room, Lee opened a wardrobe and indicated that he could help himself to clothes.

“Bathroom’s through there,” he said, pointing to a door in the corner of the room. He glanced around for a moment, hesitant. The crossbow looked very big in his hand. “I’ll be down in the kitchen,” he said. “Bottom of the stairs, right turn. Follow the smell.”

“Thanks.” Marty nodded and tried on a smile. It hurt his face.

“No worries.” As Lee walked past him and left the room, Marty realized for the first time that the man had been looking at him with a sense of awe. He’s a vampire hunter, and I’ve survived a vampire attack. He’ll want to know everything. He’ll want me to tell him about my…

Marty bit his lips, groaned slightly at the pain, and went to take a shower.

Later, descending the staircase and wearing Lee’s clothes, Marty had time to look around. The staircase was at least five feet wide and led down to a largish hallway and two corridors going off in opposite directions. The hall floor was solid oak and the walls were bare. He could make out at least a dozen lighter squares where paintings must have once hung. In the corridors were several sparse display cabinets, and one wall was lined with books. They were dusty and untouched; some had soft cobweb clothing.

The front door seemed to be lined with metal and had several heavy-duty bolts. It should have made him feel safer but had the opposite effect. It was a beautiful house worth a fortune, but its character had been stripped, laying it bare to the bone.

In the shower, Marty had started to cry. I should tell the police, he’d thought. My mum’s dead, our house probably burnt, Dad’s missing, I should go to the law and tell them everything that happened. His maternal grandmother would be worried sick; his dad’s sister would hear about it, though they rarely spoke; and his mate Gaz would wonder what the fuck was going on. He had people who cared for him and his family, and he’d left himself and his safety in the hands of a vampire.

Switching off the shower and drying, he’d tried to ally that word with his sister. He could not. He’d seen what vampires did. She had called herself a Humain, and that was the only way he could think of her from now on.

He followed the smell of slightly burnt toast, stomach rumbling. Something followed behind him, a heavy weight that promised to drag him down when it caught up. He’d stay ahead of it as long as possible, because it scared him. Even when Rose had vanished, he’d never truly believed that she was gone for good.

“Fit well,” Lee said, glancing him up and down.

“Yeah. Thanks.” He’d chosen a pair of jeans and an old Motörhead T-shirt that he could never imagine having belonged to Lee. He just didn’t seem the sort.

“Like I said, plain toast. But real butter. None of that low-fat shit.” He raised an inquiring eyebrow and Marty nodded. “Good lad. Not into that healthy-eating stuff.” He plated three thick slices of toast and slid it across the table to Marty. The kitchen was filled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, and two large mugs steamed on the table.

Marty ate silently, his stomach rumbling in contentment as he chewed the toast and washed it down with the orange juice he’d chosen instead of coffee. Lee busied himself tidying the large kitchen. Marty was glad: he hated people watching him eat. He finished the toast and accepted another glass of juice, looking around and noting that this room was as characterless as the rest of the house. Used, obviously, but there were no flourishes here. It was as if Lee had no desire to decorate his life.

The crossbow was in the corner on a wide granite countertop. Marty’s eyes were drawn to it again and again. He wondered what those bolts were tipped with. He wondered who’d made the thing and whether it had ever been used.

“Rose didn’t tell me anything about you,” he said at last.

“What do you want to know?” Lee asked. He turned around at the sink and dried his hands.

“Have you ever…?” Marty asked, nodding at the crossbow.

“Once,” Lee said.

“A vampire,” Marty said.

“Yeah. Rose said…”

“My mother,” Marty whispered, looking into his juice glass.

“I’m sorry. Yeah, three years ago I tracked one to the suburbs, out near Heathrow. It was living underground in a big sewer, part of an abandoned airport construction that was never sealed up. It preyed on tourists coming into the UK. Knew which ones to pick on too. Clever. Some of those missing were never reported, and some that were, the police put down to prostitution rings, that sort of thing. There’s a healthy sex trade into the country, would you believe.”

“‘Healthy’?”

“Oh, well, wrong word.” Lee seemed embarrassed. “Busy, I should have said. So I told Rose that I’d found one, asked her if she’d tell Francesco and the others. She and Francesco met me out there. Chased the fucker right up into the daylight. I lost Rose and Francesco somewhere, but I put a bolt into the thing as it burned. Watched it die on a bit of barren land south of the airport.” His eyes seemed suddenly far away, and there was a look of satisfaction on his face.

“You lost someone you loved,” Marty said.

Lee blinked, then glanced at Marty, and for a second his eyes were different. Harder. Then he smiled softly, as if remembering what had happened to Marty the night before.

“No,” he said. “ Friend. I was in the SIS. Secret Intelligence Service, MI6 to you.”

“You were a spy?”

“Not a word we used much, but I guess so. Anyway, we were in… eastern Europe, maybe ten years ago. One of those fuckers ambushed us, killed Phil, and I emptied my clip into its head. Ran like hell. Told my story, got sectioned out for six months, official denials, blah blah blah.” He waved one hand in the air as if it were an old story that never ended. “So I quit and started investigating them on my own.”

“And you’ve found stuff out?”

“A little,” he said, eyes growing distant. “I’m cautious. Taking my time. I hate those bastards. Really hate them. What they do, what they plan, the way they use people as slaves, livestock. They think they’re so in charge, but they slink through shadows like rats. I’ve got years left yet, and I don’t want to rush in headlong and get myself killed.”

Marty raised an eyebrow.

“At least four people I’ve been in touch with—people like me, seeking information, hunting them, believing in them—have been murdered.”

Marty looked down at his juice again. This should all have been so outrageous, and yet even Lee’s description of the vampire burning and dying in the sunlight felt real to him, gritty and brutal rather than shaded with fantasy.

“So…” Lee said softly.

Here’s where I have to be careful, Marty thought. The deception was clear in his mind, and perhaps it was masking the grief stalking him like the bastard creature that had caused it in the first place. Deception and lying gave him something to concentrate on.

“My mum,” he said. “And my dad.”

“Killed them both?”

“No. Only… her. They took him.”

Lee leaned on the table, businesslike again, the façade of pity gone. “Is she definitely dead?”

Marty nodded.

“You’re sure? Because sometimes they leave them alive and—”

“She’s dead,” Marty said, softly but firmly. “If you’d seen her…”

“And they took your dad?”

“Yeah.”

“How old is he? What does he look like? Do you have a photo?”

“What, you want to make a fucking ‘wanted’ poster?”

Lee drew back, stark realization hitting home.

“Hey, I’m so sorry,” he said. “Really. So sorry.” He turned and walked to a cupboard, opening the door, rearranging some canned contents to cover his discomfort. Marty watched and felt bad for lashing out at his host, but not enough to say it.

“What will they do with him?” Marty asked. Lee’s shoulders tensed. He turned around slowly.

“I’m not sure,” he said.

“But you have some idea?”

“They could turn him,” Lee said after a long pause. “Make him one of them.”

“Rose and Francesco killed one in my house,” Marty said slowly, listening to himself, making sure he was giving nothing away. Lee only nodded.

“Good for them. But that could give the vampires a reason to replace the one they lost.”

“Or they could use him for food.”

Lee nodded, grabbed Marty’s glass, refilled it. He’s socially inept, Marty thought. It was a phrase his mother used to describe someone who’d rarely meet your eyes when speaking. Maybe it was the result of spending most of his time locked away.

“Going for a piss,” Lee said. “Only be a minute.”

As soon as he left the room, Marty slipped from his stool and walked over to the worktop. He touched the crossbow. It was cold and heavy. The bolts were made from some sort of metal different from the weapon itself, and their heads were wide and flared, tapering to sharp points just at the tips. There was something inside there, he knew, something that would flood the victim’s system as soon as the bolt struck and shattered. He wondered what. After so many years studying them, Lee must surely have a good idea about what killed vampires.

“Garlic paste mixed with holy water,” Lee said from the doorway. Fuck’s sake, Marty, Rose had drawled when he’d mentioned garlic as a deterrent. Maybe Lee didn’t know as much as he pretended.

“And this works?”

“It will. Just need a chance to find out. And I promise you, son, I’m going to do my best with Rose and Francesco to track down the monster that attacked your family, and find your father.”

“Thanks,” Marty said, and as he tried to offer a smile, the tears came. Grief punched him with a slew of memories of his parents, some familiar, some he hadn’t thought about in years. He crumpled to the floor, and it was as if he were reliving their own lives for them before they died.

There was nothing they could do before nightfall but talk. Usually they rested, conserving energy for whatever the hours of darkness would bring for each of them. But tonight, for the first time she could recall, Francesco took some persuading.

Connie had already left, storming from the chamber when Francesco and Patrick ignored her pleas to reveal what they knew. She’d always had a short temper, and in some ways Rose was glad to have her out of the room. She was likely waiting somewhere out of sight, listening, but the risk of violence was much lessened.

For now, at least.

Jane sat silently fuming in one corner. Patrick pretended to rest, and Francesco sat with his back to the dead vampire, frowning into the darkness as if trying to recall a name.

Rose walked in a figure eight around the dead vampire and Francesco. She could see that it was getting to him, so she continued, circling the meat, then the murderer. He hadn’t yet acknowledged her constant movement, not even with a flicker of his eyes. But he would soon.

What’s the Bane? they’d asked him, and he’d shrugged and said, I don’t know.

What’s the Bane? they’d asked Patrick, and he’d turned his back on them and pretended to sleep.

What’s the Bane… what’s the Bane… And Francesco had settled into his chair, refusing to answer any more questions. Connie’s short explosion of profanity had barely registered with him, and Rose knew he needed more subtle persuasion.

Each time she walked before him she tried to catch his eye. She guessed she’d performed her figure eight fifty times before he caught her gaze and followed her as she passed around behind him again. Jane was watching. Rose smiled at her and nodded, and the woman went to where Patrick pretended to sleep.

Twenty minutes later, as Francesco stood and turned to watch Rose perform her circuit around the dead vampire, Jane nudged Patrick and told him to wake up. They all knew he wasn’t really asleep.

“Connie,” Rose called, standing with the corpse between her and Francesco. After maybe a minute, the girl entered their chamber again, walking casually as if on a leisurely stroll.

Francesco sighed. None of them spoke.

“This could change everything,” he said.

“Fine,” Rose replied. “Then that’s why we need to know.”

He nodded, glanced at Patrick, and then waved them to the far corner.

“I don’t want to discuss it while I can still see and smell that,” he said, indicating the corpse.

“You made it,” Jane said.

“Before it could say anything else,” Connie said. “Almost like you didn’t want us to hear anything.”

“It wasn’t that. God knows the only people—”

“Don’t take His name in vain,” Patrick said. “He watches us. He watches you.”

“And I was about to say, God knows the only people I call friends are you. Rain, too, but she’s dead. And Jack… I fear for Jack also.”

“He’s a loner,” Connie said.

“No. He’d have returned here whether or not he tracked down that last vampire.”

“You think they killed him too?”

“I think if the Bane really is here in London, there’ll be more than three of them.”

Rose and the others waited, and Francesco needed no more prompting.

“The Spanish Bane, to give it the name it’s been known by forever. I first heard whisper of it in Paris in 1886. Nothing more for decades, and then it was mentioned again during the Spanish Civil War. I spent some time fighting there.”

“Which side?” Patrick asked, but Francesco ignored him. Rather not know, Rose thought.

“That was when I heard what it was. And the thing is… I believed it from the start. It’s a weapon, so it’s said, cast from exotic metals by the first vampire four thousand years ago.”

“Another first vampire,” Jane said, shaking her head. “There are many who’d lay claim to that title.”

“True,” Francesco said. “But the fear this thing’s name conjures… I can only believe it’s true. Out in the world, it’s something that’s whispered about from time to time. Patrick?”

The Irishman nodded. “Coventry, 1945. Someone told me they were looking for it.”

“Who?” Connie asked.

“Someone.” Patrick was smoking again, the smoke a haze to hide his eyes. Someone he fed on, Rose thought.

“So what does it do?” Rose asked.

“Gives power,” Francesco said. “To whichever vampire wields it, great power. To expand from legend and into the consciousness of all those around. I don’t know how it works. I heard many rumors, ranging from granting the power to walk in daylight to the ability to kill with a glance.”

“Bullshit,” Jane said.

“Probably. But they’re here for it, and that isn’t bullshit. It must mean it’s been found, or at least located.”

“When did it disappear?” Rose asked.

“Soon after it was made.”

“Four thousand years? This thing’s been missing for that long, and it’s got you shivering as if I’ve just stuffed that UV light up your arse?”

“Remember who you’re talking to Rose,” he said, and she’d never heard him sound so threatening. It showed how scared he really was, and she realized then that he knew more than he was letting on.

“It sounds like a fairy tale to me,” Connie said. “Superstition. Like the one true cross, that sort of thing. Just make-believe.”

“Make-believe is exactly what we strive to be,” Francesco said.

“Yes, but we know we’re real. I just mean…” She trailed off, perhaps not sure what she meant at all.

“Maybe Lee’s heard something,” Rose said, and she looked down at her hands.

“What?” Jane asked.

Rose looked up. Shrugged.

“What about Lee?” Jane persisted. She always had been the most perceptive among them. Rose said nothing and the silence grew heavy.

“Oh, Rose,” Francesco said at last. “At the exact time we need him the most…”

“Marty won’t say anything. I made him promise.” Oh, shit, oh, shit…

“Are you serious? You left that boy with Lee? After everything that happened, everything he saw and knows? Are you fucking insane?” Jane was on her feet, making as if to lash out at Rose. But Patrick touched her arm and pulled her back.

“He won’t say anything,” she said again, realizing how weak she sounded.

“He just saw his mother butchered,” Connie said. “You know how weak humans are more than most.” She giggled. “You’re as good as human—”

“I’m just like you,” Rose said. “No matter that I was only turned five years ago.”

“Stop it,” Francesco said. “All of you. Rose, at dusk you’ll come with me to Lee’s place. You better hope he and the boy are still there. If not, it means he talked, and I promise you we’ll hunt them both until they’re found and dealt with. But you better hope—”

“I’m telling you, Marty won’t say a word. And I apologize, if I’d known how much we’d be needing Lee—”

“You’d have done the same,” Patrick said.

“Maybe,” she said. Definitely, she thought. He’s the only mortal I could have trusted Marty with. There was no way she could have left her brother to his own devices after last night.

“They’ll be sending more, then,” Jane said.

“Yes.”

“And I imagine we’ll be somewhere on their list, before or after the Bane.”

“We will,” Francesco said. “I suspect they made first contact just in case we knew its whereabouts, and that’s a good thing. Means they’re not sure yet. But now it’ll be all about revenge. Once they have the Bane, though…” He held out his hands.

“Or maybe, like Connie says, it’s just a fairy tale,” Patrick said.

“We can’t assume anything. If it’s truly been located, we need to find it before them somehow, hide it away again. Somewhere deeper.”

“Or destroy it,” Jane said, but no one responded to that.

Rose closed her eyes and tried to imagine London as a slaughterhouse, with vampires as its keepers.

The suit she had killed to feed on came to her again, his pain and agony and terror, and she tried to picture six million more like him.

Vampire she was, but the idea of so much blood made her sick.

They talked around the idea of the Bane, pressing Patrick to tell them whatever else he knew, but he’d revealed everything. Francesco also claimed to have revealed all, but Rose could see him holding something back. She could challenge him there and then and maybe he’d admit it. But she thought she’d have a better chance if they were on their own.

I could lure him out into the tunnels, she thought. Talk to him out there. But it could wait until nightfall. The darkness beyond their hidden chamber suddenly felt dangerous.

They waited all day for Jack to return but he never did. Jane had last seen him pursuing the fleeing vampire into the London darkness, and he had sent her back to the house to help capture the one Francesco wanted to question. The fact that a trap had been sprung on them meant that the whole plan had gone awry, and now Rain was dead and Jack had likely met the same fate. Or, if not, he’d fled deep and would likely not resurface for a long time. There’d been times when Jack remained underground for years on end, haunting the shadows like the ghosts that part of London claimed. No one knew what he fed on and he never offered that information, though he claimed to be a Humain like them.

Dead, undead… Rose had often mused upon how she considered such states, now that she was a vampire. But she always came to the same conclusion: the difference between her and a human was huge, but the gulf between undead and true death was much larger.

Jane surprised them by disappearing from the chamber, uttering not a word as the tunnels swallowed her up. The others fed where they were. Patrick still had several blood packets left, and each of them withdrew to a far corner or behind one of the tumbled lockers to feed. The cold blood was on the verge of turning bad. Stale and bitter, Rose wondered what Jane tasted when feeding from a body that had been dead for just too long. Its blood would be tainted. This blood, donated by the living to help those in need, lasted much longer. It was a mystery that none of them bothered to muse upon it too much.

Rose could never taste blood without recalling the suit she had once killed. She could not feel guilt. She supposed that she had started feeling disgust, if anything. Not at the blood or the death, but the way the man had pleaded and fought, and how ineffectual he had been.

Sometimes the call of the kill came loudly to her, and she knew that Francesco saw that. She’d never spoken to him about it, not even after the suit, because when it came to such matters, he had succeeded in scaring her many times. But she assumed it was because she was still young compared to the others. Francesco himself claimed almost two hundred years.

She wondered if the hunger was a distant memory to him now, or whether it was something a Humain simply learned to control.

The blood gave her strength, thrumming through her altered systems and conferring a thrill she had never experienced while alive. It was moments like these when she felt as close to her brethren vampires as ever, and most likely to submit to the urges that drove them all. Because, really, being Humain was a play, wasn’t it? They convinced themselves that they were the more civilized, welcoming a vampire’s extended life while existing side by side with humanity. But perhaps it was like vegetarianism in humans: a denial of the animal’s true nature.

Rose remembered a joke her father always used to tell in front of their mother’s vegan sister: If God hadn’t meant us to eat animals, why did he make them of meat? Sometimes she thought that if she wasn’t meant to prey on humans, why did they carry the blood she so craved?

She should ask Patrick about that one day. He believed they were all God’s children. Alive or undead, Rose had never believed in anything.

She sighed and licked a few errant smears of blood from her fingers. She tried to rest, but peace was elusive. Patrick paced the chamber, his footsteps an annoying metronome. Francesco alone seemed able to find rest, and he left the three others glancing at each other now and then, but saying nothing.

It’s like holding a fucking wake, Rose thought. And perhaps they were. Marty and Lee might be safe during the day… but maybe not. Vampires employed their mortal servants, and in a way that’s just what Lee was to the Humains. They treated him better and had no intention of ever turning him. But he was still their servant. Their pet, as Patrick called him.

What the hell had she been thinking, leaving Marty with him?

Way above them, the sun passed across the sky and gave the earth life, flooding the surface with radiation that would only bring death to such as them. Rose and the others sensed its passage, and when the time came to move, Francesco stirred awake.

They gathered in the center of the chamber and Jane joined them again, her eyes sparkling and skin glowing. She’d fed somewhere, and as usual none of them inquired where. Perhaps when they started talking about things like that in the open, they’d finally become a family.

6

BY THE TIME THE crying boy was asleep, Lee Woodhams was ready to flee into his world once more. It spanned the globe and the minds, thoughts, and actions of those who lived there, but he rarely left his house. He explored through the internet, but he treated the net as a much more advanced animal than most people. For Lee, it was more than music and blogs, porn and social networking, online purchasing and information exchanges. The internet for him was a living, breathing thing. A bleeding thing. And more than once he had considered the irony of how he used it. He drew blood from the internet and absorbed it into himself, and it was long past the stage where he could give it up.

He made a large mug of coffee and sat at his computer, randomly selecting which ISP to use today. He logged into several message boards under one of a dozen pseudonyms he had registered, then initiated some automatic search software. It brought up over a hundred new mentions of “vampire” since he’d last searched yesterday, and he started scrolling through the messages and postings involved. They were mostly casual chat, deluded monologues, or book or movie reviews. He rarely found anything significant in these places anymore—the vampires had grown too careful—but he was thorough. If they knew these sites were too open and public, that might well mean they were the perfect camouflage for certain messages.

His coffee steamed, and he scanned the screen and thought of the boy sleeping in the next room. There was something wrong about him. He’d just seen his mother killed and father kidnapped by monsters, true, but there was a strange awareness about the kid that Lee couldn’t shake. It wasn’t that vampires were known to him, he was sure; he could almost feel the terror coming off the boy in waves. But he was holding something back. He’d talked about the most terrible aspects of what had happened, and yet Lee felt that he’d only skirted at the edges of events. There was something at the heart of what had happened that Marty—and perhaps Rose—was keeping from him.

So Rose and Francesco had killed one of the fuckers. Good. He wished he’d been there to see that, after all these years. He was jealous that it had been them instead of him, but he hoped they had both gained some sort of catharsis from what had happened. From the time they had joined ranks against the monsters, he and the others had agreed that they could know nothing about one another. First names, and that was all. No personal background, no history, no reasons why they hated the bloodsuckers so damn much… nothing that the vampires could use against them, if one of them were ever caught. To begin with, Lee had been uncomfortable that it was his house used as a meeting place, but Francesco had persuaded him that it made sense. He was the one who was ex-SIS; he had the computers, the know-how, the string of contacts around the globe. He was in touch by email with a score of people doing the same thing, and he acted as a focus for their own small group. Francesco and the others had made him feel like their de facto leader, though Lee wasn’t stupid. He knew that wasn’t the case at all. He might be clever and have access to the resources, but Francesco was the wise one. If Lee wanted to know any of their backgrounds, it was Francesco’s.

And he could have found out. There were ways and means, after all. But he had honored his group’s vow of silence and anonymity, and honor, after all, was one of the things that set them apart from the vampires.

He started checking his fifteen email accounts, each under a different name and with randomly generated passwords. He used each account slightly differently. One was for the nut jobs whose emails inevitably ran to thousands of words and were rants and diatribes about the vampire curse. They were usually written by people who’d never seen or encountered a vampire in their lives but who thought themselves stalked. Too many bad movies, perhaps, or too much time on their hands, they grasped on to something and it became a part of their lives. Lee rapidly scanned each message and discarded them all.

Marty shouted something next door. Lee stood quickly and silently, grabbed the crossbow leaning against his desk, and approached the door in a crouch. Any killer waiting with a gun would be aiming high. He listened, moved again, and ducked into the corridor and around Marty’s bedroom doorway. The boy was asleep on the bed, curled into a ball and shifting slightly. Bad dreams. Lee waited until he settled again, stood, checked the windows, and went back into his small office.

He reduced the search window on his computer and opened the house security monitor. There were six cameras and twelve motion detectors. One detector alarm was flashing, and he shifted an external camera to scan his back garden. A neighbor’s cat was taking a sit at the edge of his lawn. That was okay: cats were sensitive, and if there were any dangers close by, it would have fled.

The next email account he checked was for ex-colleagues who’d had some sympathy with his experiences. There weren’t many. He’d been all but laughed out of the Service when he’d entered a report that mentioned vampires, and the brief mention he’d heard of Operation Red-Blooded—a shady American research project into vampires—had been quickly swept away. One day the signs were there, the next they led nowhere, and Lee’s days in the Service were at an end.

But there were several people who had not laughed out loud at his claims. Even over the ten years since he’d left, he’d not been able to glean any reason from any of them as to why that was, but he suspected they each knew of a vampire encounter, if they hadn’t actually experienced one themselves. This inbox was usually empty, and today was no exception. He sent a brief email to each of them—An attack in London last night, eyes and ears open—and then moved into the next.

He checked several more email accounts until he came to the one that had gleaned the most information. He always checked this last in the mornings, teasing himself with the possibility that she had made contact again and usually disappointed that she had not. For a while, a few years back, they’d had regular email conversations, then she had fallen from the radar and the emails became much less frequent. He’d heard things about her that he found difficult coming to terms with, but her information had still been rich, and though she knew who and what he was, he’d respected her honesty. But today, as most days now, there were no new emails from Stella Olemaun.

There must be something…

Lee took a swig of his cooling coffee and reached for a cigarette. The pack sat beside the computer, always open, always half-full. He’d given up ages ago, but he left the pack there as a temptation to deny. Sometimes he toyed with a cigarette, smelling it and tasting its tip in his mouth before shredding and tossing it. Other times he just looked. And sometimes, like now, he lit one unconsciously, so distracted that he forgot that he no longer smoked.

“Damn it,” he said, dropping the cigarette and feeling the smoke flooding his lungs. Since giving up, he’d taken another spoonful of sugar in his coffee and tea, and his consumption of biscuits had increased. He’d piled on twenty pounds. He’d once prided himself on his fitness and stamina, but now he was panting by the time he reached the third floor of his home. Another thing he could blame on the vampires.

He finished his coffee and closed his eyes, and the flash of memory hit him again. He’d been trying to forget for ten years but knew he never could. Phil, his partner and friend for several years at the SIS, pinned against the wall and writhing as his throat was ripped out, his blood flowed, his eyes grew wide and pleading as he saw Lee running for him. His own hand aiming the gun and firing several times, each bullet finding its mark because he was a good shot and had been well trained. The thing breaking Phil’s neck with a snap of its wrist and then turning on him. The blood, the teeth, the meat hanging from them, the roar, the click of his gun snapping on empty…

He’d watched it climb the side of a building and disappear across rooftops, an ascent that he knew was impossible for a normal person.

Phil, dead and staring.

Lee opened his eyes and sighed, and then the soft ping of a new instant message grabbed his attention.

He’d left three accounts open and went to the one showing a new message. Stella, he hoped, but no, this was from one of his contacts in North Africa. Yaseem was an ex–Libyan gunboat captain, in hiding in Tunisia for six years. He and Lee had “met” in a discussion forum three years before, swapping brief but punchy instant messages about how deluded and foolish most of those in the discussion were. A level of trust had grown over the next few months, and now they were regularly in contact.

Yaseem had seen his first vampire when his boat intercepted a refugee dinghy sailing north from Libya. There were eight people in the boat, he’d told Lee, trying to escape an oppressive regime with no idea of what a future in Europe might hold. Following orders, they’d machine-gunned the refugees and sunk the boat, leaving the bodies to the fish.

But not every refugee died. One swam away, and however much they fired at him, he continued swimming. Eventually he dived and they thought he was dead. But between then and dawn two hours later, three men vanished from their gunboat. It must have been holding on to the hull, Yaseem had told Lee. We were doing twenty knots, and by the end we were all panicked, shooting at shadows, but it still managed to take one last man before the sun rose. Then it was gone, and we had explaining to do. We blamed pirates.

He’d fled soon after. Across land.

You there? the message said.

Lee smiled and typed, As usual.

Busy time in London?

Lee frowned. What do you mean?

The attack.

He supposed it could have bled onto the net already. It was possible there were people in London doing the same thing who he didn’t know about. But Yaseem’s knowledge made him instantly suspicious.

What do you know about it?

My source tells me it’s the first of an incursion. They’re looking for something.

Marty, Lee thought. He’s important to them somehow. He stared at the blank wall above his desk, listening to Marty’s troubled breathing from the next room. What the hell could they want with a young man like him?

What are they looking for?

Don’t know. But there are more on the way, mostly from Europe. Your gang seen anything?

Lee hesitated, but only for a second. No, he typed. Lying. He wasn’t sure why, but he was the one here in London, with Marty sleeping in one of his spare rooms. Putting himself at an advantage felt like a necessity.

OK, Yaseem sent. Keep your eyes open.

Will do. And let me know if you hear anything more.

Stay safe.

Their usual sign-off. Stay safe. This from two men who knew the world to be so much more dangerous than anyone could imagine.

Lee breathed deeply and tried to analyze what this meant, but the more he thought, the more clouded his perceptions became. He quickly checked the regional and national online press for coverage of the attack, seeking anything that might have caused Yaseem to jump to conclusions. But the only thing he found was in the morning edition of a London paper’s website, a hastily written paragraph about a house fire in which “two people were believed to have died.” The full report might appear in tomorrow’s papers, or maybe not. Lee knew that events such as this tended to be swept under the carpet.

There are more on the way… Yaseem had typed. Lee shivered, stood, and as he went to watch over Marty, the boy started screaming.

Lee dashed into the hallway again, crossbow shouldered. But it was just another dream. Marty thrashed on the bed, clawing one hand in front of his face as if to clear his vision of something terrible. “Mum!” he groaned, and in his sleep he began to cry. “Mum, Mum…”

Lee settled back against the banister and watched through the open bedroom door. Such grief. Such a terrible way for—

“Rose!” Marty shouted. “Rose, help me! Help Mum!”

Rose? Lee listened for more, but Marty settled back into sleep then, hugging a pillow to himself.

Lee watched the boy in confusion. Rose had brought him here, had told Lee that his family had been attacked and killed, that she and Francesco and the others had intervened and killed one vampire… but never had she mentioned that she and Marty knew each other.

And neither had the boy.

Suspicion aroused, fear tweaked by Yaseem’s email, Lee glanced at his watch. It was almost mid-afternoon. Rose had said that she’d return that night. He stalked back to his computer and propped the crossbow against the wall. Drummed his fingers on the desk. Checked through his emails again, deleted a few spam mails that had come in, sat down to surf a few of his regular sites… and all the time he was thinking of Rose.

If she had been deliberately targeted by vampires—her and her family alike—why wouldn’t she tell him that?

He took out his mobile phone and placed it gently on the desk. Spinning it in a gentle circle, he thought things through. Trust was important, and honor, and he knew that fear could destroy both.

But this wasn’t fear. This was being thorough. And she never had to know.

He opened his phone menu, found what he sought, and sent it to his computer. As Marty slept in the next room, Lee went about discovering exactly who he was.

None of them could call what they had a friendship, because they were all strangers to one another. The only thing that connected them was their hatred of vampires and the desire to see them all dead. But Lee’s training in the SIS was hard to shake, and right at the beginning he had taken steps to protect himself.

The photograph he had taken of Rose surreptitiously almost three years ago was good quality and clear. She’d been sitting at his breakfast bar in the large, sterile kitchen, and at the bottom left of the photo Lee could just make out Francesco’s shadow. While Rose drank and Francesco talked, Lee had aimed the phone from his hip and taken several silent shots. Back then, technology had lagged behind what he wanted, so he had kept the photographs for another time. Now was that time.

He cropped the photo and reformatted it, feeling a surge of guilt as he transferred it into the relevant program file. He pressed ENTER and glanced away as her face was scanned, over a million points of reference taken and recorded. It felt as if he were deconstructing the trust they had sworn to uphold between each other, but he tried to offset that with the certainty that she had misled him about Marty. She must have had her reasons, and maybe tonight she would fill him in on what they were. But between now and then, he was arming himself with as much knowledge as he could.

The computer indicated that the process was complete, and Lee initiated the search software he’d hacked from the SIS’s main server two years before. Even with the hardware he owned, it would take some time. The world was a big place, and there were hundreds of billions of photographs online.

He needed a beer.

Almost an hour later, scanning through the file of photographs downloaded by the search software, flipping through almost two hundred pictures entitled “possible match,” Rose stared out at him at last.

Lee put his third beer gently down on his desk. It wasn’t a surprise that he’d found a picture. Somewhere behind the face she showed him she had a life, after all, and not everyone could be a fuckup like him. She probably had a job and a husband, maybe even kids. And nowadays most people could probably find a picture of themselves on the internet, whether they’d posted it there themselves or not. Many pictures would not be captioned, and it was usually word searches that people relied on. This facial recognition software was a hundred times more powerful.

He opened the link that came with the picture and reached for his beer again. He already knew that he’d need it.

And Rose stared out at him, a younger, prettier Rose, missing from her family home for over five years now, and—

“Presumed dead,” he whispered, reading from the screen. It was a database of missing people in London. He’d used it before when trying to track a vampire and found it a depressing place because there were so many faces, some of them smiling, some frowning, all of them gone, leaving someone behind to mourn.

He read on, taking in details he had never known about Rose. Twenty-two when she vanished—

Christ she looks older, I put her at forty, those wrinkles, and those weird eyes when she even bothers to take off the sunglasses…

—no sign of depression, no indication that she wanted to leave her family. And as he scrolled down the page he saw the picture he’d been expecting. Rose, her parents, and a younger Marty, smiling around a table in what must have been their small back garden.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, sitting back in his leather chair and trying to piece together what all this meant. The truth circled him and he tried to grab it, but there was too much in the way. Denial, fear, disbelief—all combined to haze what he should know. He shook his head and stood, draining the beer and instantly regretting it.

Francesco. He had a photo of him as well, another secret snap taken with his phone camera.

He went through the same procedure and viewed the file of possible matches, going through it three times before admitting that Francesco was not there. Not so unusual, maybe. Not everyone was on the net, and the software wasn’t infallible. If he managed to procure the new updated version, maybe with its regional allowances and automatic aging conditioner, but…

“Marty is Rose’s brother. And his parents were attacked. So… where has Rose been all this time?” Talking to himself was a habit he’d tried shedding a few years before, but now he hardly noticed that he did it. Sometimes he was his only living company for days on end, until Rose or one of the others might call by one night and—

And they only ever came at night.

Lee dropped the empty beer bottle and felt his knees give way. He tried to prevent it but he couldn’t, slipping to the floor and biting his lip to prevent the faint taking him all the way down. It was shock, he supposed, and fear, because the idea that he had been colluding with anyone or anything other than human was just too horrible.

He knew it happened. Vampires had their servants, and those vampires that chose not to feed on humans—to live among them as another species of human—also sometimes took their helpers. Stella Olemaun had told him that.

He had known Francesco for over six years.

Lee stood and walked into Marty’s room, sitting on the edge of his bed and shaking the boy awake.

“Marty!” he said.

Marty’s eyes snapped open and he cried out.

“It’s okay! Don’t worry, it’s okay. Rose called and…”

“…told me she’s a vampire. Francesco too. All of them.”

“Why would they tell you?” Marty asked. “Last thing she told me was to not say a word.” And then he was fully awake and saw the look in Lee’s eyes—dawning realization, and growing terror. Tricked me.

Lee stood from the bed and backed toward the window, hauling the curtains even wider than they had been, flooding the room with sunlight. Marty knew what he was doing. He leaned across to where sun splashed onto the bed.

“Not me,” he said.

“I can’t take this,” Lee said, stalking quickly from the room. Marty followed, rubbing sleep from his eyes, trying to process everything that had happened yesterday and what was happening now. Mum’s dead Rose saved me they’ve got Dad.

“She saved me,” Marty said.

“She’s a fucking vampire! A bloodsucker! A killer!”

“No,” Marty said, but he couldn’t know for sure. Lee walked into the next room, a smaller room with a desk against one wall, a large computer monitor displaying half a dozen pictures of people who all looked a little like Francesco, a couple of casual chairs that looked as if they’d never been sat in. Lee was breathing hard and he went for the crossbow, hefting it in one hand and looking around the room as if searching for something.

“How long have you known?” Lee asked.

“Yesterday, when she saved me. They all saved me.”

“But your mother’s dead and your father’s been taken?”

Marty nodded. Being reminded by someone else seemed to bring it home even harder, and his vision blurred.

“Don’t fucking cry! So they rescued you but couldn’t help your folks. That tell you something?”

“Wh-what?” Marty asked. He wiped angrily at his eyes. I won’t let him see me weak.

“They want you; no need for them.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No… no, you might not. But there’s something…” Lee turned from him and Marty felt immediately dismissed. Being woken like that, snapped out of dreams which even now were fading behind the fog of wakefulness, was shocking enough. But the man whose arms had cradled him as he’d cried himself to sleep was gone, replaced by this person.

Marty eyed the crossbow.

“Lee, I don’t know what you’re saying,” he said. “But Rose has watched over me ever since she went missing. She’s helped me more than once.”

“Because you’re important,” Lee said. “Because they’re looking for you.”

“Who are?”

“The vampires!” He spun around and Marty saw something strange in his eyes. It almost looked like tears. “The other vampires.”

“Not me,” Marty said, shaking his head. “There’s nothing special about me.”

“I have to email someone. Go and get yourself a drink. Stay away from all the windows and doors downstairs. They’re locked, but stay away anyway. Bring me a beer from the fridge.” He half smiled. “Get yourself one. I have to figure this out.”

“You’ve known Rose for a long time?”

“Five years,” Lee said softly. “Five years.” He turned back to his desk and took a seat, and Marty saw him fire up several email accounts. Eyeing the crossbow one last time, he turned and left the room, heading downstairs to the large kitchen.

The light outside was changing. Marty had always liked dusk: the light softened, tempering the sometimes harsh London atmosphere, and the bustle in the air was heading toward a time of rest, not chaos. Through the wide window above the deep kitchen sink, he could see Lee’s small garden. It was bare and functional; no plants or flowers, just some stone paving and a few benches. But even that looked almost romantic in the fading light.

Now he wasn’t sure he’d ever like dusk again.

What have I done? he thought. He tricked me. I should have been sharper, faster, but he woke me from a nightmare and knew what he was doing. Marty thought he should run. The doors might be locked, but he could soon heave a stool through that wide window, climb the wall across the yard, then once out in the street he’d run until…

Until what? The sun would be setting soon, and Rose knew exactly where to come and find him. If he escaped here and ran, where would he hide when darkness came? Who would protect him?

He opened the fridge and pulled out two beers, twisting the tops off and swigging from one. It was nasty, cheap stuff, all gas and blandness—his dad was a real ale fan and had already introduced Marty to its delights—but he felt the alcohol hit straightaway. There were a few instant meals in the fridge, lots more beer, and a couple of pints of milk that looked distinctly lumpy. Lee was not a man who looked after himself in any way that normal people would recognize. His was a more heightened defense: personal protection against monsters that most people thought only existed in fiction. Marty wasn’t quite sure what that made him. Insane? Perhaps. But certainly dangerous. He was obsessed, and now his obsession had been blown wide open with a staggering revelation.

Marty knew what he had to do. Lee had worked with these people for years, and he had to convince him that nothing had changed. Yes, all your friends in your little vampire-hunting team are actually vampires, but they’re good vampires, honest. He wasn’t sure how that would go. But all he could do was try. Failing that, he had to make the house safe for Rose’s arrival in…

He looked outside. The sun was already behind a neighboring rooftop, and shadows were flexing their shoulders and limbs in readiness to emerge. He had maybe an hour.

Finishing the foul beer, he took another one from the fridge and went back upstairs to talk with Lee.

He was no longer in the office. Marty stood by the door, mildly confused, because the crossbow was still propped against the desk and the computer was open on an email. But the room was deserted and there was nowhere for him to hide.

“Lee?” he called. No answer. Moisture dripped from the beer bottles onto his bare feet; he glanced down, and that’s how he saw the shadow shifting behind him. He cried out as something encircled him, panic rising instantly and blindly as he recalled the attack that had started all this, and he could think only of that bloodied scrap of hair and scalp hanging from the hall light—his mother’s hair. He didn’t want to end up like that, and it wasn’t only survival instinct; it was his love for his dead mother. She’d hate to think of him in danger, and her grief, should something terrible befall him—

He lifted his right foot and stamped it back against his attacker’s shin. He’d read about that in a Joe R. Lansdale book he’d read once—and never really understood how it could hurt so much—but the voice that screamed in his ear spoke of the pain.

“Little fucker!” Lee shouted, and he stopped playing soft. The grip around Marty increased, squeezing the wind from him.

Wait! he tried to shout, but it came out as a gasp. He thrashed his head back, his shoulder-length hair whipping around his face, but felt no impact. He’s a fucking spy! he thought, images of James Bond and Jason Bourne inspiring unwelcome scenarios.

“Just chill!” Lee said between his teeth, squeezing so much harder that Marty thought his ribs would cave in. The arms wrapped tightly across his chest and stomach crushed the breath from him, and his struggles lessened. “Stop… That’s it… I’m not going to hurt you.”

“When my sister finds out about this—”

“Oh, now, that’s very much the wrong thing to say.”

Marty caught a whiff of something before the cloth was pressed over his mouth. He tried not to breathe in but Lee prodded him in the kidneys, making Marty draw a harsh breath, and then everything was fading away. He felt himself lowered and saw Lee’s face above him, watching him fall, already bagging whatever he’d used.

As Marty fell unconscious, he dreamed of the darkness to come.

7

EVEN AS A HUMAIN, Rose still felt a twinge of something every time she entered Lee’s affluent street. She couldn’t call it envy anymore, because she was beyond caring where she lived. Maybe it was a sense of unfairness. Not for her but for her family—Marty in particular—though this time the unfairness was prompted by something far more terrible than postal code and property.

The street was quite busy this evening. It was Friday, and people were heading out for the evening, lights burning in the homes they left behind where babysitters sat children in front of TVs and started texting their friends. Most were dressed well, their evenings destined to consist of fine meals, nights at the theater, and the best wines and champagnes.

Rose and Francesco drifted along the street. Francesco held her hand and their ruse was complete: strolling lovers from some other part of town. Rose wore dark jeans and boots, a black silk blouse, a casual jacket. Francesco’s long coat covered the scruffier clothes he wore beneath, but he knew how to carry himself: not so upright and cocky that he attracted unwanted attention, and not so slouched or aggressive that he looked like trouble. Attention fixed on them and then drifted away again, and when they reached Lee’s house they were as anonymous as ever.

“Something’s wrong,” Francesco said. They stood on the pavement looking up at the façade, but Rose could not see anything that rang her alarm bells. But she had learned to trust Francesco’s instincts.

“What?” she asked.

“Too quiet.”

A light illuminated each floor of Lee’s large house, the normal signal that everything was normal. One set of curtains was half-drawn, but that wasn’t unusual.

“He’s not the nosiest inhabitant of the street.”

“No. But all the windows are closed. You see? Lee always plays music when he knows we’re coming.”

Rose noticed then, and berated herself. It was much harder to spot something unusual that wasn’t there than something that was.

“He knew what time we were due,” she said. “I’ll go first.”

“No.”

“Francesco, this is my fault, so—”

Francesco walked up the steps and approached the front door. Rose followed; when she reached him, he was already trying the handle and pushing the big door open, and she could sense his heightened alertness and feel her own jaws throbbing, her tongue swelling. The darkness was opening to her more than ever. She sniffed for danger and tasted the air, and realized that Francesco had been absolutely right: something was wrong. Whatever happened now, Lee would likely see something in them that he had never seen before. Everything would change tonight.

A rush of wretchedness hit her but she fought it down. Fuck self-pity. That had no place here.

She rushed forward to enter the hallway before Francesco, but his was an imposing presence and she could not squeeze by. He flowed through the doorway and the hall lights snapped on, dazzling her for a second. And in that second, she knew that something was coming.

There was a heavy thud and Francesco grunted, halting where he stood and dipping slowly to his knees.

Rose pushed past and scanned the hallway, spotting Lee instantly. He was squatting behind a display unit in the hallway beside the wide staircase. The unit had been pulled out from the wall and pushed close to the bank of light switches. He was struggling with something; metal struck wood and he cursed. In his voice, she heard a quaver of terror.

Beside her, Francesco was staring at the crossbow bolt protruding from his right hip, one hand around its shaft.

“Lee!” she screamed. “You don’t understand!”

“Don’t talk to me, monster!” he shouted. He was still fighting with something behind the unit, and Rose tensed herself, ready to run and crush him down. But then he stood and aimed the crossbow at her, and she held her hands out by her sides instead.

“I’m no monster,” she said softly. But her heightened senses were already making a fighting map of this space. She could smell Francesco’s wound and the hot, sickly-sweet stench that came from whatever had erupted in there. She frowned, trying to identify the smell. Her tongue lolled across her bottom teeth, and Lee’s eyes opened wider.

Marty’s face appeared at the top of the stairs. He pulled himself on his stomach, over the edge of the landing and onto the staircase itself, letting himself slide down. His limbs were loose, and he was obviously struggling to keep his head up.

What have you done to my brother, you bastard?

“Garlic…” Marty said, voice slurring. “Garlic… holy water… Rose…”

Lee had glanced aside in surprise, but now Rose saw him tense behind the crossbow again and aim it at her face.

Francesco laughed.

Lee fired just as Rose brought her hand up before her. She continued swinging her arm in an arc, and the bolt passed straight through her palm, scoring a line across the top of her ear and then thudding into the solid oak doorframe behind her. A rush of garlic stench washed over her, and she grinned as Francesco’s laughter came again. It hurt… but it hurt well.

She ran. It took her half a second to close the distance between her and Lee, and she couldn’t prevent her hunger from rising; she growled, and then hissed as she saw his terrified face. She kicked the display unit aside, snatched the crossbow from his hand—he still had his finger pressed hard around the trigger, and she heard the distinctive crack of bone—then raised it above her head, blood from her punctured palm dripping across its stark metallic surface.

Lee fell onto his behind and began to kick, propelling himself backward until he was crushed against the shattered remains of the display unit where it had come to rest against the far wall. “R-R-Rose…” he breathed, and in his petrified eyes she saw another man and another place. She threw the crossbow across the hall and darted forward, moving so quickly that she saw his pupils expand and contract as he tried to keep her in focus. Rose grabbed Lee around the throat with her bloodied hand and lifted him. She took her new strength for granted, mostly, but now she thrilled in the power pulsing through her. She rammed him against the wall and heard plaster crack.

Lee’s head lolled and his face grew pale. Rose smelled blood.

“Rose,” Marty said. He’d reached the bottom of the staircase and had hauled himself upright, holding on to the banister. He was incredibly pale, and his chin was streaked with puke.

“Ease back, Rose,” Francesco said, and she dropped the moaning man, turning her back on him so that she did not see his blood or the look of fear in his eyes. She didn’t want that temptation. I like the fear, she thought. Her vampire strength was a thrill, but her real strength lay in Lee’s perception of her.

“You’re okay?” Marty asked as she approached. He was looking at her wounded hand, not at her face, and right then she was glad. She closed her eyes and tried to compose herself. Her tongue remained engorged, but the bloodlust was dwindling. She was confident that she would never choose that path again willingly, but if an idiot like Lee put himself in her way…

When she opened her eyes, she looked at Francesco first. He smiled and sent her a gentle nod. He knows, she realized then. He went through this a long time ago, and perhaps he still goes through it now. But he’s learned to hold things back.

“I’m fine,” she said to her brother. She chuckled. “Garlic and holy water. Bet he’s wearing a cross too.”

“Told me he was an atheist.” Marty smiled, Rose laughed, and she had to catch him as he slumped back down to sit on the bottom stair.

“What did he do to you?” she asked.

“Put me to sleep somehow. Chloroform? Locked me in a room upstairs, but I busted the lock open. Knew what he was going to do.”

“How did he know?” Francesco asked. He had closed the front door and locked it, and now he stood before them with the crossbow bolt still protruding from his hip.

Marty closed his eyes and lay back on the stairs. Rose could see that he was trying to keep the sickness down.

“Marty didn’t tell him,” Rose said, but he shook his head.

“No, I did. I did. He suspected somehow, woke me up, and said he knew, tricked me into confirming it. I’m sorry, Rose.” He looked at Francesco. “I’m sorry…”

Francesco raised a hand and smiled. “You’re not to blame. You’ve been through a lot.” He sounded cold, condescending. Lee was the only human he dealt with routinely, and he was the same then. Humain he might be, but Francesco still considered himself superior.

“So, what now?” Rose asked. Francesco looked past her to Lee.

“Now we talk with him.”

Rose was shocked. The Humains had always agreed that if Lee ever discovered their true nature, he’d have to be killed. Quickly, painlessly, but there would really be no alternative. His use to them came from his hatred of vampires, a conflicted situation that was finely balanced, and potentially deadly. But now that he knew, Francesco’s first reaction was to talk? And it was no front for Marty’s benefit.

“You think he’ll come around?”

Francesco shrugged. “Maybe. But right now is the worst time ever to lose him, don’t you think?”

Rose nodded. “Of course. But…”

“Rose,” he said, a warning tone.

“It’s an alternative. We turn him now and he still has access to all his contacts. He becomes one of us and—”

“He’s too filled with hatred. Too consumed by it. We turn him, and he’ll likely become one of them.”

“No. We can guide him, teach him.”

“Rose, you’re young,” Francesco said, and his age came through in every word. “Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. A knee-jerk reaction like that might be the end of us. Keeping him alive as he is is risk enough.”

“Fine,” Rose said.

“Rose?”

“Fine, Francesco. I agree.” She had never dared ask why he had chosen her to turn, fearing that it had been random. She wanted to feel special. In a way, what he’d just said went some way to confirming that she was.

“Get him upstairs to his computer room,” Francesco said. “I’ll carry your brother.”

“Be gentle with him.”

Francesco only raised an eyebrow, then picked up Marty under one arm and climbed the stairs. If the crossbow bolt in his right hip was bothering him, he showed no sign.

Rose knew what Francesco was going to do, and how he was going to do it. She’d seen him torturing a vampire for information only the night before, and now she knew that he would display the other side of his personality. Cool, calm, affable. Persuasive.

Lee was regaining consciousness. Rose squatted before him, able now to ignore the smell and heat of the blood leaking from the small wound on the back of his head. He lifted his head and focused on her, catching his breath. She gave him a friendly smile.

“He’ll give you one chance to live,” she said as she picked him up, as easily as lifting a small child. “I suggest you take it.”

They sat Lee in his own leather swivel chair, turned away from his computer to face the room. His head was throbbing, and when he flexed his scalp, he felt the wound and the stickiness of drying blood. His throat hurt where Rose had grabbed him. His right index finger was on fire, bent back at a terrible angle. But the shaking had nothing to do with these various pains. That was all fear.

I’m a vampire’s servant, just like Renfield, he thought, and could barely imagine anything worse. Instead of fighting the bastard creatures he hated so much, he had been aiding them all this time. And they had been using him like a naïve marionette, tweaking strings as and when they wanted to, walking him here, guiding him there.

How the fucking hell could he have been so stupid?

He looked at Rose and tried to see the vampire within. She had sat her brother—her human, vulnerable, living brother—on one of the casual chairs he kept in his office. She was caring for him, letting him lean against her hip. Her left hand rested on his shoulder. He’d only ever seen Rose at night, because that was when she and the others could get away from their lives to come to him. Pretend lives, he knew now, though none of them had ever needed to make anything up. He had always assumed. He thought Francesco might have been a lecturer, perhaps even a priest. And Rose he had pegged for a nurse, maybe with a young professional husband who went to the gym some evenings, leaving his wife to live her own life and have her own activities outside work. But no: during the day, these two hid from the sunlight, and he would never forgive himself for not realizing something sooner.

His blind hatred for the vampire had been the very thing that let them get close to him.

Perhaps now, because he knew, he saw things in Rose that he should have noticed before. Her fingernails were as pale as the skin around them. Her eyes, the pupils unnaturally large, didn’t seem to reflect as much light as they should. She was graceful and confident, moving like a shadow. He’d thought perhaps she danced.

He giggled. It was a horrible sound.

“Laugh at this,” Francesco said. The tall vampire stood in the center of the room and grabbed the crossbow bolt embedded in his hip. The head was barbed, the bulb of garlic paste and holy water clasped in metal braces that would have parted and spread on impact. As he pulled it out of himself with one sharp tug, the sound was sickening.

Francesco winced, and Lee felt bile rising in his throat.

“Not laughing?” Francesco asked. He threw the bolt at Lee’s feet. It hit one of the chair’s wheels and rebounded, leaving a stain of bloodied meat shreds on the pale carpet. Lee stared at the bolt and wondered why it hadn’t worked. The bulb had shattered, as he had designed it to, and the shaft was bent from where it had struck one of Francesco’s bones.

“Look at me,” the vampire said.

“No.”

“Lee,” Rose said softly. He’ll give you one chance to live, she had told him. He remembered that much, through the fog of unconsciousness. He looked up.

Francesco pulled up a chair and turned it around, sitting on it backwards to face Lee. He was no monster. Taller than most, handsome in the weathered way only older men can be, there were no fangs dripping blood down his chin, no hissing.

But when Rose came at me, those teeth, that fury—

“She could have bitten your throat out and drank your blood, you know,” Francesco said. “Some of us would have. Some would have broken your arms and legs first, working the shattered bones so that they punctured your flesh and arteries, feeding from you that way. Others… they’re old-fashioned. They prefer the throat, so that they can see the terror in their victim’s eyes. And sometimes the pleasure. For some, having their throat bitten into and crushed by a vampire triggers the same response as asphyxiation by rope. They get an instant erection, and orgasm while the monster’s drinking their true life fluid. Does Rose give you an erection, Lee?”

“No,” he scoffed.

“That’s because she didn’t bite your neck to feed from you. Or crush your limbs. Even when she saw and smelled your blood. And you know why that is?”

“Because I’m black? Not her vintage?”

Francesco blinked twice, quickly, and that simple expression of impatience drove a cool spear of terror into Lee.

“It’s because we don’t kill for blood,” Francesco said. “Most vampires do, as I know you’re aware. But we call ourselves Humains. We live alongside humans. We need blood, true, and we get it, but we never kill for it. In the same way that you’d choose not to kill your own meat, but you procure it nevertheless.”

“I’ve seen the DVD of Barrow that Andy Gray sent me. You sat here and watched it with me.”

“Vampires. Not Humains.”

Lee shook his head and winced at the pain that caused.

“I’ll not plead with you, Lee,” Francesco said. “You tried to kill me, and while I admire your dedication to your cause, that still pisses me off. It’s amusing that you used garlic and holy water, but not enough to make me laugh. The garlic’s burning like fuck, to be honest. Thanks for that. Maybe I should cut you and stick some in you, show you what it feels like. Some chopped chili too? Salt?”

Lee shrugged. He tried to maintain eyes contact with Francesco but couldn’t, so he kept glancing at Rose and Marty instead. Marty was awake now, staring at him. He smiled, but the kid didn’t smile back.

“I’ll not plead, but I’ll reason. Humain to human. Tell me you’ll entertain that, at least.”

Lee closed his eyes, feeling the hatred seething inside him like a nest of wood ants in his gut. There was hatred for himself, too, for being fooled for so long. Phil’s memory seemed blurred by his inability to do anything to avenge his death.

“Lee,” Rose said again.

“Fine,” Lee said. “Reason away.” He caught Francesco’s gaze and held it this time, trying to project confidence and strength. The vampire smiled thinly and stood, pacing the room with one hand clasped to the wound in his hip. Is that healing already? Lee wondered. Is it bleeding, is the flesh growing back, is the bone fixing itself where the bolt chipped at it? All these things and more he wondered, then realized in that instant that the answers were here before him. Everything he’d ever wanted to know about vampires—their physiology, habits, beliefs, religion, outlook, aging and healing processes, thoughts and desires—he could discover from Francesco, Rose, and the others. These two were his main contacts, but he’d met Jane a few times, and the Irishman. Was this an opportunity he could truly pass up?

Perhaps he could swing this deception to his own advantage. He had been their inside man for a long time; now perhaps he could start taking instead of giving. And when the time came to use everything he found out… then his life would find meaning once again.

“You going to keep pacing like that, or talk?” Lee said.

“Just thinking of how best to put this,” Francesco said. “But, honestly, there’s only one way I can say it: we need you.”

“Haven’t you used me enough?”

“Nothing like we need you now. The vampires are here in London looking for something, and we have to find it before they do.”

Lee’s eyes flickered to Marty and back again. Francesco shook his head.

“Not him. They needed to get to us first, that’s all. See if we’d help or hinder them.”

“I think they’ve got the answer on that one,” Rose said.

“The boy was…” Francesco held out his hands.

“A fringe benefit,” Rose said. “Bastards found it amusing to try feeding from him while trying to get us on their team.”

“‘Team’?” Lee asked. “And what is it they’re looking for?”

“Something that might give them the power to expose themselves.”

“That’s what we want!” Lee said, but saw the inaccuracy in that statement. It was what he wanted.

“Not us,” Francesco said. “You and we have similar objectives, but different reasons for pursuing them. You want to expose vampires to make them vulnerable. If people believe in them, they fear them less. They become a fact rather than a fiction, and facts can be dealt with. Analyzed.”

“Killed.”

“We want protection from exposure,” Francesco continued. “To exist alongside humans, unknown and silent. Yes, we’ve used you, but only to keep track of what’s going on in the wider world. You were never used for anything… bad.”

“I helped a gang of vampires survive for—”

“No,” Francesco said. “Don’t get above yourself. You gave us information, that’s all.” They’re isolated, Lee thought. I’m their eyes and ears.

“So you want to live alongside people without harming them. What are you, some kind of hippie vampire?”

Francesco smiled but did not answer.

“What are they looking for?” Lee asked.

“It’s called the Bane.”

Lee blinked in surprise and looked from one vampire to the other, but then he saw how they were staring at him and quickly reined in his reaction. Watching to see if I’ve heard of it. So he frowned and shrugged, a signal for Francesco to go on.

“An old artifact,” Francesco continued. “Some believe the vampire that wields it will gain power, enabling it to lead, take control. Be overt for the first time. Instead of a few vampires here and there, there’ll be thousands. Instead of occasional deaths among the human population, the population will become livestock. And that’ll be the end of everything.”

“And that doesn’t appeal to you Humains? Rising from the shadows?”

“It’s the shadows that keep us alive.”

“You’ve heard of the Bane?” Rose asked.

“No. Why do they think it’s in London?”

“That’s where they have us at a disadvantage,” Francesco said. “And where you can help.”

“You want me to find it for you.”

“Before they do,” Francesco said. “We’re together in this, you and us. Our aim must be the same.”

“You’re appealing to my vanity?” Lee said, almost smiling.

“Not at all,” Francesco said, and the danger beneath his soft smile and gentle voice was suddenly brought into sharp focus. Here was a man whose look could cut diamond. “I’m giving you one chance to stay alive. We don’t kill to feed, but more than once I’ve had to kill to survive.”

Lee shivered. He couldn’t help it. “I’ve got no choice, have I?”

“Well, there’s always a choice,” Francesco said.

The Bane! Lee had heard whispers of it several times, and there were a couple of people in his network who claimed to have found documented evidence of its capabilities. He could contact them… but on his own. Because something this old and obscure attracted stories that varied from mouth to mouth. Some believed that the thing had never existed at all, and was as obscure and mythical as Excalibur. Others thought it might once have existed in some form but, like the Grail, was lost to antiquity. And though one rumor did indeed claim that it would give its vampire bearer great power… there was another.

It was this story that gave Lee hope that, through Marty’s misfortune and this shocking exposure, he might gain the means to do what he’d craved for a decade.

Kill all the vampires.

He smiled and nodded, and when Francesco came to shake his hand, Lee didn’t hesitate for an instant.

8

MARTY FELT LIKE SHIT. It was like the worst hangover he’d ever had. Everything around him had taken on a piercing tint, the artificial light bright and sharp as glass shards. He squinted, but that only tensed his face and made it ache. It reminded him why he never got drunk anymore.

“Bastard,” he said for the tenth time.

“He’s had a hell of a shock,” Rose said. “You’ve got to allow that.”

“He was ready to kill you!”

“Well, I am a vampire. Killing vampires is his raison d’être.”

“I thought you said you were a Humain.”

“Murderers and pacifists are still both human.”

They were sitting in one of the well-appointed, barely used downstairs rooms. They sat on either side of the huge, cold fireplace, in high-backed chairs that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Sherlock Holmes’s study. The large kitchen was through an open doorway, and the rest of the walls were lined either with bookcases or framed paintings of London landscapes. Most of the pictures were old and dusty, some of the canvases torn and tattered in places. The books were the sort Marty had seen in stately homes when his parents used to take him and Rose on day trips—thick, elaborately bound tomes in Latin or French, their contents long since lost to obscurity. They were decoration, nothing more. The books Lee used for his day-to-day obsession were in his office upstairs, stacked on a couple of old oak desks or piled on the floor beside his computer station. Marty had seen at least three copies of a book called 30 Days of Night, one of them torn up with pages reshuffled, marked, highlighted, and labeled.

They’d left Francesco and Lee up in the study. Rose said it was because they wanted Marty away from there; he’d had a traumatic time, and more talk of vampires could be damaging to him. But he wasn’t stupid, and he’d already seen and sensed the truth. Francesco had no space in his heart for a troubled human, not compared to the other challenges facing them now. They just didn’t want Marty to hear too much.

“He really never knew?” Marty said.

Rose shrugged.

“You only ever met him at night?”

“We were all doing this secretly. We had lives to lead. So he thought.”

“He’s passionate about this.” Marty held his head and closed his eyes, smelling once again the powerful, nose-burning stench of the chloroform. “You sure he’ll keep his word?”

“Of course. Francesco and I are his regular contacts. But he’s also met Jane and Patrick, and he knows there are others. Now he knows we’re all… Humains.”

“And his garlic and holy water don’t work.”

Rose giggled. Marty’s eyes snapped open. That sounded so much like his sister—like the old Rose. She broke off, no longer smiling, and looked at him, and perhaps an old memory of how things had been had struck her as well. How different she must be, he thought. It was terrifying.

“I’m amazed he was that naïve, actually,” she said. “The ways to kill vampires are far less fanciful.”

“What are they?” Marty asked. He was holding his head, eyes half-closed, and it took a moment for the heavy silence to impress itself upon him. He froze and looked at Rose. She was glaring at him. “What?”

“Never ask that again,” she said softly. “Understand? One of the others hears you asking that and…” She looked away.

“Sorry,” Marty said. He was upset that Rose could even think of things that way, but perhaps he was forgetting the dire situation he was in. Behind his headache lay the terrible grief, still a solid wall of darkness surrounding him but not yet crushing him down. Shouldn’t I be crying? he thought. Useless? Unable to function? But he remembered when his mum’s mother had died when he was ten, and he’d asked her why she wasn’t crying. I’m crying inside, she’d told him. Everyone handles grief differently. I loved her deeply, and there are no doubts about that, so I’ll not feel guilty that I’m not a useless crying mess right now. And if tomorrow I am one, I won’t feel guilty then, either. At the time he’d found some of that difficult to understand: when someone died on TV, everyone who knew them cried and held each other and wailed. But he’d come to learn that not everything was like on TV.

“So, what happens now?” he asked.

“For tonight, we stay here. Patrick, Jane, and Connie are out in the streets, in other parts of London.”

“Why?”

“Decoys, in part. And also trying to find out more about the vampires, and their numbers.”

“You think they know about Lee?”

“If they did, we’d have found that out by now.”

“So they don’t know where this Bane thing is, then.”

“Not sure,” Rose replied. “We know so little.” She seemed to be looking past Marty, and he saw the distance in her eyes that set her apart from the sister he’d once known. He had to keep reminding himself that this was no longer the Rose he knew and loved. She was someone else who had his sister’s memories, something else making new memories of its own.

“I don’t know what to do now,” he said softly. “People’ll be looking for me, right? Family and friends. The house is burnt, and the cops’ll be looking too.”

“We’ll work something out.”

Marty thought about that. We’ll work something out. What was there that they could work out? It seemed quite clear from Francesco’s attitude that Rose shouldn’t have anything to do with him. He had no idea what was going to happen in the next five minutes, let alone five days or five years. What could they possibly… ?

But there was that one thing he’d been thinking about. The thing that made his once-special sister so special again.

“We could.” He stared at her until she caught his eye.

“What, Marty?”

“We could work something out.” He was fingering the collar of his shirt, thinking, What am I doing? But the idea had been with him for a while now. Certainly since he’d woken and crawled downstairs to warn them that Lee knew. And in truth, from the moment he’d seen Rose fighting off that thing that attacked him—her strength and power, grace and brutality—the idea had been with him, though subconsciously at best.

Rose moved. He was shocked by her speed: one moment she was in the chair opposite him, the next she filled his field of vision, her face pressed so close to his that he thought she was going to kiss… or bite.

“You have no fucking idea,” she said. “Listen to me, Marty, and make sure you listen well…” She trailed off for a moment and she was still there, the only thing Marty could see, and he could smell her, too… nothing like his sister.

“R-Rose…”

“Your mother’s dead. You’re alive. I’m neither. I can’t begin to make you understand what that means, but I can try. And if you trust me, you’ll pay attention. Do you trust me, Marty?”

“I don’t want to hear—”

“Yes or no?”

“Yes. I trust you.”

“Okay, then. Here goes. Some days I drink rats’ blood. I hunt them down in sewers and tube stations. They eat dead things down there, and live in the shit and piss of six million Londoners, and I drink their blood. It’s stale and rancid, but it’s warm, and it’s food. Sometimes, if we’re lucky, Patrick will score a hit on a blood bank. He has his ways and means, which he refuses to tell us, but he’ll come back with bags of the good stuff, freely given. That makes us strong. But sometimes it tastes too good. So then it’s back to the rats, and sometimes a cat or a dog if I’m really lucky.

“You’re seventeen and you’ve already seen too much. But time will dilute all this awful stuff. You can look forward to so much more than me, Marty. When the sun rises tomorrow, you can go outside and walk through the streets, seeing London as it’s meant to be seen. The parks, the architecture, the people. One day you’ll fall in love and feel the warmth of someone’s heart thudding beside your own. You’ll make love and have children…” She trailed off again, but she was still pressed too close for Marty to see her expression.

“But you’re so removed,” he said softly. “You live by your own rules, do what—”

“No! I live by rules my condition demands. I’ll never walk in sunlight or fall in love. You can relish life, Marty, but I can only crave the blood of the living.”

“But you said you—”

“We go against our base desires. It’s a choice we make, and a good one. But the hunger’s always there.”

Marty turned away, angry at Rose for telling him so much. “I’m not a fool. I don’t see glamour. But I also don’t see what I have left.”

“Choice,” Rose said. Marty felt a breeze against his cheek, and when he turned back to Rose she was sitting in her chair again, as relaxed as if she hadn’t moved at all.

“You’ve made a choice as well,” he said.

Rose sighed and shook her head. “You’re so fucking human.”

“Thanks, Sis.” He looked for a smile but there was none; Rose’s face was as grim as ever. So he closed his eyes instead, the headache still throbbing and his throat dry and sore. And he thought of his dead mother and missing father, and what was left behind for him.

Not much.

He held back the tears, but he was crying inside.

She carried him up to a bedroom and laid him out on a bed, her baby brother who was now slightly taller than her and so much more vulnerable. He was awake as she left the room but they didn’t exchange a word.

She performed a circuit of the house, checking the window and door locks, amused to see the little crosses fixed across each frame, but a little saddened as well. Lee had been leading what he thought was such an honest, responsible life, and now all that had been turned upside down. He was a ruined man making the most of what he had left, and they had misled him for longer than she had known him. He’ll do well by us now, she thought. But she couldn’t help but feel anything except doom in the man’s future. His life had gone through upheaval ten years before, and now they had shattered it again.

She called Patrick, Jane, and Connie on their mobile phones. Patrick was in Covent Garden, hiding amongst the crowds. Jane was wandering the East End, and Connie was walking circuits around Hyde Park, edging out into the surrounding streets and back again. None of them had sighted anything suspicious, and if any of them were being followed, it was covertly. Rose arranged to meet back underground before dawn, then went to find Francesco.

He was sitting in Lee’s office. Lee was on his computer, surfing websites, tapping away at the keyboard, and Rose could see the tension in his shoulders.

“Marty’s sleeping,” she said to Francesco.

“Fine.”

“I can’t just leave him to them, you know. Not after what’s happened. They’ll track and kill him just out of revenge.”

“Maybe.”

“In fact, it’s more likely they’ll turn him. Even better revenge. And with everything he knows about us—”

“I’ve already thought about all of that, Rose,” Francesco sighed. “We can’t let them find him or turn him. He stays with us until this is over.”

“And when will that be?”

“Lee?”

The ex-SIS man glanced back over his shoulder at Francesco and Rose.

“I’m not a fucking miracle worker.”

“Fine. Keep looking, dickhead.”

Lee turned back to the screen and opened a new window.

“Might be nicer if we could all get along,” Rose said.

“He shot me with a crossbow.” Francesco sounded grim, but Rose knew that this was as close to amused as he ever got. Toying with the human pet.

Rose sat on one of the chairs in the corner and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

“So they knew the Bane was in London, but not where. And they assumed we knew where it might be?”

“Seems logical. There are others like us around the world. Stands to reason the vampires know our outlook, and if they have tracked the Bane this far, where better to go than to those who’d seek to keep it hidden?”

“They could have just asked.”

“Not a vampire’s style,” Lee said. “They’re all mad as a box of fucking frogs.”

Francesco snorted.

“And they smell,” Lee continued.

“We fooled you, dickhead.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He tapped away some more on his keyboard, and Rose couldn’t help admiring him. He’d adapted quickly to knowing the people he’d talked about vampires with for so long were vampires themselves. Maybe some of that had to do with their Humain philosophy; she hoped so, because it meant he was believing them. Or perhaps he was simply being defiant.

“What are you looking for?” she asked.

“What I always do,” Lee said.

“Sure you’re not just emailing some of your old mates at SIS?”

“And saying what? ‘Help, come and rescue me from a family of vampires that are holding me hostage’?”

“He knows he’d be dead before they broke down the door,” Francesco said.

“If that meant they get to kill you all, wouldn’t bother me. But if the Bane’s out there, and so are those other monsters…”

“We’re on the same side,” Rose said.

“Until this is over, yeah.”

Rose went to stand behind Lee and tried to make out what he was doing.

“So?” she asked.

“Message board, mainly German,” he said, pointing to one of the open windows. “It’s a place others like me sometimes leave messages. This one over here is a word usage filter: a sort of advanced search engine, with a whole host of search parameters. I put in all the relevant words I can think of—Bane, London, Marty, Rose, Humain, Spanish, Francesco, Connie, Patrick, Jane, fucking vampire shitheads—and it’ll search the net for any and all combinations.”

“This one?”

“Porn. Need to keep my feet on the ground.”

“Really, what is it?”

Lee paused, betraying his humanity. “You probably don’t want to see.”

“Open it up.”

Lee shrugged and expanded the window. It was a slide show of photographs of a place she’d once known so well: home. Most of them showed the blackened remains of the fire, but here and there were close-up shots of cooked meat and charred bones, and one featured a skull with false teeth melted into a surreal, grotesque mask across its lower jaw. They were graphic and honest, not the sort of filtered shots that would make it onto the evening news or into the newspapers.

“Don’t let Marty see these,” she said.

“Of course. Poor kid.”

Rose looked at the pictures as they were displayed, spotting the Metropolitan Police stamp on the bottom right of each one. Crime scene photos. She wondered how many other crime scenes Lee had viewed like this over the years, and whether any of them had involved a dead man in a suit. She was so focused on the screen that, for a second, she didn’t notice Lee staring right at her.

“What?” she asked.

“Just… trying to come to terms with it.” For a moment it seemed that he was about to say more, but then his computer played the opening strains to Muse’s “Take a Bow.”

“Message,” he said. He opened the relevant email account and clicked on the new message. Rose tried to read it but he quickly closed it again.

“What was it?”

“Bad news.”

“What sort of bad news?” Francesco asked.

Lee swiveled in his chair to face both of them.

“Your father’s dead,” he said, looking at Rose. “That was from my old crime scene officer friend in the Met.”

“Where?” Rose asked. “How?” She felt nothing approaching pity, but there was sadness for Marty. She’d have to tell him, and she didn’t look forward to it.

Lee opened the email again, scanned it, then clicked on an embedded link. It led through to another slew of crime scene photographs. These looked somehow more rushed than those she’d just been viewing, less well framed, and she could see why. People who took these photographs must see a lot in the course of their jobs. But there was always something new.

They’d made sure that his face could be recognized. His head was fixed up there somehow, and the rest of him was spread across a swath of dark stone wall, guts hung like Chinese lanterns, blood and flesh still wet against the stone. It reflected London’s night lights. One of his eyes was closed as if winking, but the other was still wide open in death. Rose wondered what the last thing he’d seen had been, and knew it was nothing good.

“Where is this?” she asked.

“Plinth of Nelson’s Column, beside one of the lions.”

“When did it happen?” Francesco was standing at her shoulder now. He sounded interested rather than disgusted.

Lee reduced the photograph and read the email. “Found him half an hour ago. Can’t have been there much longer than that without being seen.”

“The vampires that did this must have been seen,” Rose said. “Trafalgar Square at night? It’s never empty, no matter what time.”

“They did it quickly,” Francesco said. “It would have taken seconds.”

“Well, they’re really doing their best to remain below the radar,” Lee commented.

“These are the vampires who want exposure, remember. They’re just getting ahead of themselves.”

“And sending us a message,” Rose said.

“What message?” Francesco asked, and Rose thought he was genuinely bemused.

“It’s a threat.”

“That’s a human,” he said, pointing at the screen even though the picture was gone. That was my father, Rose thought. What he must have gone through. Because she knew what these vampires might have done to him before finishing him somewhere public.

“So?” she replied. “To them, we’re Humains. They don’t understand us. They probably think of us as almost the same as humans, except they don’t feed from us.”

“Maybe,” Francesco said. He almost sounded hurt. “I suppose you should tell the boy. And, Lee… we really need the upper hand here. They find the Bane, and we’re finished.”

“No bad thing,” Lee said, and Francesco bent past Rose and grabbed the man’s neck in a flash. He pushed his face down into his keyboard, and the screen flickered with pages opening and closing, buzzing as too many keys were compressed.

“If we’re finished, that means they’ve just begun,” Francesco said. “And compared to them, we’re your best friends. Get it?”

“I got it,” Lee said through distorted lips. And he did. Rose knew that already. He understood as well as they did, and, treated right, would do his best to help. She touched Francesco’s shoulder and pulled lightly, easing him back.

“I’ve got Lee,” she said.

“No. Your brother.”

“I’ll let him sleep until morning.”

Francesco nodded, released Lee, and walked away. As he left the room Rose heard his low chuckle again, and she realized that he was enjoying this. Maybe existence had become too predictable, too routine for Francesco. She couldn’t condemn him for that; after all, he’d been undead for longer than she could imagine.

“So let’s keep searching,” Rose said. She pulled up a chair and sat beside Lee, not close enough to make him uncomfortable but close enough to see the screen.

He rubbed his mouth and the back of his head and worked the keyboard, closing windows he didn’t need and putting the computer back to where it had been before Francesco’s outburst.

“Okay, then,” he said. “While this search is running, tell me again what that vampire said about the Bane. Everything it said, how it said it, the words it used, the dialect…”

Rose cast her mind back to Francesco torturing the thing that had helped kill her mother. And she and Lee started working together.

Marty awoke, amazed that he’d been able to sleep. For a second he simply lay there, rising from the depths and gathering his life around him again. And in moments he realized that there wasn’t that much left of it. Events rolled in like rapid waves, building and building until he sat up on the bed and reentered his sad, shattered world. He groaned and held his head, wishing he could squeeze out some of the truth.

He sat on the edge of the bed and looked around. The room was in darkness, and the light showing at the window was cast from one of the tall streetlamps. It was still night. They’d still be here.

The bedroom had a small bathroom en-suite, and after pissing he ran a glass of water and drank quickly. He was hungry, even though hunger felt wrong now that Mum was gone. And what of his father? Was he hungry now? And if so, Marty wondered what form his hunger would take. Dad had always liked cheese toasties with lashings of Indian chutney—strong cheese, hot chutney—and he’d always claimed to have a preference for intense tastes. Was he hungering for something like that now? Or was he craving blood?

The fact that his father might have been turned did not upset Marty as much as it should. He ran hot water in the sink and watched the large mirror slowly steam up, waiting until the whole surface was obscured before running his hand across it. He saw himself clear as day, but wondered whether a vampire would. Was that just another stupid superstition? He guessed so. Rose seemed as real as death to him, so there was no reason she wouldn’t show in a mirror. These weren’t the fancy vampires from those old Hammer movies. They were flesh and…

Blood?

He supposed so. But he wondered whether Rose had rats’ blood in her veins or her own.

He washed quickly, then left the room. Out on the landing he stood for some time, listening for sounds of movement or activity in the house. The idea flashed across his mind that they’d all gone out hunting the vampires and left him locked in, and a stab of fear hit him. I don’t want to be alone! But then he heard a voice from somewhere nearby—subdued, almost whispered—and he knew that he was safe.

Marty remained standing there for some time, leaning on the banister while he listened. It was coming from Lee’s office, on the other side of the landing. The door was partly closed, but he saw the subtle rise and fall of lighting levels as Lee used his computer, clicking from screen to screen as he hunted across the net.

Marty was surprised they hadn’t killed Lee. After everything Rose had revealed about the Humains, he was still a terrible threat to them now. But there was also that Bane, and he guessed they needed the ex-SIS officer to help them find it.

“Jesus Christ,” someone said from Lee’s office. The voice was low, male, and he was pretty sure it was Lee. Then Rose responded, though Marty couldn’t quite hear what she said.

Intrigued, he started edging around the landing and past the staircase. Francesco might be somewhere near, but the tall vampire didn’t miraculously appear anywhere. Perhaps he was resting. Or feeding. Even big, posh houses like this probably had rats in their basements.

As he approached the office door, Marty could make out better what was being said inside.

“I’ve read about her,” Lee said. “Ashleigh Richards. Maybe a couple of years back, there was an article in one of the Sunday supplements. One of her students wrote it. She was a renowned archaeologist for a long time, then she just lost it. Went mad, became a bit of a hermit, rarely left her house. No one could place why it happened, and there was some talk of a curse. You know, like Tutankhamen?”

“That’s just a load of old superstitious crap.”

“This from a vampire.”

Marty smiled at that. Lee might be a bastard, but it sounded like he’d quickly regained his feet.

“You’re sure this is it, though?” Rose said.

“Look, all these words here—see?—have thrown up several hundred matches, none of which sound anything like what we’re looking for. They’re either a long way off or concern something or someone else. Or sometimes it’s the fault of the search engine, coming up with something like a book or a crossword clue or a movie reference. But when I added what you said that vampire said—‘bleeding Bane’—we get this.”

“Archaeologist,” Rose said. “Does seem convenient, doesn’t it?”

“Hang on,” Lee said. “Let’s see where Richards was working when…”

Computer keys were tapped. Marty edged closer to the half-open door, took a deep breath, and risked a look inside. He leaned in slowly, checking the extremes of the room before concentrating on the two people sitting at the computer desk. Rose and Lee had their backs to him, and there was no one else in the room. Francesco is somewhere, Marty thought, but he was too interested now, and however much he cautioned himself, he couldn’t pull away. With Rose here, he felt protected. Besides, they were Humains: they apparently liked humans too much to hurt him. He hoped.

“Last dig she worked on was on the site of a new school down in Wiltshire. Close to Stonehenge.” Lee pointed at the screen. “Look: there. They were excavating a burial chamber. The King of Stonehenge, they called him, and they took out all the stuff buried with him too.”

“And we can assume the Bane was down there with him?”

“Can’t assume anything,” Lee said. “That’s what research is for. Watch this.” He started tapping away again, and Rose leaned back in her chair. She looked at Lee as he worked—she was sitting almost at a right angle to him, causing Marty to ease back from the doorway a little—and then she smiled.

“Almost back to normal,” she said softly. Lee stopped typing as if he’d been frozen at his desk, one hand raised, ready to tap another key.

“It never was normal,” he said. “You’re a fucking vampire. Don’t for a second try and be nice with me, Rose. If that’s even your name.”

“It is.”

“Because you can’t be nice to me.” He started tapping again and Rose looked back at the screen. Taking some shit there, Sis, Marty thought, but perhaps her strength was in not responding.

“Here,” Lee said at last. The screen changed and he started reading. “The chamber is dated at around 2300 B.C. Early days of metalworking in Britain. They think a lot of the stuff buried with him was made in Europe.”

Marty could see Rose examining her hands, checking each fingernail one at a time, and he wondered what for. Blood?

“They called him the King because he was very tall for the time. They think… blah blah blah… loads of site reports. Hang on.” He scanned down the page. “Here. They think in all probability he was an archer from France or…”

“Or Spain,” Rose said. She sat up straight in her chair. “Spanish Bane.”

“Yeah.”

“So where does this madwoman live?”

“Two seconds.” Lee tapped away.

Marty pulled back from the door and leaned against the landing wall. He scanned the shadows for watchers but felt alone. So they really had dug up something that had those vampire freaks interested.

“Here it is,” Lee said. “Fifty-six Otter Street, down in Colliers Wood.”

“Right…” Rose trailed off for a moment. “Damn.”

“I can go,” Lee said.

“No way.”

And then Marty saw the reason for her hesitation. There was a wide window at the head of the landing, and the curtains there had lightened just a little. The streetlamps were still on, but this light was different. The new day dawned.

“Rose, can you waste another day?”

“They won’t be able to go, either, even if they have a clue where she lives.”

“But vampires have their servants. They always have. Human pricks who do their bidding, hoping they’ll be rewarded and turned when their job’s done.”

“You want to be our bitch, Lee?”

“Seems I am already.”

“No. Not a good idea. Come on, we need to tell Francesco.”

Fuck! Marty moved quickly, slipping along the landing and briefly considering crossing to his room. But as soon as Rose reached her door she’d see him, and if she knew he’d heard every word in there… he wasn’t sure what she’d do.

Maybe he could go instead of Lee.

But that was something he should speak to her about alone, not force on her.

Through a partly open door to his left he saw a bathroom, so he ducked inside and clicked the door closed. Moments later Rose’s voice increased in volume as she exited Lee’s office and walked onto the landing.

“Quietly. I don’t want Marty woken up yet.”

“You need to tell him—”

“He needs rest. You gassed him, remember?”

Marty heard two sets of footsteps passing the door and descending the staircase. He kept repeating the madwoman’s address to himself until it was imprinted on his mind, then opened the door.

Time to see just how much Rose still trusted him.

9

LEE FOLLOWED ROSE DOWNSTAIRS, glancing at Marty’s closed door, itching to get back to his office. There were more weapons in there. And even though some of what he thought about vampires had proved to be hopelessly wrong, a dumdum bullet to the face would stop anything for a while.

Wouldn’t it?

But he followed Rose instead, because he knew that they were right. For now, he and they were on the same side. Grotesque though it was, these vampires—these Humains—had aims similar to his. To a degree, at least. Once that degree was reached or passed, their aims would polarize rapidly. They’d want to survive, unknown and covertly, and he’d want every one of the fuckers dead.

It was saddening, and he even had to try not to get too cut up about it: he’d thought of Rose as a friend. But now that he knew the truth, so much fell into place. They’d only ever come at night, for a start. They’d rarely come close to him, and even more rarely touched him, other than that time a few years back when he’d made his one and only move on Rose. She’d turned away and knocked him aside with more force than he’d expected, and the one brief contact had been cold. Bloody freezing outside, she’d muttered as she walked away, and, thinking about it now, Lee couldn’t recall whether that had been in the summer or winter.

But five years… and before that, he’d dealt with Francesco, more distant and aloof but still seemingly with an identical agenda.

“Weren’t we friends?” he asked softly. He felt like a prick even bringing it up, and as the words left his mouth he cursed himself. It was weakness, it was foolish, and she’d turn around and grin and show him all those teeth she’d never shown him before.

But instead she answered without turning around, and unless this vampire was a very good actress, he felt a weight of regret in her words.

“Yeah, we were,” she said. “Pity that can’t go on.”

At the foot of the stairs, Rose turned left, then left again, opening the door that led down into Lee’s basement. He hadn’t even been aware that Rose knew about it, and that got him wondering how many times one of the Humains had been in his house without him being aware. He decided not to ask. Rather not know.

Francesco was down there. The lights were on and he was walking slowly around the room, fingering the heavy chains that hung from sockets in the wall, chuckling as he tried to prick his finger on the ends of sharpened stakes held in a wire basket. There was a steel table in one corner with a rack of cutting implements on a magnetic rail above. Cloves of garlic hung from the ceiling and walls, giving the air a hint of their scent, even though none had been peeled. Lee had even fashioned crosses for each wall, taking time over them, enjoying the workmanship that went into joining the hardwood and polishing, certain that one day they’d serve their purpose well. Now he felt Francesco’s silent scorn. The fucker didn’t look at him and still he was mocking.

“Well, you didn’t tell us about this little place,” he said.

“I always had my secrets,” Lee said.

“And why’s that?” Francesco turned to look at him. “Didn’t trust us?”

“I was hoping to catch one and surprise you,” Lee said. “Give us all an opportunity to…”

“Torture it?”

“Research it,” he said. “Find out what makes a vampire tick. Live. Die.”

“Garlic and crosses,” Francesco said. “And yet I’ve also found a UV light and some pretty heavy duty ammunition. Though I haven’t found the guns yet.”

“They’re around.”

“So amongst the superstitious bullshit”—Francesco grabbed a clove of garlic from a rack on the wall and sniffed at it—“you still knew some of what you were doing.”

“Covering all bases.”

“Francesco, we know who might have found the Bane: an archaeologist called Ashleigh Richards,” Rose said. “She’s… well, gone a bit mad. Still lives in London, but…” She nodded at the ceiling, and Lee sensed the silent communication.

“I can go,” Lee said. “Find out where it is while you… do whatever you do during the day.”

“You hate us,” Francesco said.

“What you are, yes. What you stand for, I’m not so sure. But I hate those other fuckers more.”

“So, that should make us trust you?”

Lee sighed in frustration. “Look, you’re out of action for the next twelve hours, Einstein. And so are they. But if they have some scumbags working for them in London, and if they’re trying to find this Bane thing as hard as you think, then maybe they’ll already have made the connection.”

“You think they have someone as smart as you?”

“No,” Lee said. “But there’s always luck and chance.”

“Lee, there’s just no way,” Francesco said. “You’ll come back and pour petrol down here, burn us alive.”

“‘Alive’?” Lee asked, snorting. Rose shifted uncomfortably next to him. He was glad to see he could get to them. Not petrol, he thought. Just the Bane. Find that damned thing today and, come dusk, I’ll be ready for any of them.

He glanced back at the steps, judged how quickly he could make them. Rose seemed distracted, and Francesco had made no move to restrain him yet. If he made it up out of the basement, there was a good chance he could get out into the rising sun before they caught him. He knew the house better than they did.

“No, Lee,” Rose said, and without him noticing she had moved close beside him. She clasped his arm in her cold hand, and Lee closed his eyes, disgusted that he’d ever entertained thoughts of touching her like that. He’d daydreamed about her breasts, her pussy, but they were undead things like her, lifeless and empty.

She squeezed tighter and he opened his eyes.

“Don’t make me hurt you.”

Lee hung his head. Not now. Of course not. This was when they most expected him to try and get away.

“You’ll stay down here with us today,” Francesco said. “We’ll call the others and tell them what’s happening, and as soon as the sun sets we’ll all make our way to the woman’s house. Tonight is when we’ll find out where the Bane is, and also when we’ll dispose of it.”

“Have you even considered how ridiculous this is?” Lee asked. “A thing from four thousand years ago? Superstition. Like crosses and garlic.”

“Actually, I have,” Francesco said, smiling a horrid smile. “But there’s no way we can take even the smallest chance.”

“Right,” Lee said. So they don’t really believe. Good. Because he did. Some of the superstitious shit was wrong, granted… but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a kernel of truth in any of it.

And he couldn’t take even the smallest chance, either.

“Rose, you need to get Marty down here,” Francesco said. She thought it might have been the first time he’d used her brother’s name. And she knew that he was right.

So Rose went back up into the house, cringing from the colored light now filtering through the stained-glass window beside the main door. It was still very early, but already she could feel the tingling across her skin where that light had touched her.

“Marty!”

“Yeah?”

“We need to talk.” She heard a door opening and closing again, and then footsteps, and she thought, He wasn’t in the room where I left him. As he rounded the bottom of the staircase, she saw a look in his eyes that she didn’t like at all: he was readying to do something.

“Marty, Dad’s dead,” she said, and that stopped him cold. His expression fell away, leaving his face a blank as the reality bit in. He leaned against the oak paneling beside the staircase, and Rose saw ridiculous details: the wood creaked in, it needed polishing, and some of the molding had been badly replaced. It was a heightening of her senses that always came before hunger started to haunt her, and when she’d talked about it to Francesco he’d said, Evolution, sharpening your senses before the hunt. Evolution—as if they had evolved naturally.

“Dad,” Marty said. His face was still blank. “Really dead?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I mean… really?”

“Yes.” Rose nodded, understanding. “They killed him just like Mum.”

“What, you mean… ripped…”

“Come on,” she said, gesturing him to her. But he backed away instead. “Marty?”

“So now we’re going to hide in the dark and let them get away with all this for another day?”

“I can’t go out in the light,” she said quietly.

“Well, I can! I fucking can! You expect me to sit down there with you while you do your vampire thing? I could be out there finding the Bane and teaching those bastards a lesson. We can’t let them win, Rose.”

“And we won’t let them win,” Francesco said. He’d come up behind Rose, so quietly that even she hadn’t heard him. “But we have to work this right, otherwise everything will play into their hands.”

“So you’re going to sit and think things through while they—”

“They can’t go out in the daylight, either,” he said.

“Which is why we have to take the advantage!” He was backing into the wide hallway now, and behind him the colored windows beside the door were growing brighter. Rose squinted against the light, but her head ached from the glare, and the promise of the pain that glare could bring.

“You’ll get yourself killed like your parents,” Francesco said.

“What do you care?” Marty shouted, and Rose had to ask herself the same question: What does Francesco care?

“Wait with me, for Mum and Dad’s sake,” she said. “We’ll talk about them, remember things…”

“They’re not your parents anymore, remember?” Marty said. “You… you won’t turn me, and you won’t let me go. What am I? One of those sad fucking vampire servants Lee talks about?”

“You were listening up there?” Rose snapped.

Marty grinned. He held his hand out and must have felt the subtle heat of the morning sun on his skin. “The day’s my time,” he said, and Francesco leaned into Rose and hissed her name.

She knew what that meant. There was no way they could let Marty go out there on his own for a day: he was a danger to himself and, more so, to them. He knew where they were, and all it would take was a policeman willing to investigate, or the wrong word whispered to the wrong person…

So she went to grab her brother.

But he was ready. Fast though she was, Marty still slipped into the drawing room where they’d sat and talked so recently. She turned after him and the hall rug slid beneath her, almost spilling her to the floor. She regained her balance easily, becoming almost weightless as she leapt through the door and closed on her brother. This was the chase, something she so rarely experienced; dogs were stupid, and the deep-city rats she ate weren’t afraid of her. The last time she remembered actually chasing someone like this…

But she held that memory close. When she caught Marty, she did not wish him to see her hungry eyes.

He feinted right toward the fireplace and darted left, and Rose barely felt a tilt of balance as she followed. But she realized something was wrong as he banged against the wall, as if not seeing where he was going. He’s more canny than that, she thought, and then she crushed into him and held him around the stomach.

Marty had the top of his head pressed to the wall, his hands gathered to his chest, and she looked for his shaking shoulders as the tears came.

“It’s okay, Marty,” she said, even though it was far from okay. How could it ever be okay for him again? She silently cursed her stupid platitudes, and then took a surprised step back as Marty turned on her. He wasn’t quite crying, but he did look sad. He did look sorry.

“I love you, Rose,” he said, and then he pulled the curtain cord.

The eyes are the first to go, Francesco had told her soon after turning her. They’d been sitting on a rooftop somewhere in Soho, listening to the revelry below and being so far apart from it. It was still some time before she worked up the courage to ask why he had chosen her, and he was giving her guidance in basic vampire existence. Really, it was all instinct anyway, as she was quickly learning. Being turned had opened up a whole new part of her, planting new memories and instincts among her human ones like a foreign tree species invading an old, established forest. These trees, though, were larger, and parasitic.

Daylight, he went on, is to us like a nuclear explosion is to a human. You’ve seen those government film from the fifties and sixties? Hide under your desk, build a shelter beneath your staircase with doors, all that crap? And that one where they showed the effects on a human body? The flash blinds… the heat strips… the blast destroys. Imagine that on your face, Rose. He’d reached out and touched her with his cool fingers. Eyes melt; skin reddens, burns, and then peels; flesh blackens, dries, crumbles; then your bones are given to the sun. Back to dust. We’re made of human stuff, essentially, and we’re all the stuff of the stars.

All this came to Rose in a flash, and even as she saw Marty’s knuckles tighten around the cord she was turning away and squeezing her eyes closed. It’s barely even dawn, she thought, but she was filled with a sudden terror the likes of which she had not experienced since becoming a vampire. It was a mortal terror, the fear of death, and that was the first moment in five years that she had truly understood just how much she wanted to persist. She had never considered suicide, because that was anathema to any true vampire. But she had dwelled for long periods on the uneasiness of her existence.

Now all she wanted was to go on.

She fell to the floor and crawled, pulling a table over and crouching behind it as darkness was driven from the room. The silvery light was gentle and subdued, but it fought against the artificial light, casting smears across the floor that she knew would burn if…

She smelled burning hair and looked down in wonder at her right hand. It was splayed on the carpet, propping her up against the table, and the small hairs on the backs of her fingers were shriveling into blackened points. Rose gasped and snapped her hand back.

Marty grunted as he heaved something big; glass smashed, and then she heard him climbing through the ruined window. She heard a promise she wasn’t sure Marty could keep.

“I’ll be back!” he shouted. And as he went he pulled the cord again, and the heavy curtains closed most of the way.

Rose dashed from the room, hand hurting, skin crawling, and Francesco was already pulling the door shut as she emerged into the hallway.

Hands grabbed her and turned her this way and that.

“Open your eyes!” he commanded, and she did so. Francesco was very close, glancing from one eye to the other and back again. His fingers dug into her arms. He was scared for her.

“I’m okay,” she said, nodding, shaking. Francesco relaxed and let go of her arms.

“Your brother did a good job on you.”

“He didn’t mean to hurt me.”

“He didn’t?” Francesco raised an eyebrow and grabbed her hand, running his fingers across the already reddening skin. The tiny nubs of burnt hairs came off beneath his fingers.

“He’s doing what he thinks is best,” Rose said. “And—who knows?—maybe it is. We can trust him more than Lee, I’ll tell you that. By the time the sun sets, he might know exactly where the Bane is.”

“That’s good news,” Francesco said, but Rose’s half smile did not last long. “If he comes back,” he continued. “If the woman isn’t already dead, or one of them. If their murderers don’t catch him beforehand—and they will have murderers out there, Rose, doing their bidding. It’s just as Lee said. There are enough sad, lost people who’ll take a promise of immortality as license to do anything.”

“Marty’s careful,” she said, and already she feared for him.

“His life’s changed, and he’s mourning so much. Maybe…”

“Maybe what?”

Francesco turned away and headed for the basement door. Light was moving into the hallway now, and they didn’t have long left.

“Maybe what?” Rose asked again, not moving.

“I was going to say, maybe you should turn him. But he’s all wrong, Rose. He’s angry. Nothing like you.”

You were a gentle woman, Rose, Francesco had told her when she finally asked why he had chosen her to turn. You treated the night with calmness and humility. You were comfortable with your place in things, and knew that it was insignificant. A Humain has to be such a person.

He was right. Marty was very different from her. But there were many more bridges to cross. For the next few, and until dusk, her brother would be on his own.

Marty ran. Being out in the gathering dawn was a good feeling, although as he sprinted along the street he was plagued by guilt and remorse. The brief violence against his sister—unimaginable days ago, yet now so much more brutal than he could bear—had felt necessary at the time. There was no way she was about to let him go of his own accord, and he couldn’t face staying down there with them for another twelve hours, imagining the pain his parents had gone through and dreaming of how empty the bustling city now was for him. He’d hurt her, when she had spent so long looking out for him. He hoped she understood why he had to do it, and he hoped the pain was not too bad. He’d seen her flee across the room and tip the big table on its side to protect herself from the sunlight… and from that action he’d realized for the first time just how alien she now was. There had been wisps of smoke from her hand, and then he was gone, heaving a heavy chair through the window and slicing his right hand on jagged glass as he’d climbed through. The smell of blood! he’d thought as he ran, but of course he was out in the daylight by then, and safe.

I’m sorry, Rose, he kept thinking. He pulled the sleeve of his jacket down to cover the blood across the back of his hand, because he didn’t want anyone stopping him. What do I look like, anyway? he wondered. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d washed, his hair was a greasy mess, and his eyes felt burnt and hollow from crying. His throat was still stinging from whatever Lee had used to knock him out. His head thumped. His mouth was dry. I probably look like a junkie.

Yet the running felt good, as if he could run so far and fast that he’d outpace the grief and chaos that had fallen around him. In the planted square opposite Lee’s house he dashed past an old tramp who was just waking, gathering his bulging plastic bags around him and muttering about thieving squirrels. The old guy watched him go and Marty threw him a half wave, pleased when the man waved back. Out of the square, along a street lined with lawyers’ offices and big glass-fronted real estate agencies, he passed a score of BMWs, Mercedeses, and Porsches, four tires from any one of them probably worth enough to give the old tramp somewhere to sleep and eat for a month. Injustices like this hit Marty a lot, especially living in London, and his dad had always responded with: We all make our own luck in life.

He wondered what his parents had thought about their own luck over the past few years.

Make our own luck, he thought. That’s what he was doing now. He could have stayed back in Lee’s house with them for half a day while the world went on around them, but doing this felt like he was taking action. If he was very lucky and made really good luck for himself today, he might even have the Bane in his possession come nightfall.

Some of this was a distraction from the shattering grief that pressed down on him. Grief was real—his parents’ deaths were real—but pursuing a mythical vampire’s artifact from four thousand years ago, a magical thing that was said to bestow great power on any vampire possessing it… that went to keep some of the reality at bay.

When he reached a main shopping street, he stopped running at last, leaning back against a bank’s wall and checking the cash in his pockets. I’m just someone late for a bus, he thought, but he was no longer concerned about what people thought of him. In Lee’s posh residential neighborhood, he might have turned heads. But anywhere like this in London—with shops and pubs, buses and cabs—he was part of the norm.

He had maybe twenty pounds in his pockets. That was enough. He walked along the street toward the nearest tube station, and just as he caught sight of the familiar Underground sign, he passed a baker’s. The smell was too good to resist. He slipped inside and waited behind a line of people in suits, watching what they bought, deciding what he wanted to eat. Even by the time he reached the counter he hadn’t decided, so he bought a meat pie, an egg and bacon roll, a coffee, and a custard tart for afterward.

“Hungry?” the amused woman behind the counter asked.

“Starving!” As he paid and walked out with the food, he considered the pangs of hunger and the pleasures of eating, and wondered what it would be like to feel a different hunger that it brought no pleasure to satisfy. He bit into the hot pasty and savored the taste; sipped from his hot coffee; smelled the egg and bacon roll.

The street was bustling. The usual London traffic was building already, though it was not even eight o’clock, and the pavements were filled with people filing to and from work and parents taking their children to the upscale school nearby. He thought of his parents, then diverted his attention once more to the Bane. Walking among them, he was still not quite part of the same world as these commuters. Not anymore.

It was when he saw the cover of the early-morning edition of London News that he realized just how far removed he was. There were no photographs, but he just knew who the headline referred to: MAN FOUND MUTILATED IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE. He walked quickly toward the tube entrance. A woman did a double-take at him, and Marty felt the tears already coursing down his cheeks. He took another bite from the pasty and chewed, looking at the ground, thinking of the Bane and Ashleigh Richards and 56 Otter Street in Colliers Wood. And slowly he blinked back the tears yet again.

There’ll come a time, he thought, and he knew that was true. Grief couldn’t be fought like this without consequences. But as long as these horrors could hold back the reality of his loss, he was content to let them.

He threw out the rest of his food, bought a Travel card, and carried his coffee with him into the station. It was good to be an anonymous part of the crowd, and he stood on the right of the two long, deep escalators, watching the people pass him by in such a hurry to reach somewhere else. Marty reckoned he had maybe forty minutes on the tube, including one changeover, before he reached Colliers Wood. He should use that time to think about what he’d say to the archaeologist, and what he’d do if she really was as crazy as Lee had suggested.

It was only as he boarded the first train that he realized what a stupid prick he’d been.

There was no sun down in the tube station.

He gasped, winded by his foolishness. What if they were waiting in one of the nearby houses? What if they’d been watching all the time, or they knew where he was? He couldn’t imagine how that could have worked—he’d walked through the daylight, and no vampire could have followed. But the idea was still planted, and he couldn’t now shake it.

The usual tube play began. Everyone stared everywhere but at someone else, but Marty started scanning the people around him as covertly as possible. A big black guy sat next to him, reading Metro and humming along to something on his iPod. Across from him sat two good-looking young women, heads close together and faces serious as they swapped gossip. Marty’s eyes flickered to their long legs and short skirts, and when he looked up again, one of them was looking right at him. He glanced away with a nervous smile. Beside one of the girls sat an old woman, glasses perched on her head as she read a novel by some writer Marty had never heard of. A few people were standing, their suits and office wear making them all but anonymous. No one was looking at him.

He sipped more coffee, looking down at people’s feet and examining their shoes. When he looked up again, one of the girls was looking at him while her friend whispered something in her ear. The girl stared right at him without seeming to see anything at all. Marty smiled, then glanced away when there was no reaction.

Can a girl that pretty really be a vampire? He looked at her again. Her makeup was light and subtle, and she seemed to have good color about her. She was carrying a bottle of water in one hand. Disguise? A cross hung on a silver chain around her neck, dangling into her cleavage.

She saw him looking and turned slightly toward her friend, crossing her arms and legs.

Marty sighed and drank more coffee. Fucking paranoid.

But at the next stop, he alighted and waited on the platform, and five minutes later he boarded the next train. This one was more packed, and he didn’t manage to find a seat. He stood pressed against a door instead, scanning faces, trying not to be seen, and every second of his journey he felt watched.

It was a relief to emerge into the sunlight once more in Colliers Wood.

“Spare some change?” The beggar was sitting close to the tube station exit. It was a guy not much older than Marty, a scruffy dog curled up on a blanket by his side. A couple of cans of cider sat on the pavement beside him. He was looking up at Marty, shielding the sun from his eyes so he could see him clearly.

Marty delved into his pocket and pulled out a handful of change. As he was going through it, looking for a pound coin, the beggar chuckled.

“What?” Marty said.

“Eh? Nothin’. Spare some change?”

Marty found a pound coin and dropped it into the man’s outstretched hand. The dog lifted its head lazily and looked at him, then went back to sleep.

The man grinned, and Marty saw his teeth. The two front ones were missing, but those on either side seemed sharper than usual, their points darkened with rot but still capable of inflicting puncture wounds. Longer than usual.

Marty stepped back, heart thudding, and he thought, The sun’s right in his face, he’s no vampire, don’t be such a prick.

“Thanks, mate. Have a good day.” The beggar chuckled again—longer this time, almost like a twitch—and dropped the pound coin into one of the empty cider cans.

Marty had to shake this damn paranoia. He found a newsstand and asked where Otter Street was, and the proprietor jotted the directions down on a scrap of paper. Marty thanked the man and left. He looked behind him as he walked, certain that he was being followed, feeling eyes on him all the time. But it was all in his mind. He slipped into several shops, browsed products he didn’t want to buy, and lingered inside their front windows, watching people walking past. But he never saw the same person twice.

Finally he found the street, and then the house, and walked past three times before summoning up the nerve to ring the bell. He had to press it several times before it was answered, and the woman who opened the door looked as if she had lived a dozen lives. Her hair was graying and falling out, her skin was cratered, her hands were clawed, and her clothes stank of piss. But behind all this, he could see that she was not much past middle age.

“What?” she asked. She held a stained cloth in her right hand and was using it to wipe her left, scrubbing her palm and between her fingers, across the back of her hand and up to her wrist. It looked clean enough to Marty.

“Er…”

“What?” the woman snapped again.

“Ashleigh Richards?”

The woman’s hand froze in its wiping. She stared past Marty, along the street in both directions, behind him, head jerking like a startled bird’s.

“No,” the woman said. “She’s dead. Ashleigh Richards is dead.”

“Oh,” he said, stomach dropping, but he saw the truth straightaway. “Has anyone been?” he asked more gently. He took a step forward, aware that he was invading her personal space but keen to lower his voice, engender a feeling of complicity. If only he could get her trust…

“Been? Been?”

“Has anyone come and asked you… asked for her recently? Anyone… I don’t know. Strange? At night?”

“Night’s when it comes back to me,” she said, staring down at her hand. “The blood. That’s when the blood comes back.”

“I really need to talk to you,” Marty said, and he had a sense that he was getting through to her.

Her face slackened, and at first he thought it was tension leaving her. But it was not that at all. It was everything else falling away—awareness, presence, intelligence. And as she dropped the rag and brought the small, stumpy gun from her pocket, Marty wished he’d listened to his big sister.

10

“I CAN BRING IT down here,” Lee said. “The whole house is wireless. But I barely use half the rooms, so I just keep it in my office. Haven’t used it for a year or more.”

“You know it still works?”

“It’ll need plugging in,” he said, shrugging. “But no reason it shouldn’t.”

“No,” Francesco said.

“You’d rather just sit here and—”

“Yes.” And it looked like the tall vampire would be happy doing just that. Dawn was three hours ago now, and Lee had hardly seen him move a muscle. Francesco had had his eyes closed all that time, but never for a moment had Lee assumed he was asleep. He was starting to think they never slept.

“Fine. Let’s just sit here and waste a day, then.”

“It won’t be wasted,” Rose said. “Marty’s out there.”

“And who knows what’s happening to him? Let me get my laptop. I can scan police channels, try and keep a tab on what’s going on. I can even search for the Bane.”

“From down here?” Francesco asked. He opened his eyes at last.

“You forget who I used to work for. I have a name, an address, and an occupation. I can find out who she’s worked for, where she worked, what digs she took part in, where the stuff she dug up was cataloged and stored, what color underwear she was wearing at the time. I’m not saying it’s definite, but if there’s a trail of any sort, I’ll find it.”

“Maybe he’s right.” Rose was pacing the basement, slowly but consistently. Lee wondered what she was thinking. Speculating what it would be like chained up down here like a fucking animal, probably.

“You’ll run,” Francesco said. “No.” And he closed his eyes and sat back again, leaning against the damp basement wall.

“The vampires will be underground somewhere too,” Rose said.

“And the fucks they’ll have working for them?” Lee asked.

“Marty’s smart.”

“Has he ever killed anyone?” Rose glared at Lee, then looked away sharply. Ahh, Lee thought. Sore spot. He’d keep that in reserve for another time. But the smugness vanished quickly as he realized what that look meant: Rose had killed someone.

“Of course not,” she said.

“He might have to. Think what that could do to the boy.”

Rose didn’t reply, but went and squatted in front of Francesco so that Lee couldn’t see either of their faces. They conversed so quietly that he couldn’t hear; then, after a short silence, Rose stood and returned to him.

“If you make a run for it, we’ll find you. We’ll do things to you that even vampires haven’t dreamt of. You understand?”

“Yeah,” Lee said. She stood so close that he could feel the coolness coming off her. He found himself leaning forward. Then she turned and started up the basement staircase.

Lee followed. At the top he asked, “So, what did you say to him?”

“None of your fucking business.”

Lee squeezed past Rose and opened the door. She retreated several steps from the daylight. And for the next couple of minutes his life, and his destiny, would be his own.

She made him step inside.

All Marty wanted to do was run. He’d never had a gun pointed at him before. His mate Gaz claimed he had—said a bunch of gangbangers mugged him on his way home from a concert one night—but Marty had never been sure whether to believe him. There were guns in London, of course, but they were more prevalent in organized crime than street gangs. The gangs usually just dealt in blades.

It was a strange feeling, informed completely by his knowledge of movies and books. He’d spent months watching Vic Mackey on The Shield, wondering how many hours of training it had taken for the actor to hold his gun correctly. He’d stared down the end of Dirty Harry’s Magnum many times. But here he was, looking into the business end of an ugly, snub-nosed thing, held by a woman who was shaking so much her teeth clattered, and it was like nothing he had ever imagined. It was much worse.

“I said in!” she cried.

“Okay. Okay.” Marty started lifting his hands in the universal warding-off gesture, as if flesh and bone could stop a bullet.

“Keep your hands down. Three… three seconds. And then…” She waved the gun, and for a terrible second Marty thought it was going to go off.

He stepped through the front door. The smell hit him then, a stench of rot and neglect that made him gag.

“Keep walking,” Ashleigh Richards said. She slammed the door and the corridor grew darker.

“Where?”

“What?”

“Where do you want me to walk?”

The skin between his shoulder blades tickled as though caressed with hot metal. He tried breathing through his mouth, but that way he tasted the stench as well, a greasy film on his tongue that he could almost chew. His heart thumped, and because he was breathing harder and faster he smelled more. Something ran across the corridor ahead of him, down beside the narrow staircase; too small to be a cat, too large to be a mouse.

The woman said nothing. She’s trying to find the strength to pull the trigger, Marty thought, and he started turning around, wincing against the explosion of the gun and the bright pain that would follow. He’d often wondered about death, and pain, and how fast it would have to be to feel nothing. It was said that a decapitated head remained conscious for several seconds afterward, and there must be pain there, surely? Get shot in the heart and death is almost instantaneous, but the body must realize what has happened. The time delay between sending an impulse and your finger moving was so small as to be unnoticeable, so pain flowing the other way must be the same.

When she shot him, he’d have time to scream before he died.

But the woman was no longer pointing the gun at him. She’d lost it somewhere—dropped it into the pile of unopened mail, perhaps, or slipped it back into her jacket pocket—and she was rubbing at her left hand again. She’d retrieved the stained towel to do so.

“There are faces out in the streets,” she said. “Watching from the shadows. They’ve been watching for a long time.”

Faces? “How long?”

“Years.” She frowned and stopped wiping. “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?” He saw how lost she was then. He’d never met an insane person—at least, no one who wore their madness on the outside—and he felt an instant rush of pity. He’d gone through phases of worry about both his parents: they’d get cancer, they’d be mugged and killed, they’d get Alzheimer’s. Their premature deaths meant that none of these possible fates would come to fruition, but the idea of Alzheimer’s had been worst.

“You told me to come in,” he said. “You pointed a gun at me.”

“Gun,” she said. “I thought… thought you were one of the faces.”

“No, I’m Marty.” Against his better judgment he held out his hand. Ashleigh stopped rubbing again and grinned at him.

“Oh, no. No, I can’t possibly give you the gun.”

“No, I…” Marty half smiled, not sure if she was messing with him. But it seemed not. She squeezed past him, never once taking her eyes off him, and backed past the staircase into the kitchen.

“Well, come on, then!” she said. “I’ll make tea. Tea?”

“Please.” This is fucking insane! He followed her through the house, and it was only then that he noticed some of the things around him. The place was stinking and cluttered, but hidden behind this was a treasure trove of archaeological items, paintings, and old weapons. A display unit narrowed the corridor, and it was loaded with a dozen reconstructed clay objects. Some were pots or jugs, others sculptures of some sort, and a couple he couldn’t quite identify. Beside the display case stood a few spears which, though dusty, seemed so complete and neat-looking that he thought they weren’t old at all. There for protection? he wondered.

It was the most unusual kitchen he’d ever seen. There was a cooker, a table, and a chair, but all the other units were filled with more items from Ashleigh’s past. They were stacked and shelved neatly, many were tagged, but there was a thick layer of dust over everything which must have made them feel at home.

“Milk?” she asked, shaking a carton that stood beside the cooker. It did not sound fluid.

“Black, please.”

“So what did you say your name was?”

“Marty. I’m not here to hurt you.”

“You’re real, then?” she asked without turning around, and with no sense that it was at all an unusual question.

“Completely,” he said. “Flesh and blood.” She paused at his mention of blood, then stirred his tea. Does she know about the vampires? He would have to tread carefully.

“I’m afraid there are no biscuits.” She placed his cup on the small table, spilling a slick of weak-looking tea. She didn’t seem to notice. Her fingernails were black, her arms streaked with dirt, and she smelled like some of the beggars he sometimes saw on the streets. There had been an old guy who used to sit outside their local shop, just away from the pavement along a narrow alley. The kids used to make fun of him because he rarely moved, and a slick of piss had run downhill and stained the pavement. He’d soon been moved on, but Marty had never forgotten that smell. It was the stench of hopelessness, and giving in. Ashleigh did not smell quite that bad—the piss stink came from elsewhere in the house, he thought—but her eyes held the same look of defeat.

“I’m not hungry,” he said. “Mrs. Richards—”

“Ash. I am always Ash. Was always Ash.”

“Ash… I came to ask you about something. Something you dug up once.”

Ash laughed, and it was a delightful sound. For a woman living in such fear, it showed she still had some sort of a life, deep inside.

“I’ve dug up a lot of things. Some of them are around you, here! Some are in other places. A few were worth something, and they’re on display in museums. They were… of interest. Used to be of interest to me, but I’ve had enough of old things. Times gone by. There’s nothing to be learnt from it.” She glanced away and started rubbing at her hand again.

“It’s an amazing house,” Marty said. He took a sip of tea because he thought he should. It was bland and insipid, but at least it didn’t seem like it would kill him.

“Maybe,” she said.

“I wonder if—” Marty began, but then Ash started talking as if he weren’t there. Perhaps she spoke like this when she was alone, and now it was her only way to communicate. He wasn’t sure. But by the time she’d finished, he had an idea of how he could get what he wanted.

“There’s a darkness to the past,” she said. “Shadows cast by time. We enter the shadows, but can’t cast a light there. We don’t know how. Too ignorant. Wrapped up with celebrity gossip and television shows about… maintaining your house. We’ve lost touch with the darkness. Time turns out the lights, and we feel around in history’s night and try and understand it by touch alone. We’ve lost all other abilities to understand. We dig up a sculpture made four thousand years ago—”

Four thousand years!

“—and use supposed expert knowledge to see what it was for. Fertility object, seasonal watch, battery, charm, present to the gods, likeness of one particular god… we don’t really know. How can we? The past is as remote to us as the future, apart from the shards left behind to confuse us even more. At least the future… at least…” She rubbed at her hand more vigorously. “I’m lost in the past. Floating there in the dark. I never thought I would be, never thought all that contact would have such an effect. I’m educated, you see. Learned. I knew what I was doing. But then that thing… that bleeding thing, the bane of my life…”

Can she really mean the Bane? Marty wondered, and the possibility scared him. If she was talking about the Bane, then the chance that it truly held such power was much increased. From what he’d heard, it was little more than some vampire superstition. But now he was talking with someone who might have touched it. And it had driven her mad.

“I’m here to help,” he said. “I’m here to take it away and destroy it.”

She looked at him with dawning realization, as if she’d only just noticed that he was there.

“It can’t be destroyed.”

“Then I’ll make it a shard again. Give it back to the past, so that it’s no longer here to…” He nodded at her hand. “Hurt you. Whatever.”

Ash looked at her hand and started rubbing again, though more gently than before.

“You’re not one of the faces?”

“No,” he said, though he wasn’t sure exactly who she meant. Maybe it was best not to know. “I’m not one of the faces. Not them.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” And she dropped the towel and sat at the small table.

“Will you tell me about it?” he asked.

“No!” The shout was sudden, its volume shocking. “I can’t tell anyone. It’s not part of me anymore.” And then, as if to contradict all she had said, she started to cry, her head lowering more with each wrenching sob until her forehead was resting on her hands.

Marty wanted to help. But he thought if he touched her, he might startle her out of whatever state she was in now, frighten her protective wall into being once again. So he left her bereft, and listened.

“I found it when no one should have. I touched it, and no one was meant to. I sent it away… not far enough, but away. And now I can’t even begin to find it again. Not me. Not like this.”

For the first time, Marty felt a chill at the idea of the Bane rather than a childlike excitement. That excitement had been nervous, true, but nervous like a kid sneaking downstairs after lights-out to watch a horror movie on TV. A thrill. Now he was genuinely scared.

“Tell me where it is,” he said, and Ash looked up at him, inspiring a shattering few seconds of déjà vu.

Tell me where it is, his mother says, looking at him with tears in her eyes, because he’s taken something of hers and now he can’t remember what he did with it. It was only some old postcard with a scrawl on the back that he couldn’t read, and a black-and-white picture on the front of people sitting at the seaside in long coats and jacket. Maybe he’d taken it into their small garden… perhaps he’d torn it up to make pellets for his elastic-band wars with his friend Gaz… but he couldn’t remember right then, and her tears drove any shred of memory deeper.

“If I tell you where it is, will it go away?”

“Yes,” Marty said. “I’ll make it.”

“But…” She started rubbing her hand again, but she’d dropped the towel and now she was just scraping her nails across her skin.

“I promise,” he said.

“Well.” And she smiled. Light seemed to fill her face, and it was obvious there had been none there for some time. Though she was his roughly his mother’s age, Ash reminded him of her now for the first time, and Marty had to bite back tears.

She beckoned him forward. He went and leant on the table, lowering his head so that her mouth was close to his ear. And she told him.

After that, going home was such a stupid thing to do.

Ash saw him to the door, and by the time she’d bid him farewell, Marty was starting to think the gun had been all in his imagination. She wasn’t a different woman exactly, but a shadow about her had lifted, as if sun had shone on her skin for the first time in years. She still opened the door cautiously and peered out like a mouse watching for a cat—The faces are still there, she said, I don’t think they’ll ever leave me alone—but as Marty passed her and stepped into the tiny front yard, she thanked him.

Leaving, he heard the door shut again behind him, and the lock clicked as she incarcerated herself once more.

Knowing what he knew, he should have returned to Lee Woodham’s house straightaway. Coming here to Otter Street, he’d been terrified of the vampires and what they had done. But leaving, he was now also scared of everything that surrounded them. Before, they had been brutal, merciless killers, and he’d have done anything he could to hold one down and give it pain before bestowing true death. But after seeing Ashleigh Richards and the effect the Bane had had upon her, he understood that there was a whole world behind these creatures. It was a world that until recently he’d have regarded as make-believe and fanciful, but now he knew it was true. They were the undead, and there was a magic to their background.

But he did not immediately retrace his steps. Something about the London light seemed different, as if everything he saw had been smeared with a light sheen of blood; a redness overlay everything, and he rubbed his eyes many times to try and clear them. He wondered whether he had caught something from Ashleigh, some madness that had taken her years before at that dig in Wiltshire.

Perhaps it was anger, or rage, or grief finally fighting its way through the walls he had erected around it, seeking release and blinding him against the obvious, terrible reality.

So he decided to see what was left of the place he had once called home. He knew that the Humains had set a fire there after the attack, trying to destroy evidence that might make authorities ask awkward questions. But ruin though it must be, perhaps it was somewhere he could regain some sense of balance and composure.

It was a quick fifteen-minute trip on the tube, but he decided to walk. The thought of going back belowground—where the sun never shone, and where shadows were kept at bay only by the persistent artificial lighting—was suddenly more terrifying than ever.

It took him almost an hour, following streets, alleys, and routes both known and unfamiliar. He searched inside himself to try and find a sense of going home, but it was curiously absent. When he finally arrived at the street, it was familiar enough, but only as somewhere he had visited many times in the past, not somewhere he had felt at home. He walked toward the remains of the house, and even from a distance, he saw the police tape marking out the small front garden and extending across the pavement. There was a police car parked a couple of houses away, and he saw the shape of someone sitting inside, cigarette smoke curling from the open window.

Marty crossed the street and sat on a garden wall. His family home was fifteen houses along on the opposite side, and from this angle he could see some of what was left. It wasn’t much. The façade still stood, but the windows on both floors had been blown out and the London brickwork scorched black with soot. The roof had half collapsed, and many slates had exploded from the heat. The houses on either side seemed to have escaped excessive damage, though they both had boarding over a couple of their windows, and he couldn’t see from here what had happened in their roof space.

The ruin was calm. Yesterday the police and crime-scene officers must have been picking over the debris, but they seemed to have found everything they were looking for.

Mum’s remains in there, he thought. Blackened parts of her. There was no way the police could have swept up—scooped up—everything of her he had seen in the hallway. The fire would have cooked and charred that, and the ash was still a part of their old home.

He looked down at his feet and took several deep breaths. And that was how he saw, across the road in front of him, the shadow of someone watching. His heart stuttered, winding him. The shadow of the terrace behind him drew a fine line along the road: rooftop, interrupted at regular intervals by chimneys. And between two chimney stacks, a mound that could only be a head.

Daylight, it’s daylight, they only come out at night. But they had their fucking slaves. And he realized then what a fool he’d been to come here. Home, however little was left of it, would be one of the first places they’d be looking for him.

Trying not to give any indication that he’d seen, Marty looked along the street again, eyes turned sideways and concentrating on the shadow. Before long it moved, only slightly but enough for him to confirm what it was. Not a bird, not a cat… a head.

He pushed away from the wall and walked along the street a little, pausing again when a tree blocked his line of sight to the police car. He could still see the remains of the house. It didn’t feel as familiar as it should. His bedroom was on the right on the second floor, and he could see from here that the ceiling had fallen in, roof timbers fractured and charred. All his stuff was in there—CDs, books, clothes, photographs, evidence of his life—and now it was forever beyond his reach. But he found that he didn’t care. It was just stuff.

Marty glanced back along the road, to where the rooftop shadow almost cut the road in half lengthwise. The head shadow had vanished.

Time to leave, he thought, turning his back on the remains of his home for the last time. I should have gone straight back to Lee’s. I know where the Bane is now, and walking the streets like this is just—

There was someone at the far end of the street, leaning against the wall of a house that Marty himself had walked past just five minutes before. It was a man, he could tell that much, but he was in shadow, his features uncertain. Jeans, maybe. Jacket of some sort. Short hair. He seemed to be looking at his hands, picking his nails or examining something he was holding.

He glanced up and stared straight at Marty, exposing the blade in his hand.

“Fuck,” Marty muttered. He walked directly across the street and stood beneath a tree, glancing back at the police car. No movement there, just the drift of cigarette smoke. Then he looked up at the rooftops, shielding his eyes from the sunlight and scanning for whatever had caused the shadow. Nothing.

The man along the street had started toward him.

Marty started walking, heading directly for the cordoned-off section of pavement outside his gutted home. And it was only then, fear speeding his blood, that the familiarity of that place became almost overwhelming. He remembered walking along here holding his mother’s hand when he was maybe six years old, head dipped against a powerful hailstorm. Skateboarding along the pavement with Gaz when he was eleven, using the paving slab pushed up by a tree root as a small ramp. Kicking a football alone, apologizing to a little old lady as it ricocheted off her shopping buggy. And walking along with Rose, her shouting, Gimme ten! and Marty closing his eyes for ten seconds as she went to hide, and that memory did not end because he could no longer recall where she had hidden. He’d been happy, she’d been laughing, and he never believed back then that such a memory could be overlaid with darkness.

He realized that the reddish sheen that had coated his vision since leaving the archaeologist’s house had vanished.

“Hey!” a voice said. It wasn’t too loud, but he knew instantly it was directed at him.

He glanced back, but the man over the street was walking with his head down. If he’d been the one to call, he gave no sign. His right arm swung naturally, his left hand remained down by his side, fingers curled up where they clasped the knife handle.

I can’t believe this, Marty thought, and then he uttered a half-mad chuckle. After everything he’d seen and come to learn, a scumbag mugger stalking him along his own street wasn’t too far out.

Except this was no mugger. He knew that, just as he knew the shadow he’d seen on the rooftop didn’t belong to someone adjusting a chimney or fixing a TV aerial. These were men working directly for the vampires, lowlifes who’d been promised something that put whatever they were asked to do in the shade—money, drugs, women… immortality. And, for them, Marty would surely be a fine prize.

“Hey, dickhead!” the voice came again, and Marty was still looking at the man across the street. He was sure the voice hadn’t come from him, though the guy’s lips did seem to break into a smile.

Marty slowed, only three houses away from his taped-off home now. There was a white van between him and the police car, and farther along the street, he could now see the tall woman. She’d emerged from behind a tree and was staring directly at him. He’d have laughed if his situation hadn’t suddenly become so dire: she was dressed just as she should have been for the movies, with black leather trousers, black T-shirt stretched tight over big tits, and hair tied in a ponytail that hung over her left shoulder. She carried a jacket slung over her right shoulder—leather, black—and she was smiling. It was the smile more than anything that prevented his laughter. It was totally without humanity.

“Yeah,” she said, “talking to you, fuckface.”

Where are the cops?

Marty stepped past the parked van, close enough to his house now to smell the stench of wet ash and charred wood. He tried not to look. There was nothing left to see, he shouldn’t have come here, he was a fucking fool, but still he found it hard not to stare at what had become of his old life. A ruin. A memory. Stained with badness, nothing would be the same again.

“What are you meant to be?” he asked the woman. He glanced to the right. The police car was there, the window on this side closed. He could see the cops now, chatting and laughing. They hadn’t even noticed anything was going on.

Several cars passed along the street, their engines masking the woman’s voice. She was standing just the other side of the closed-off stretch of pavement, twenty feet from him.

“I’m someone you’ll be sorry you met, shithead.” He could see the longing in her eyes now, and he’d seen that look before a hundred times in a hundred pubs and clubs: junkie.

He looked her up and down. “You look like my last wet dream.”

The woman brought a hand up to her right breast and squeezed.

“Wank away,” she said. “But after Duval’s finished with you, you won’t have it in you anymore. Where the hell’ve you been, anyway? Got the boss pissed off.”

Duval, Marty thought, and then he sensed someone closing on him from behind. He spun around, and the man from across the street was standing with the white van between him and the police car, brandishing the knife.

“Somewhere safe,” he said. “Finding stuff out, unlike you.”

The leather-clad woman froze, glancing around the street. “Stuff… ? The Bane… ? You know where… ?”

Marty shook his head. What have I said? He wanted to back away but they had him surrounded. Stupid idiot, what have I said? “No, not that, just… stuff.” But his panic and fluster gave him away.

“You’ll come nice and quiet,” she said, excited now. “Don’t want to upset the neighbors, and—”

“The cops. I’ll call them.” His heart sank. Marty felt sick. What a fucking idiot!

“Do that and my friend Stoner—you saw him, didn’t you, up on the roof?—well, you call to the pigs and he’ll gut them. Both of them. The woman he might take his time over.”

Marty found it in himself to laugh. He was terrified, and mad at himself, but they were almost ridiculous.

“What the fucking hell do you think you are?” he asked, and as they both came for him he made the only decision he could. There was no way he could fight these bastards. They’d beat him, cut him, take him to their fucking leader. But he could get away from them.

“Vampires!” he screamed at the top of his voice. “There are vampires trying to kill me!” He darted into the road in front of the white van and ran directly toward the police car. He caught the look of shock and confusion on the woman’s face as she stepped out of sight behind a tree, and then from behind the police car came one of the biggest men he’d ever seen. Almost seven feet tall and almost as wide, this had to be Stoner, and for a second Marty thought he might just have signed the cops’ death warrant.

But these were scumbags, not professional criminals, probably more used to mugging pensioners for their weekly payouts so they could score their next hit than taking on a cop.

Stoner’s shock and confusion was apparent, and Marty pointed at him and screamed, “There! Vampire! He’s going to kill you, look out, he’s got a knife, there, there!” The smoking cop was already half out of the car and on the pavement, and he glanced behind him as Marty pointed.

Stoner turned and ran.

As Marty reached the police car, the driver’s door was opening and the second cop was climbing out. It was a woman, dark hair tied up in a bun, and Marty made another snap decision. They’d try to calm him down, send him on his way, unless he did something…

He ran to the front of the car and kicked in one of the headlights.

“Hey!” the woman cop shouted.

Marty danced to the right and kicked in the other headlight, then started booting the car’s grille.

“Leave it!” the smoking policeman shouted. He threw his cigarette aside, pulled his pepper spray and Marty backed off, hands up, submissive.

“Little shit,” the woman said, checking out the damage.

“Vampires!” Marty shouted. But looking around, checking both ways along the street, he saw that the three scumbags had already vanished.

He went to his knees and sat calmly. His heart was thundering, and he wondered what he had just avoided. And that was how, for the first time in his life, Marty Volk was arrested.

11

“HOLY SHIT,” Lee said, and he looked directly at Francesco.

That’s not good, Rose thought. Not good at all.

Lee had been sitting in the corner for over an hour, working on his laptop. At first she’d sat with him, intrigued by what he was doing and, in truth, impressed. He had one application open, which was scanning police radio and mobile phone traffic in the Greater London area, with word-recognition software running in the background instructed to look for the keywords “Marty,” “Volk,” “Vampire,” “Ashleigh Richards,” and “Otter Street.” With another application, he was trying to build up a picture of Richards’s habitual movements over the last ten years. He’d already managed to find the numbers of six credit and debit cards listed under her name over the past decade, and from these he was establishing a pattern of movement that built an impressive picture of her everyday life.

To begin with, at the turn of the decade, there were three train routes that she traveled a lot, all of them to and from London: Yorkshire, Monmouthshire, and Wiltshire. Lee established that she had family living in Yorkshire, and that the other two counties were work related. She holidayed in Cornwall, and also made trips to the States, Canada, Greece, South Africa, and Nepal. From this larger picture, he started pinpointing more defined aspects of her life. There were over three hundred purchases made at a bakery just off New Oxford Street between 2000 and 2003, as well as numerous shopping receipts from various shops in that area. Lee could even narrow down these purchases to specific times and days, and the bakery purchases were usually made around lunchtime.

From around 2003 onward, the trail became more difficult to follow. Her traveling seemed to lessen, and card purchases ceased. He could track her cash withdrawals, all of them from the same ATM in the same bank in Colliers Wood, and it seemed obvious that she’d started buying everything with cash. Utility bills showed that she’d remained in the same house where she’d lived for years, and gas and electric usage had increased steadily throughout 2003. From then until now, as far as they could gather, she had remained at home.

The changes in her habits had begun soon after the King of Stonehenge dig.

“British Museum,” he said when Rose asked where she’d worked. “Already brought up her tax records.”

As for where the Bane might be located, the museum was an obvious first choice, but there were still dozens of potential sites in and around London. Knowing more about Ashleigh Richards still told them nothing about where she had possibly hidden the relic.

When Lee started finding and tracking Richards’s family and friends in London, Rose moved away and left him to it. She was hungry, and there was nothing here to feed upon. Nothing allowable, anyway. Francesco sat where he’d come to rest as soon as they’d entered the basement, back against the damp wall and eyes closed. For Rose, the fact that they never needed rest had been one of the most shocking aspects of becoming a vampire; with a body that never tired, the only pressing requirement was food. She used to enjoy drinking, but that was no longer a necessity, nor even a pleasure. She’d liked sex, but though she still indulged from time to time, the drive seemed to have dwindled with the beating of her heart.

She knew that Francesco was resting his mind rather than his body. And she wondered, as ever, whether the passing of so much time could tire a mind whose body was still young and vigorous.

“He’s very good,” Rose said, sitting next to the old Humain.

“I know. That’s why we use him.”

“‘Use him,’” she echoed, not liking the term. But she could not deny its truth.

She had sat silently with the vampire who had turned her five years before, closing her own eyes but unable to rest her mind.

And then that comment from Lee. “Holy shit.” And he looked directly at Francesco.

“What is it?” Rose said, leaping to her feet and crossing the basement in less than a second. Lee drew back, like a startled cat in a car’s headlamps, clawing at the headphones strapped across his head.

Francesco was beside her then, though she hadn’t even heard him move.

“What is it?” she asked again.

“Marty’s name was mentioned,” Lee said. He pulled the headphones from the laptop and hit a button. At first, all Rose heard was a shower of white noise interspersed with crackles and electronic squawks. But then she heard it properly, and the voices emerged.

“…station. Right nutter, kicked… lights in. You wouldn’t believe… shouting about vampires… got in car willingly enough. Couple of hours ago now, but… still shaking. Said his name was Volk. Wasn’t that the family… house that burnt… ?”

“Christ,” Rose muttered. “Can you tell where that’s coming from?”

“Hang on.” Lee tapped away on his laptop and a map of London popped up on the screen. It rotated counterclockwise, slowly, and when it had described a full circle, the map increased in size. Rose watched, her eye already on the place she suspected, and as the map zeroed in she was sure.

“Home,” she said.

“So now the police have him because he’s been talking about vampires,” Francesco said. He stood quietly for a while, and Lee lowered the volume on the police-band scanner.

“He won’t—”

“He’s not our problem anymore,” the tall vampire said.

“What if he leads them here?” Lee asked.

“It’ll be dusk in a couple of hours. By the time they’ve calmed him down, booked him in, let him stew in a cell for a while…” Francesco shrugged. “Besides, they’ll think he’s mad.”

“I’m sure,” Rose said. “But what if he got to the woman first?”

“He didn’t.” Francesco gestured at the laptop. “He went home. Like any animal facing extreme circumstances.”

“No,” Rose said. “He’s been gone seven hours. Something must have happened.”

“What do you mean?” Lee asked. “What something?”

“Why would he have gotten himself arrested?”

“Protection,” Francesco said.

“From what?”

Us, he was going to say, and she saw it on his lips. But then he frowned and turned away.

“We can’t tell whether he got himself arrested,” Lee said.

“We can.” Francesco was facing the far wall now, where hooks were embedded in reinforced concrete padstones, and thick chains hung ready to restrain vampires they would never touch. “Rose is right. We have to assume he reached the archaeologist.”

“He’ll be safe in jail,” Rose said. “Dusk comes, we go and get him out.”

“How?” Lee spurted. “You’re going to do a prison break, are you?”

“We have our means,” Francesco murmured. “Rose, call the others, tell them what’s happening. Lee, can you find out which police station he’s being held in?”

“They’re taking him to Lewisham.”

“Rose, tell them to meet us close to Lewisham Police Station an hour after dusk.”

Rose was already dialing Connie’s number, still going through what might have happened to make Marty give himself up like that. He’d been frustrated that she wouldn’t even consider turning him, yes, but she couldn’t imagine his reaction being that extreme. She’d sensed grief over their parents circling him, held back perhaps by his perception of her own reaction to their deaths. He must have been confused by her lack of regret or sadness, and perhaps this added to the surreality of the situation. That in turn might help maintain the protective wall he seemed to be holding around himself.

Her finger hovered over the last digit, then she canceled the number, turning to Francesco at the same time he looked up at her with dawning realization.

“They’ll have followed him,” she said.

“Yes, of course. Whoever scared him.”

“What are you on about?” Lee asked.

“Marty got himself arrested because he was frightened,” Rose said. “Stupid going back home, but there must have been someone waiting there in case he showed up.”

“Servants to the vampires?” Lee asked.

“Slaves,” Francesco said.

“But he’ll be safe in a police station,” Rose said.

Francesco raised an eyebrow. “Who can tell if—?”

Her cell phone buzzed as a text message came in. “Marty,” she said, looking at the screen and frowning. “Sent two damn hours ago. It says, She took it to British Museum. Will be back soon. Going home first to see what’s left.”

“Two hours ago?” Francesco asked.

“Must’ve been just before they arrested him,” Lee said. “Crappy phone signal. But I knew it was the museum!”

“Call the others,” Francesco said to Rose. “Tell them to meet us at the museum at dusk.”

“But Marty—”

“Is locked away safe and sound. And come dusk, while they’re trying to get to him, we’ll be getting inside the museum to find the Bane.”

“He’s bait.”

“Not anymore, Rose. He’s expendable. You know it.”

Rose closed her eyes and felt her fury rising. Marty had played his part, true. They knew where the Bane was being kept, and though finding it in the massive museum would be no easy task, it was a priority. She would go with the others, for whom her mortal brother’s safety was now secondary. But she would never let him go so easily.

She opened her eyes and nodded, then started dialing Connie’s number again.

They paced the room. He couldn’t blame them. What must it be like being so beholden to what the sun was doing and whether the darkness was deep? He watched them, fascinated and disgusted, and at the same time he worked. On his knees sat the tool through which he had access to the whole world. Day or night, good weather or bad, could not hold him back, because he knew his way without having to move an inch.

He knew which building the Bane was in, but not where it was. He hoped that in the brief time between now and dusk, he could find out. The British Museum had hundreds of rooms and millions of specimens and artifacts, both on display and locked away down in the basements and sublevels where research was carried out. It could take weeks to find something in there. And Lee didn’t have that long.

He opened a new window on his computer and it was his window. A tap on the cursor pad would close it down and hide it. Everything else he was doing was for them, but this one was for him. The most important thing.

Five minutes’ searching gave him Ashleigh Richards’s archived blogs from eight years before. They were hidden away on a locked site, but relevant word searches, combined with knowledge of which ISPs she’d been using at the time, brought them up. He used more word-filtering software to scan each blog for keywords and, finding none, he thought about how he could expand the search.

“Blood.” That was the obvious word. It appeared seventeen times, and he narrowed the search to blogs written post–Wiltshire dig. There were three. He opened each in turn and scanned them, and soon found what he was looking for.

But he had to be careful. He tapped the pad and closed the window, surfing police bands some more, trying to find out more about the gunfire. It seemed everything on that had gone quiet, but he’d already set up a notifier for when it started appearing on news sources. Rose sat beside him for a moment, checking out what he was looking at but saying nothing. He’d become less than useful to them now, he guessed. She soon stood and started pacing again, and then he realized uncomfortably that neither of them had fed that night.

Did a vampire need blood every night? Could they go a few days between feedings if necessary? Was it different for these who called themselves Humains? He didn’t know any answers, and that annoyed him. After so long obsessing about vampires, he still knew so little.

But now, opening the window on his laptop again and reading one of Ashleigh Richards’s final sane blogs, he started to know more than them.

After memorizing its vital contents, he copied the web address into another, more malicious piece of software he’d acquired recently. At the touch of the ENTER button, those blogs were sent a unique, constantly reconfiguring virus that accessed and corrupted them beyond repair.

Really, it had been the only thing Marty could do. If he’d tried to run, they’d have caught him and taken him away. And if he’d simply approached the police for help, maybe that big bastard Stoner really would have attacked and killed the two cops. He couldn’t have faced having that on his conscience, and if they’d managed to grab him…

The vampires had already killed both of his parents. As soon as they had what they wanted out of him, Marty had no doubt that this Duval character the woman had mentioned would have killed him too. Slowly. Horribly. It was the memory of his parents that had made his final decision.

He’d want them to be proud of him.

So he sat in his cell, relieved that he’d managed to get the text message off to Rose before they’d taken his mobile. That had been from the back of their car, spelling out the message with one hand while the male cop kept glancing over his shoulder. Vampires? he’d said, but he hadn’t laughed. Too pissed off at the damage to their car, most likely.

Once at the station, Marty had asked for his phone call and they’d laughed, telling him he needed time to cool down in his cell before they started questioning him.

He’d never been in a police cell before. His friend Gaz had, for a couple of hours one evening after he’d given a policeman some lip in town after drinking too much cider. They’d let him out soon after with a warning, and he’d told Marty that it had scared the shit out of him.

The cell was small and contained a low-level concrete plinth with a thin, worn mattress and a blanket. Beside the plinth at the back was a toilet pan with an old-fashioned overhead flush. Other than that, there was nothing, not even a window or a light switch. He’d lain down for a while but had been unable to sleep. Then he’d tried pacing, but he had to turn around after four steps and the constant turning made him dizzy. So he simply sat on the hard bed, knees pulled up to his chest, and hoped that he’d done enough.

He had one visit, from a woman police constable who brought him a plastic cup of water and took his shoes. He asked her when he’d be seen and what was happening, but she acted as if he weren’t even there. She pointed a camera at him and took a snap, not even bothering to check whether it had come out well before closing and locking the door again.

Marty almost shouted after her, but he knew it would do no good.

After almost two hours, he had to give in to nature’s demand and relieve himself. And it was as he was standing pissing that he heard the first signs of commotion from outside.

The walls must have been thick, and probably strengthened with steel and plaster reinforcement, but he heard the first gunshots. There was more than one… it was a rattle, short and sharp and brutal. Then another, and another, and by the time he’d zipped up, the shouting had begun.

There was no way of telling which direction any of the noise came from. It seemed to enter his cell through a high-level air vent, so he stood on the solid bed to try and hear better. They were definitely gunshots, and it sounded like multiple weapons. Machine guns. He’d never heard one fired in real life, but there was no other explanation.

Some of the shouting turned to screams.

There was a brief silence, during which Marty realized how heavy and fast he was breathing. Then the shooting started again, and that was when he realized this might be all for him.

The idea came as a shock and it knocked him from his feet. He curled into a ball on his bed, listening to shouting, guns firing, people dying, and thinking of that tall woman’s face and Stoner’s daunting size. If this was them, what could the vampires have possibly offered to make them do this?

Something Rose wouldn’t offer me, he thought, and with that came the understanding that there were many people who’d be susceptible to such persuasions. The vampires had only to trawl London’s underside to find people willing to kill for them.

Someone ran along the corridor outside the cells. Heavy boots struck concrete, a door opened and slammed in the distance, and then it was quiet outside once more until the shouting began. The man must have been in the cell next door to Marty. He cursed and swore, screaming and roaring, most of his words unintelligible. A persistent banging commenced, closer to Marty than the gunshots and detectable through the floor. The man next door was kicking and punching his cell door.

The shooting continued but it was more fragmented now, and Marty assumed it was because the number of targets was fewer.

Rose, come and get me, he thought. You’re my guardian angel, my protector, you’ve kept me alive when Mum and Dad have been killed so come and get me now, bring your friends and come and get me. But outside it must still be daylight. There was no Rose, and no guardian angel.

A door thumped open, a pause, and then there was a brief rattle of gunfire from close by. The shouting man next door quietened for a moment, then started banging again, and Marty was sure he was yelling, Let me out, let me out, over and over.

Then he heard a sound that was already familiar—a cell door smashing open. Soon after that, another burst of gunfire.

After a few seconds, another cell door opened. The shouting man was silenced at last by a gunshot.

Marty heard keys scrape at his door and then it swung outward, crashing against the wall, and framed in the doorway was the woman police constable who had brought him a drink only an hour before. She still didn’t speak, but looked utterly terrified, blood streaking the left side of her face. Behind her, the massive bulk of Stoner suddenly filled the doorway.

He pushed the WPC into the room, bent to look inside, saw Marty, grinned, then shot the WPC in the back of the head.

Marty squeezed his eyes closed, but not quite quickly enough. He saw what the bullet did to her face, and felt the spray of blood and other stuff patter across his own face and throat.

“Got him!” Stoner shouted, his voice surprisingly high. Then, more quietly, “After this, you better know where the Bane is. Come here, you little fuck.”

“Eat shit,” Marty said, eyes still squeezed shut. He was shaking, and what he’d said even surprised himself. A huge hand closed around his ankle and pulled him from the raised cot. He flipped back and banged his head, groaning as his senses started to swim, then drown.

Moments later, he was being dragged across the floor behind Stoner. To his left and right, Marty saw several bodies, some of them still moving. Then he was lifted up again and propped against a notice board, Stoner holding him there with one big hand.

“Duval wants a chat,” the tall woman from his street said, so matter-of-fact that Marty half smiled. She was high as a kite.

The woman grinned at his smile and whispered, “It’s almost dusk.”

12

FIVE MINUTES EARLIER, as Rose and Francesco had sensed the sun dipping down below the horizon, Lee had heard the news. Gunfire at Lewisham Police Station. Panic. People dying.

The vampires’ servants were going for Marty, just as she had feared. Time was running out for him… and for them.

“You have lots of boxes of very big ammunition,” Francesco said. “Do you have the guns to match?” He was standing by an open cupboard in the corner of the basement. Rose knew that tonight would bring more chaos than she had encountered or even dreamt of as a vampire. Francesco was preparing.

“They’re in a gun locker hidden behind a false panel in my library,” Lee said.

“Get them,” Francesco said.

“How many?”

“However many you feel comfortable with. We won’t be carrying them.”

Lee folded his laptop, and halfway up the wooden staircase he paused and turned back to the Humains.

“So… what can I use?”

“Forget everything you think you know,” Francesco said. “Leave your crosses and garlic spray, leave your holy-water pistols. Bring the biggest guns and load them with the biggest bullets. You have dumdums?”

“Homemade.”

“Good.”

“Bullets will stop a vampire?” Lee asked doubtfully.

“Big ones, yes, if fired at the right place. Long enough for the head to be destroyed.”

Lee darted upstairs, and Rose heard the door open.

“What’s the plan?” she asked.

“Plan?” Francesco looked at her and smiled, almost lovingly. “Rose, sometimes you put too much faith in me. I’m old, but this has never been my way. I kept to myself in the early years, feeding when I needed, traveling, feeding some more. Sometimes I met other vampires, and on occasion I became aware of… greater stories taking place. Alliances and betrayals. Battles, and ambitions that to me always seemed apart from what a vampire was meant to be. But this…” He waved his hand at Lee’s subterranean torture chamber, as if that encompassed everything else he had avoided. “I can feign wisdom for the Humains, and I know I’m seen as the leader of our loose-knit little gang. But as for any kind of a plan, I’m at a loss.”

“We have to do everything to stop them getting the Bane.”

“Yes.”

“We have to get to the British Museum before the vampires do.”

“Yes.”

“And after that?”

“Tell me if you have any great ideas,” Francesco said.

Rose was not disappointed in Francesco. In a way she found it quite touching that he was admitting his lack of knowledge to her. But she did have an idea, and she wasn’t sure how he would take it.

“So, what are you thinking, Rose?” he asked. Perceptive as ever.

“We know that Lee is in touch with the Olemaun woman.”

Francesco raised an eyebrow and sneered, “She wrote that book.”

“You can’t deny she has knowledge.”

“And you want to talk to her?”

“If I can. If I can do it now, before we go. Anything she can tell us could help. A weakness they have, anything about the Bane, any clue she has as to who these vampires might be. It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”

“And you think she’ll be sitting on the end of a phone, awaiting your call?”

“Only one way to find out.”

Francesco looked as if he were about to forbid the contact—she could see that in his stance, his expression, and how he held up one hand to wave her idea away—but then he set aside his pride. He’d already opened himself up to her, and to backtrack now and try to take control would only make him appear foolish.

It would make him look like one of them.

“You can try,” he said.

Rose nodded her thanks, then heard Lee descending the stairs again. She’d expected him to return with some massive weapons—a Gatling gun, rocket launchers, bazookas. Instead he had a holster slung over each shoulder bearing a heavy-looking handgun, and another weapon was tucked in his belt.

“They’re your big guns?” she asked.

“Trust me,” he said.

“Do whatever you need to do,” Francesco said. “We have five minutes, then we’re leaving. There’s not much time.”

“You keep saying that,” Lee murmured.

“Then get a fucking move on!” Francesco growled. The mortal cringed back against the wall, and Rose touched Francesco’s arm.

“Ease up on him,” she said.

Francesco said nothing, but he glanced at Lee and gently shrugged off Rose’s hand.

“Lee, I need to use your email,” Rose said.

“Checking your lottery numbers?” he asked, opening the laptop and tapping a few keys. His voice was high and uneven. His shoulders shook, he lowered his head, then the laughter came, loud and brash. Rose was surprised to find herself smiling, but most of it was at Lee’s coping technique rather than what he’d said. He was impressive. She’d never been out with a black guy when she’d been mortal, and perhaps that was because of her parents’ old-fashioned upbringing rubbing off on her a little. She surprised herself now by regretting that.

Too late now.

“I need your account open,” she said.

“Which one?” He wiped his eyes, quickly growing stern again.

“The one you use to communicate with Stella Olemaun.”

He glanced up at her, looked at Francesco, and shrugged. “Haven’t spoken with her in some time. Starting to think they got to her.”

“No harm in me trying, then,” she said, and Lee turned the laptop to face her. As he went to the ammunition lockers and started loading his weapons, Rose felt a chill of anticipation. They’d been down here for twelve hours, she was hungry, and danger was settling around them with the darkness. And it all started here. Lee could turn around now and blow Francesco’s head off—he was standing close enough, watching the mortal, hands fisted by his sides—and then turn his guns on her. If that happened, she’d have time while he was killing Francesco to go at him, but even then the odds were barely even that she’d get to him in time.

This was a test of trust, and a risky one at that. Francesco must feel he knew Lee very well indeed.

As Lee clicked the safety on the first loaded gun, Rose caught him looking sidelong at Francesco. The two men stared for a moment, then both nodded their heads slightly. Grudging allies. She hoped that lasted.

Opening a blank email window, she started typing.

Stella, you don’t know me. My name’s Rose Volk and I live in London. I’m a friend of Lee Woodhams, who you’ve conversed with in the past. I’m also a vampire—part of a group who call ourselves Humains. Circumstances have meant that Lee only just found out. We live alongside humans, don’t feed on living people, and keep to the shadows. We go unnoticed, but that has now changed. There are vampires in London looking for an artifact called the Spanish Bane. I’ll assume you’ve heard of this? We know where it is, and we’re on our way there right now to try and stop them. But these are monsters. True bloodsuckers. They’ve killed many already, and have taken on human slaves. We’re flailing in the dark here, but we know how important it is they don’t get the Bane. We’re doing our best. And this is for real; I’m not insane. Contacting you is a shot in the dark because I know about you—I read your book—and know how much you hate us. But if there’s anything you can do to help, my mobile is…

And she left her number.

She read the email through, then sent it. No harm in trying, and if even half of what the Olemaun woman had written in her book was true, she’d know a thing or two about vampires.

Rose just hoped she didn’t hate them enough to deny any help, whatever the circumstance.

“Ready?” Francesco asked, and when Rose glanced up, she realized she’d been typing longer than she thought. Lee had both shoulder holsters strapped on properly now, a gun in his belt, and full magazines clipped to the bandoliers.

“Um, yeah… ready,” she said.

“I’m not,” Lee said. He was holding a jacket ready to put on to cover the guns, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.

“Why?” Francesco asked.

“You seemed keen enough to kill vampires earlier,” Rose said.

“I am, but…”

Rose held out her hands. What?

“I need a shit,” he said.

Rose sighed, Francesco walked toward the basement stairs, and Lee followed.

“Fucking vampires,” he muttered as he passed her by.

She closed the laptop, slipped it into its carry case, and slung it over her shoulder. Standing at the bottom of the basement steps, she looked around, thinking of torture and pain and how much their friend Lee Woodhams seemed prepared to do. And she knew then that whatever the outcome that night, if he was still alive come dawn, he would present a very desperate problem for the Humains.

But before she could let that even begin to worry her, they had a war to fight.

Torture was on Rose’s mortal brother’s mind as well. Not only physical torture, though the fear of that was rich and sour in his mouth like the aftermath of a terrible hangover. But torture of the soul. Because there were vampires here, monsters whom he could see were damned beyond measure. And he didn’t want to be like them.

Stoner, the tall woman, who called herself Kat, and the other guy who’d been stalking Marty in his street had rushed him away from the police station massacre in excitement and fear. He could tell that they were all jacked up on something—pupils dilated, sweat glistening their skin, heads jerking like nervous birds. Stoner carried him under one arm as easily as a bale of hay, and Marty knew without trying that struggling would do him no good.

Besides, there were the guns.

There had been bodies everywhere, bullet holes, blood, people crying, some screaming, and Kat had stopped a couple of times to finish off people who were writhing on the floor. Stoner had giggled as she knelt on their torsos, held their heads back, and hacked at their throats with a vicious-looking knife she took from a sheath in her boot. The gushes of blood had seemed to excite them all.

In the police station’s lobby area, several confused-looking people stood looking at shattered glass and the body splayed in the chair behind the reception desk. Excuse me, one had asked as Kat and the other man shoved through the swinging door, and she’d shot him in the face.

Outside, three mounted police were waiting for them. But Kalashnikovs and horse meat do not mix.

“Didn’t we do well?” Kat asked now, subservient and pathetically pleading, and the vampire standing before Marty sighed in frustration. Without being told, Marty knew that this was Duval. He exuded power, as obvious and rich as the stink of death on him, and the three other vampires stood quietly behind him. They deferred to him when he spoke, terrifying in their own right but nowhere near as brutal looking as Duval.

“Get them the fuck out of here,” he growled. Though he spoke English, it was plainly not his own language. Marty could not imagine any coherent language suiting a mouth like that. Stoner, Kat, and the other junkie were ushered from the room, Kat mewling in exasperation.

“You promised!” she whined, and Marty had no wish to know exactly what she’d been promised.

“Yeah, yeah,” Duval growled. He never took his eyes from Marty. The door closed behind the three vampires and their human slaves, and they were alone in the stinking room.

Marty had no idea where they were. He’d been taken underground into tunnels and shafts, carried by Kat and the others through darkness lit only by weak lights, and then deposited alone in this room that smelled of dampness and shit and something older, and more like death. The vampires had come soon after.

“And now we’re alone,” Duval said, and Marty felt his bladder let go a little. This vampire was totally inhuman, nothing like Rose or Francesco. They could at least pass for being normal people, and had been doing so for a long time. But before him now was something from out of nightmares. His eyes were dark, the pupils so dilated that there was no color around them at all, just black, and white. His head was bald but for a narrow Mohawk of black hair, grown long and pulled back across his scalp, secured somehow at the base of his neck. The scalp was pocked with open wounds, though none of them bled. His mouth… that was the main reason this monster could never pretend. His numerous teeth were sharp and pointed, designed for tearing and ripping instead of chewing and grinding. Whoever this man had once been, vampirism had removed all traces of him ever having been omnivorous. Now he was made to consume meat. And blood.

“Fuck you,” Marty managed.

“You’ve pissed yourself,” Duval said. He was standing several feet away from where Marty stood pressed against a damp wall, yet it still felt as if his personal space were being invaded. The monster’s presence was huge.

“Just trying to cover up your stink.”

Duval hissed. He opened his mouth and stretched his head forward, swollen tongue seeming to lick at the air, clawed hands by his sides. The hiss went on for some time, and it sounded like it came from deep within him. His nails were long and curved, dull in the pale artificial light. One bare bulb hung above them, and Marty was terrified the vampire would turn it off. I’m okay if I can see him, he thought. However terrible he looks, I’m okay. But if I’m alone here with him in the dark…

“You think you’re brave?” the vampire asked, pointing one long finger. “Think your taunting and joking can come between me and what I want to know? I’ve fed on pricks like you every week of my life, sometimes every day. And I keep count. Does that surprise you?”

Marty didn’t know how to answer, so he feigned disinterest.

“That a monster like me bothers to keep count? I’m sure it does, a little. But it’s always good to know how many cattle I’ve fed from. How many weak human freaks I’ve destroyed to keep this one undead body going, and growing.” He ran his hands down his front and looked down at himself admiringly. His clothes were old, scruffy and stained. If there was perverted pride here, it had nothing to do with aesthetics.

“If we’re so weak, that makes you weak for feeding on us.”

“The blood is strong, Marty,” Duval said. “And ten minutes from now, if you haven’t told me what I need to know, you will be number…” He touched his chin and looked at the ceiling, an awful human pose of contemplation that looked so out of place. “Nine thousand eight hundred and forty-seven.”

Marty blinked, but held back his gasp of shock. He’d like to think this stinking fuck was lying… but he thought not.

“I don’t know anything,” he said. “I’m just a weak human. I’m just cattle.”

“I’ll say only once that I don’t believe you. Next time you deny knowing anything, I’ll hurt you. I’m not sure how much physical pain you can take.” He tilted his head to one side and licked his lips, tongue catching and tearing on some of his teeth. “I’d say you’ve never had… a fingernail pulled out, for instance.”

Before Marty knew what was happening, Duval had crossed the space between them and held Marty’s right hand, fingers splayed. He had time for one pleading “No!” before Duvall clasped the fingernail on his index finger and pulled.

Marty screamed, hating himself for doing so but unable to hold back. The pain was instant and exquisite, the shock shattering. Blood pulsed down his throbbing finger, and Duval’s tongue snaked out and lapped at it. He flicked the ripped-out fingernail away.

“Hmm,” Duval said, releasing his hand and taking a few steps back. “Forgot how hungry I was.”

“I… I thought you said…”

“Never trust a vampire, Marty. Hasn’t your sister told you that?”

“My sister isn’t—”

“Let’s cut through the fucking bullshit here,” Duval growled. He came forward again, and he seemed to have had changed even more. His eyes were darker, if that were possible, and his teeth seemed longer, more vicious. “I don’t like talking to cattle. You all smell of blood to me, and your petty attempts at valor just make me cringe. So tell me what I need to know and… I’ll let you go.”

“Never trust a vampire,” Marty said, and Duval did not even honor him with a response. The vampire just stood before him, seeming to sway in the poor light, though that could have been Marty’s vision pulsing with the pain in his hand. He hissed softly, and Marty thought, Does he breathe, does he have a heart, does it pump? Everything he thought he’d known about vampires had been from the world of fiction; everything he knew for sure had been gleaned from the last couple of days. And it was minimal.

“Your sister,” Duval said. “The Bane. Everything. Now.”

Marty searched deep. The pain helped, strangely, distracting him from the true terror of the thing standing before him now; a thing that should not be. And he reached deep for the courage that he knew he possessed, the knowledge of the right thing to do, and the wisdom to hold back what he knew he should never tell. The courage was an ambiguous thing, and when he found it he didn’t analyze it too closely, for fear that it was a lie.

“You killed my parents,” Marty said. “And my sister’s a fucking vampire. You think I give a shit what you do to me?”

But with that card played, Duval grinned around his terrible mouth full of teeth, and in that grin was damnation way beyond death. He reached up and smashed the lightbulb with a casual wave of his hand.

Into the sudden darkness, the vampire said, “Yes.”

Rose’s instinct was to go after Marty. But she had come to accept that there was much more at stake here.

As Lee drove them quickly toward the British Museum, she sat beside Francesco in the back of the car and checked the internet news channels for any information from Lewisham Police Station. The news was sketchy: the death toll was still unconfirmed, which meant it was high, and the media was calling it a terrorist attack. Perhaps, if Lee could take time and access his contacts, he might be able to find out more of what had happened, and who was dead, and who had survived. Rose wished she could say she had some psychic link with Marty, but she had no sense of whether he was alive, dead, or undead. All she could assume was that the vampires had taken him away for their own purposes, and that the murders at the police station were collateral damage.

In which case, she’d discover the truth of what had happened to him at the museum.

Connie, Patrick, and Jane were converging on the museum from other directions, apprised of the situation and just as determined as ever to preserve their way of life. Or undeath. Once there, they all hoped that they could make their way inside before the vampires, and then the search for the Bane would begin. The prospect of how long that search would take had not been mentioned at all, and if Rose really thought about it, the whole thing was daunting. But Lee had said something vague about checking the museum’s offline databases, and Francesco had nodded, and that had seemed to be that.

She was so unsure of so many things.

“They’re calling it a terrorist attack,” she said.

“What else can they call it?” Francesco replied. “It was in daylight, vampire slaves carried it out. They’ll never find the real reason.”

“But they’ll figure out that Marty was snatched.”

“Yes.”

“So he’ll be on their most-wanted list. Especially after what happened to his… our parents.”

“Of course.”

Rose caught Lee’s glance in the rearview mirror. Was that pity? She wasn’t sure, and she didn’t even trust her ability to be able to tell anymore. She hadn’t been human for five years.

“After all this is over—” she began, and then her cell phone rang. She flipped it open, thinking, Marty! But the caller ID registered UNKNOWN, and she knew instantly who it would be.

“Hello?”

“Rose Volk.”

“That’s me.”

“This is Stella Olemaun.” The voice seemed to come from a great distance, as if the caller were talking into a phone held far away from her mouth. And there was something else to that voice…

“Ms. Olemaun, thank you for—”

“No Ms., no Mrs. You know as well as I that vampires don’t use such titles.” Rose tensed in shock, and Francesco touched her arm to grab her attention. Then she let out a soft laugh.

“You’re a vampire.”

“For some time, yeah. One like you claim to be. I like your name: Humain. I’m not aware of any others like us who’ve tried to name themselves.”

“It wasn’t me, it was…”

Who’s a vampire? Lee was mouthing into his rearview mirror. He could’t have heard Rose’s initial greeting. Oh, Lee, you’ve been strung along for so long, she thought, and the idea of telling him actually made her sad.

“It doesn’t matter,” Olemaun said, voice crackling in her ear. “Your problem sounds like it does, however. D’you know the identity of the vampires in London?”

“I was hoping you might know. They came here two days ago, went after my brother. Human brother. Killed our parents instead.” Rose expected some expression of surprise from Stella Olemaun that she was still aware of what had happened to her human family, but there was none. I wish she and I could talk about other things, she thought, but there was no time. And Olemaun seemed to understand that.

“You mentioned the Bane.”

“It’s what they’ve come for. You know of it?”

There was a pause, the uncomfortable hiss of static, and Rose thought the connection had been broken. In that silence, she heard the same distance that seemed to inform Olemaun’s voice, an infinity of emptiness. She wondered what the woman had been through and seen, and, as if prompted by the thought, Stella started to tell her.

“You sound sheltered. I’m sure you and your Humains are aware of the outside, but do you interact? I don’t think so. There’s so much more to the vampire existence, Rose Volk. I’ve seen a lot of it. There are some like me, vampires who believe that staying in the shadows is the way to survive. Some, like you Humains, take that a step further… a step further away from vampirism, some would say. Existing alongside humans, not feeding from them.”

And how do you feed? Rose almost asked. But she didn’t want to interrupt, and she thought to ask that would be… impolite.

“There are also those who crave dominance. There’ve been conflicts. Ongoing, brutal. Attempts to thrust vampires to the fore, and conflicting efforts to hunt and destroy us once and for all.”

“And you’re in the middle?”

“I’ve been involved. Through it all, I’ve maintained my stance. And I have to tell you, Rose, that from what I’ve heard of the Bane, and if it’s actually for real, you have to find it before those vampires. You have to. The balance is being challenged all the time, and that thing could tip it either way.”

“Give them power to rule,” she said.

“Or destroy everything altogether.”

“Destroy?” Rose frowned, confused. The Bane was allegedly an artifact from the first vampire, that’s what they knew. Something that would bestow great power on its vampire bearer. What that power was seemed vague, as did how it would work, but…

“It’s an old, old thing,” Stella said. Her voice was low and quiet, as if tired by everything she had seen. “Stories get confused. It’s either the greatest power for vampires—or the deadliest weapon against them. Its maker was the first vampire, or the first vampire killer. I’ve heard both versions. Who knows anymore.”

“I haven’t heard anything,” Rose said.

“Well, be careful, girl. Either way, in the wrong hands, the thing might be the end of us all.”

“Might be?”

Olemaun laughed, but it sounded like someone crying. “Who’s to say there’s anything to the stories?”

“So this might all be for nothing?”

“Maybe,” Olemaun said. “But it can’t be worth the risk even considering that.”

“What have you done?” Rose blurted, surprising herself with her frankness. “What have you seen? Where have you been?” She was aware of Francesco watching her curiously, and Lee kept glancing at her in the rearview mirror. She’d have plenty to tell them both, if she chose to do so. Right then, she wasn’t sure of anything.

“Enough for a dozen lifetimes,” the woman said. “Now it seems it’s your turn.”

“Is that… ?” Lee asked at last, and as Rose nodded, the connection broke. Lee was reaching around in his seat, eyes still on the road but arm stretched back for the phone. But Rose shook her head.

“She’s gone. And I’m not sure you’d be her friend anymore.” She almost felt sorry for him, but when he asked what she meant, she couldn’t find it in herself to tell him. “Nothing. She’s gone Lee. Connection broke.”

“So, what did she say?” Francesco asked.

Rose glanced at him, and she saw his understanding instantly. His lips pressed together and the corners of his mouth twitched a little. So he could see the humor in this as well. All of Lee’s friends are vampires. She was glad. Humor was something they found so little of now. Sometimes she thought vampires were equivalent to the basest form of animal with the finest brains, possessed of a desperate need to endure that shoved aside the possibility of anything else.

“She said we can’t let the bastards get the Bane.”

“That might be overstating the obvious.” Francesco frowned and looked ahead, over the empty passenger seat and along the road they were following toward the museum. The London streets were busiest at this time of night, a crush of people still traveling home from work, meeting those coming out for the evening. Cars jerked forward thirty meters, then stopped again, motorcycles weaved between vehicles, cyclists risked broken bones darting across junctions and wheeling along pavements. Everyone was in a rush to be somewhere else, and for once so were they.

“What?” she asked quietly.

“We’re at a disadvantage to begin with,” Francesco said. “These things know what they’ve come for, and they’ve already assessed our strengths.”

“And we kicked their butts.”

“You think?” he asked.

Lee pulled one of his cannons, flicked off the safety, and nestled it between his thighs. “Every one of my bullets has a vampire’s name on it, or, if not, my own. And I plan on seeing the sunrise.”

I hope you do, Rose thought, remembering the sun, the warmth on her skin, and the promise of what the new day might bring. Now the night only promised more darkness.

She shook her head, because it all suddenly seemed so hopeless.

“They’ll beat us there,” she said. “We’ll get there just in time to—”

“But they don’t know exactly where it is,” Lee said softly. A car horn blared; he glanced sideways at a man gesticulating wildly in the car beside them. Slowly, he gave the guy the finger.

“And you do,” Francesco said.

“I have a fair idea.”

“Where?”

Lee drove on silently, and no one said anything else. Tension in the car grew. The air thickened with potential. And Rose suddenly realized how hungry she was.

13

THEY EMERGED INTO A basement piled with barrels, shoving the wooden door aside and entering silently, quickly. The place smelled of stale spilled beer, and Marty’s stomach rolled. If I puke now, they’ll probably kill me, he thought. He had no idea why they’d brought him along and didn’t care. Five minutes alone in that darkened room with Duval and he’d been screaming, telling everything the vampire wanted to know and more, pissing himself again, wishing only for light or the true darkness of oblivion to take him away.

“I hear nothing,” Kat said. She and the other humans had carried lights, and for that he was glad. At least with them close by there were splashes of light. The brief journey through tunnels and sewers had been nightmarish, with him catching only brief glimpses of Duval and three more vampires. But anything was better than total darkness.

Stoner and the other human stood beside Kat, pressed against the closed door exiting the basement. The other vampires stood back amongst the barrels.

“Lights out,” Duval said, and they were plunged into darkness once again.

The sharp things touching his face, coldness on his throat, clothes plucked, skin pricked, each sensation a promise of more pain, and the promises were worse than the pain itself…

Marty whined, and the short woman vampire holding him squeezed his arm until he stopped.

Kat opened the door and artificial light crept in. She and the other humans left the basement, and Duval followed, moving with an unlikely grace for a creature of his size.

“Come on,” the woman vampire said. Marty thought her name was Bindy, but he no longer knew why that would matter. He was finished. He felt destroyed, hollowed out by Duval and left as a useless, wanting husk. It wasn’t that he had revealed what he knew about the British Museum and the Humains’ knowledge of the Bane: that had been inevitable, and there was no way he could be blamed. It was that the future felt so barren. Duval had brought home to Marty just how little his life meant now, and death was no longer as terrifying to him as it had once been. There were worse things than death.

They walked out from the basement and climbed a spiral of old stone steps, emerging into a small, old-fashioned bar. This was one of London’s genuine old boozers, untouched by the allure of chrome and glass furniture, cocktail hour, walls wood-paneled and hung with mirrors bearing the names of long-dead brewers and breweries. The furniture consisted of bare chairs and uneven tables, and the bar was lined with six beer pumps and decorated with a score of locals’ mugs hanging from hooks above.

An old woman stood behind the bar, a rag in one hand, mouth open in shock.

“We’re not open til…” she said, as if not realizing that these potential customers had risen from her basement.

Stoner and Kat approached the bar, drawing their guns and looking back at Duval like hungry puppies awaiting their master’s voice.

“No,” Duval said. “Not yours.” He approached the bar and reached across, clasping the woman in one hand and pulling her over as if she weighed nothing. She let out one squeal before his hand clasped across her face, nails scoring vicious lines down her left cheek. He looked up then, glancing around at the other vampires, and the grip on Marty’s arm relaxed.

Bindy and the others went to feed.

Oh, no, Marty thought. He backed as far away as he could, pressing himself into a corner and watching the woman’s terrified eyes. When she looked at him, he glanced away, and saw Stoner, Kat, and the other human watching with a sick, gleeful desire.

Duval tilted the woman’s head to one side and bit out her throat. Her scream came as a hiss of escaping air, her feet drummed on the wooden floor, and he buried his face in the geyser of blood. Pulling back—face bloodied, eyes black, teeth smeared, tongue swollen and red—he offered the woman to each of the other vampires. They took turns, Bindy first, then the other two, chomping deeper when the spray of blood began to lessen.

Marty wanted to close his eyes but he couldn’t. All he could think of was his family: his mother and father having the same done to them; and Rose, his vampire sister… had she ever drunk true blood? He tried to see her in Duval’s place but could not. But then Bindy looked more human, her body and features not so misshapen as her master’s.

“No,” he whispered. “Not Rose. Not ever.”

“Me,” Kat said, creeping forward. “Me. I want some.” Stoner stood behind her, shifting from foot to foot, but the other man had backed away. He was pressed against the locked frosted-glass front doors. Marty thought he looked terrified, or maybe he was just coming down from his high.

Duval dropped the woman—one of the other male vampires caught her, chomping into the motionless corpse—and stood up straight. He hissed as he approached Kat, apparently unable to talk as the blood rush invigorated his limbs and fangs. And Marty realized how similar Duval and Kat were: both junkies, depending on something external for their survival.

Kat looked excited and terrified in equal measures, shaking where she stood and yet not backing away. Duval swept her aside. She fell onto a table and it smashed, chairs spilling over backwards.

“No!” she shouted, but Duval was already on the human cowering by the doors, tearing into him with clawed hands, ripping at him with those swollen teeth.

It was then that Marty closed his eyes, and he kept them closed until the chaos had subsided. He still heard, though. For those two long minutes, what his eyes didn’t see was more than compensated for by the things he heard, and smelled.

He kept his eyes closed when one of them grabbed him again, clasping his wrist so hard that he thought the bones would crumble. He walked behind them through the mess of the pub, kicking something soft and wet as they exited into the cool night. And only then did he open his eyes.

The streets were busier than he’d expected, and for a moment he thought, Someone will see! The four vampires were glistening with blood, their faces smeared with it even though they’d halfheartedly wiped at themselves with bar towels. Even Kat and Stoner were splashed with their friend’s blood. But it was past dusk, and bustling, and no one saw. The small group walked along the pavement, and even if someone did notice something amiss, this was London. Problems generally belonged to someone else.

They soon reached the British Museum. After Marty had told them everything he knew, they must have traveled belowground until they were close by, guided perhaps by their human servants’ knowledge of this area and their experience of London’s underside. There they’d waited for dusk. We’ll be there long before Rose and the others, he thought, and he wondered what the cost of his betrayal would be. Shouting what he knew down in that pitch-black room, he’d not been able to perceive any other way. But now he knew that was wrong. There had been another way but, thrust into a pain-filled panic that forbore logical thought, he’d been unable to even consider accepting death. Instinct had driven him. Like that woman in the pub, he thought, or that man. If he’d refused to speak and died like that, perhaps he could have changed things.

But there was that one small lie he’d managed, yet to be revealed. And it was too late for self-recriminations. He’d had time to think, and as they approached the British Museum and whatever the Bane might be, he knew that given even the slightest chance he would upset the vampires’ plans. Duval had made him a nothing, after all. And what did a nothing have to lose?

Stoner and Kat appeared more subdued. Marty wanted to laugh at them, tell them that they were only being brought along as cattle, but he wasn’t so sure. The vampires had fed now. Murderers, drug addicts, craving something that the vampires might have promised or perhaps only hinted at; maybe Duval and the others had a use for the two humans yet.

Marty could only hope that was true. Because if it wasn’t, then perhaps the same applied to him, and he was being brought along for one thing only.

Fresh meat.

* * *

Close to the museum, he saw a girl. She was a teenager, but dressed in clothes that were strangely bland and pedestrian. The trousers were too long and ill fitting, the T-shirt gray, the jacket grubby and old. He knew few teenagers who didn’t take at least a little pride in their appearance, but this girl was a mess. And she stared.

Marty looked away, then back again. The girl was standing beside a concrete pedestal bearing a statue, her hands crossed in front of her, her long hair tied with elastic bands and slung carelessly over one shoulder. She was only twenty steps away, but her features seemed vague, as if obscured by a haze of smoke. She was in the shadow of the statue, away from the glare of artificial lights.

She smiled at Marty, but it was a grim smile.

“Rave,” Duval said, and one of the vampires ran.

Rave! Do they think up their own fucking names? Marty thought, then he saw the girl slip around the side of the pedestal and disappear. Humain! Rave the vampire went after her, and fingers bit into his arm as Bindy dragged him on.

Duval glanced back at Marty and raised a corner of his mouth in a smile. Blood was drying on his upper lip. Someone, please see us! Marty thought, but then the consequences of that hit home. If someone stopped and questioned them, the vampires would kill them. If a group of people—security guards, police—tried to stop them, maybe Stoner and Kat would open up with the weapons and cut them all down. Attracting attention would not concern them too much. It was what they had come to London for, after all.

Once they had the Bane, they would attract all the attention they could.

“What’s the matter? You scumbags still hungry?” Marty asked.

“You know that was no teenager,” Bindy said, and Marty realized it was the first time he’d heard her speak. Her voice was deeply accented, maybe eastern European, like some of the bar staff in the pubs he visited.

“Never seen her before,” he said, and it was true. But he’d heard her name, and he wondered what Connie was doing exposing herself like that.

The museum staff were going about closing up for the night when they entered. A tall man in a blue uniform approached, then stopped at a distance, unsettled, even though his expression showed he wasn’t sure why.

“Sorry, we’re closed,” he said. “Open again in the morning at ten. Hope we’ll see you back then.” He held one arm up, pointing back to the doors and advancing on them with small, hesitant steps.

“Of course,” Duval said, turning his back on the man and descending the steps again, out into the night. The others followed, and Marty looked around confused. Then he noticed that the other vampire was missing. He’d walked in with them, he was sure, but now the man was gone.

I could call out to the guard and tell him, he thought. But he didn’t want to sign the man’s death warrant. Marty was gripped with uselessness more tightly than Bindy holding his arm, and even if he were freed to walk away on his own, he had no idea what he could do.

They walked around the huge building as if admiring its architecture, and ten minutes later Stoner and Kat cut through a heavy fence, letting them into a large yard area. There were two wide doors and a raised loading bay, and Marty guessed this was where most of the museum’s contents came and went. All manner of incredible ancient artifacts would have passed this way, and he sniffed the air and looked around to see what trace had been left. But there was none. It was just a grubby backyard bathed in darkness, the security lights no longer working. He wondered if the vampire in the building was responsible for that, or whether they were simply broken down.

Footsteps approached, and the vampires tensed. They seemed to meld with the night, and for a moment Marty had to blink as if his eyes were blurred. But then he saw how perfectly still they had become, motionless as the shadows of statues. Stoner and Kat had knelt down, but they seemed to be jumping around in comparison.

The vampire Rave rounded a corner, slowing as he approached. “She got away,” he said.

“How?” Duval asked, his movement shifting him from the shadows.

“She knows the area better than me. She had somewhere ready to go.”

Duval seemed angry, but he said nothing to the vampire. For an instant he fumed, but then, as he turned to Marty, he bared his teeth in a grotesque smile. “That’s fine, really,” he said. “It’s good that they know we’re here. It’ll scare them. Make them easier to smell.”

“I thought vampires didn’t feed on each other,” Marty asked.

“Who said anything about feeding?” Duval replied. “We’ll destroy them. Weak shadows of what they could be. Echoes of what we will be.” Moments later, a motor started somewhere, and one of the large rolling shutter doors rolled up to reveal darkness within. The vampire slipped out like a slick of oil.

Duval nodded at the two humans. “You go first. Draw your guns. But don’t use them yet.”

“What—” Kat began, but Duval cut in.

“Don’t… use them… yet.”

Kat and Stoner nodded like berated children, then climbed onto the loading bay and rolled beneath the half-open doors.

The vampires followed. Inside, Bindy let go of Marty’s arm at last, and he rubbed at the flesh. It felt like her fingers were still there.

“You follow me now,” Duval said to Marty. “One move to escape and…” He bared his teeth. Held up one clawed hand. And as the rolling shutter closed again, the blood on his face was black in the fading light.

With the gun held between his thighs, and the homemade bullets it held, Lee should have been safe. But he had never felt in such danger his whole life, not even ten years before, when he and Phil had faced the vampire in Yugoslavia. Back then he’d been certain that his time had come, but he had fought because he had no real concept of what he was fighting. Phil’s sacrifice had given him time to flee and hide, and had also given him ten years in which to reflect upon what might have been cowardice. At least he couldn’t think that now.

He parked close to the museum and holstered the gun. They left the car together, Francesco and Rose walking on either side of him. He did not feel escorted, and that was good. They could never trust one another—they all knew that—but their aims here really were the same.

And he’d revealed his secret, told them he knew exactly where the Bane was hidden away. They had to protect him now, because if one of the vampires killed him—or, worse, turned him to their cause—the Humains would be lost.

“It’s huge,” Rose said. The museum stood before them, an architectural wonder in itself. Stone columns and a pitched roof gave it something of an ancient Greek look, the steps wide and slightly worn by time, and banners hung down to advertise current special displays. Alive, Rose had not been a particular fan of architecture, but, undead, she could at least appreciate its calm permanence. Its exterior was lit by floodlights, and people still bustled around its base. The front doors were closed, however, and the only people she could make out behind the huge closed main doors wore uniforms.

“How many security guards?” Francesco asked.

“No idea,” Lee said. “A few, at least.”

Rose sighed, and he knew what that meant. Any fighting between the vampires and Humains would attract the guards, and they would become innocent victims. I’m responsible, he thought, and the weight was heavy.

So were the guns. He liked the weight of them, resting in the holsters beneath his arms and the one in the small of his back. They felt significant.

“Tell us where it is,” Francesco asked again.

“No,” Lee said. “I’ll find it first.”

“Lee—” Rose began.

“You going to torture it from me?” Lee asked, too loud. Heads turned their way, people wandering across the square before the museum on their way home from work. They quickly turned away again, but he knew that too much shouting would bring the wrong attention.

“Lee, I know,” Rose said softly.

She knows what? Lee felt panicked, even though he wasn’t sure what she was talking about.

“What?” Francesco asked.

“Olemaun’s heard of the Bane,” she said. “But conflicting stories. It’s not only a source of power for a vampire wielding it, it could be a weapon as well.”

“Which is why the vampires want it,” Francesco said.

“No,” Lee said. He sighed and half smiled at Rose. She did not return the expression, and he hated that she made him feel like a traitor. She was a fucking vampire, and she was making him out to be…

“A weapon for humans against vampires,” Rose said. “An ultimate weapon.”

“That sounds…” Francesco said, trailing off.

“Fanciful?” Rose asked.

“It’s what I know,” Lee said. “What I’ve read and heard. You need to understand something, Francesco. And I can tell you this here, because we’re surrounded by people and I know you’ll not harm me. Not just yet. You terrify me.” He stepped closer to the tall man, edging into his own fear, pressing against it, challenging. “You all terrify me, and always have. You might laugh at my garlic and crosses, but when it comes down to it, I know more about vampires than you. You’ve been one for a long time, but you’ve been a Humain for a long time too. Shut off from the world, and all the things going on. You visit me, pretending to be human, and we talk about the vampires and what they’ve been doing beyond your bubble in London. But I never told you everything. Because… I never trusted you. Not completely.”

“But you never believed I was a vampire,” Francesco said, and it was almost a question.

“No,” Lee said. “You fooled me on that one.”

“Stella Olemaun hinted at a lot of activity lately,” Rose said. “I tried to draw her on it, but she seemed more concerned with what’s going on here.”

“So, what do you propose?” Francesco asked. He’s almost treating me as an equal, Lee thought. The idea made him feel nauseous. He was way above the rat-feasting world of these Humains. But he had to swallow his revulsion. Even Rose, who he had used to harbor desires for and sometimes fantasized about… even she was nothing but a monster.

“I propose we work together to make sure these bastards don’t get the Bane,” he said. “And whatever comes next… that’ll be open for discussion.”

Francesco seemed about to say something, but Lee turned away and walked toward the museum. It took every ounce of courage he could muster not to turn back, and by the time he reached the bottom step, he was feeling pleased with himself.

“Wait,” Rose said softly. Lee paused, looking up at the façade and wondering how the hell they were going to get in. The two Humains joined him, silent, and they all turned at the sound of running.

Connie scampered across the steps, skipping like a little girl. She glanced briefly at Lee as she arrived, and he shrank beneath her derision.

“They’re here,” the girl said. “They’ve gone inside, back through a loading bay.” She looked at Rose. “Your brother’s with them.”

Lee saw Rose shift slightly, but she said nothing. She’s relieved, he thought. That’s almost human.

“So we need to find a way in,” Lee said. “They could search for weeks and never find it, but…”

“But they might know as well,” Francesco said.

“If the woman told Marty, yes,” Rose said.

“Patrick and Jane?”

“I haven’t seen them yet,” the girl said. Rose produced her phone and started dialing, and for a moment Lee thought she was calling Stella for help. I’m not sure you’d be her friend anymore, Rose had said of the American, and Lee had known from the beginning what this meant. Right then he didn’t really mind. Only later would he allow himself to question his own perception, and ask how the fuck he had been fooled by not only these vampires but one far distant as well. In a way, it was no surprise that someone so obviously immersed in the vampire world had been found and turned by them.

I survived, he thought. For now. He crossed his arms and held the pistol handles. They were Raging Bull 454s, imported via a contact in the States. Big guns, whose .454 cartridges were used to hunt big game. Lee’s modifications had made the ammunition even more effective at stopping something dead, or undead. And against all logic, in a world where there were vampires, they made him feel safe.

“Lee, you go with Connie,” Francesco said. “Rose, tell Patrick to meet them by the loading bay.” Rose nodded, muttering into her phone.

Francesco caught Lee’s eye and smiled, and for the first time Lee saw how the night suited this man. Shadows seemed drawn to him. Standing there motionless, he was almost invisible.

“What about you?” Lee asked.

“Distractions,” Francesco said. “Rose, Jane, and myself will enter the building wherever we can. We’ll make a noise, try and draw the vampires. Take them on. It’s up to you to lead Patrick and Connie to the Bane and bring it out together.”

Lee patted one of his guns. “Don’t you think with these I’d be better fighting them?”

“No,” Francesco said, as if talking to a small child, “I don’t. But keep them to hand.”

“They have two humans,” Connie said. “Armed. Probably the ones who did the police station.”

“There,” Francesco said. “You might have the chance to use your cannons after all.”

Lee wanted to object, but he saw the logic. Perhaps if he told them all what he knew of the Bane’s location… ? But that was a card he was keeping close to his chest. Lee wanted the Bane for himself. To destroy the vampires. The decoys were a way for him to get there, the guns were insurance. Really, facing a vampire before he possessed the Bane was the last thing he wanted to do.

He nodded, and before they parted, Rose came over to him. “Be careful,” she said. And if he didn’t know these bloodsucking fucking freaks better, he’d have thought there was a hint of affection in her voice.

Inside the loading bay, Marty discovered that it was not completely dark. Light filtered in beneath the rolling shutters where they did not sit flush with the floor, and somewhere at the back of the large bay, night-lights burned, maybe for security or just so that the guards could check the place without having to turn on the main lights. They gave only a gentle glow, but it was enough by which to make out the bulks of boxes stacked and piled around, and the vastness of the bay.

Marty cleared his throat softly, trying to judge the echo. Bindy grabbed his arm again, squeezing tight. Don’t! He hadn’t even realized she was beside him.

The pause gave him time to wonder what the hell he was going to do. He desperately held on to the one small deception he had managed in the face of pain and terror: reversing the room number Ashleigh Richards had told him. While Duval had pricked him with long fingernails, his mouth open so wide that Marty smelled the stinking depths of him, reducing the boy to a shell of the human being he was, Marty had spewed what the archaeologist had told him.

British Museum.

That’s a pretty big place. Where in the museum?

Basements.

Where in the basements?

Storage rooms… sorted and stored artifacts, research only…

Why?

Hardly anyone goes there, she said!

Where? What room? What number?

And then the vampire had grabbed Marty’s genitals, his creased and ancient hand curling its long fingernails inward and twisting hard, and Marty’s terror was usurped for a moment by disgust. Duval gave back control to the human boy without even knowing.

Room twenty-seven.

And when we get there, he thought now, and we don’t find the Bane? But though that was close in the future, it was far enough away for Marty not to agonize over yet. He planned on being away from the bloodsuckers by then.

In the distance, a scream.

Moments later, a vampire appeared, blood smeared across his face, eyes wide and tongue lolling swollen over red teeth. “Guards are dead.”

“Come on,” Duval said. “We’re close. We’re close!” Around Marty, the vampires hissed in delight.

“Be careful,” Francesco said to Rose and Jane. Jane had appeared after the others left, carrying small UV lights with her. One each for the three of them. “You’ve been lucky before, fighting these things, but they’re close to their goal now. They’ll be more ferocious than ever, and with the guards inside, it’s likely that they’ll feed. So… just be careful.”

“It’s almost like you care about us,” Jane drawled.

“I just respect history,” he said. “Don’t want anything in there damaged.” And he smiled.

At night, the museum was better illuminated than during daytime, the floodlights chasing away any shadows cast by the bulk of the building itself. There were still people in the area, lovers strolling and late-returning office workers walking quickly toward home.

“My brother,” Rose said as the other two went to leave. “He’s important to me.” Jane sighed impatiently, but Francesco nodded.

“We’ll do our best,” he said.

“He knows about us,” Jane said. “Whatever happens here, that makes him dangerous.”

“And Stella Olemaun?” Rose asked. “She wrote and published a book about vampires, and most people still thought she was a nutcase. You think Marty’s going to cause problems?”

“Look what happened to her,” Francesco muttered.

“What did?” Jane asked.

“She’s a vampire.” Rose remembered her own ironic smile when she’d heard that from the woman’s lips, but Jane folded into outright laughter.

“That’s perfect!” she said, quickly recovering. Vampires never laughed for long. “That’s just perfect.”

“My brother,” Rose said. “That’s all I ask. Look out for Marty.”

Jane nodded, an odd sideways movement of her head that displayed her bemusement. The next time they all met, everything would be different.

Rose headed along the front of the building to the far corner. They needed to enter as far apart as they could, and she sought shadows. She found somewhere that looked likely—an inset in the outer wall where vent grilles marked the location of a plant room, and a steel door almost faded into the gray wall—and waited for the chance to break in without being noticed.

There’ll be alarms, she thought, maybe loud, maybe silent, and connected to the police. They’d all been aware of that, but it had barely merited a mention. The arrival of the police was something they’d have to face and deal with if and when it happened.

A family walked by, two parents each holding a little kid by the hand, tired after a full day’s sightseeing. Each child carried a memento of their day—a cuddly toy, a book about dinosaurs—while the parents bore only weary, satisfied smiles. When they reached their hotel, they’d eat in the restaurant, then pack the kids off to bed in their family room. After that, maybe the adults would share a bottle of wine and watch the news on TV, then sneak into the large bathroom to make love out of their kids’ sight, the door slightly open in case one of the little ones woke up. They’d bite back their sighs and giggle when it was over, all things that Rose would never do.

Her vampirism rarely allowed for her to mourn what she had lost, because it rarely seemed significant. Maybe Marty being in danger had tweaked something that should have been long buried. They’d visited the museum once with their parents, several years before she’d been turned. She remembered Marty being bored and belligerent, and their father getting stressed about the whole visit. She couldn’t recall anything about her mother from that day. Mostly, she had forgotten her face entirely.

As the family moved away, she flowed through the darkness scant feet behind them, reaching the door without a sound and prising her fingers beneath the frame’s edge. Then she pulled, exerting all her power, bolts snapping one by one as the frame slowly moved out from the wall. The noises were subdued thunk s lost amid London’s constant background noise. It was less than a minute until the heavy metal door and frame were levered out enough for her to slip inside. The darkness welcomed her, and she welcomed it back.

The plant room was large and noisy, with boilers humming and air-conditioning exchange units thrumming as they pumped air into and out of the building. She made her way through it, avoiding a mess of spilled tools and two metal chairs that sat with a small camping table between them. There was nothing on the table, but she smelled alcohol and cigarette smoke. The maintenance engineers’ unofficial break.

She reached a door in the far wall and opened it slowly, looking both ways along the corridor beyond. There was no movement, no sounds, and she sensed nothing out there. Moving quietly for now—the time to make a noise would come soon—she worked her way across the first of the huge display halls. Greek sculptures, urns, and artwork surrounded her, and she was tempted to start making her commotion. A pang of guilt hit her: these were such old treasures. But it was only a pang.

With her hands inches away from one of the largest urns on display, ready to rock it from its pedestal, she paused. Moving on and starting something in the depths of the museum would be better; that way she could run in any direction, and lead the vampires anywhere. So she moved on through a room of Assyrian treasures, emerging into the massive Egyptian room. The sculptures, busts, and statues here held a regal dominance over the room. And some of them were also very large.

The history in this room was far older than even the Bane they sought. As Rose knocked over the first beautiful stone bust, for a moment that concept made their struggle seem pointless.

She put her shoulder to a much larger piece and growled as she pushed.

14

AT FIRST LEE THOUGHT Patrick was late, but then the Irishman emerged from the shadows as if he were one of them. Connie greeted him with a nod, and Lee noticed the small rucksack he was carrying.

“What’s that?” he asked as Patrick opened the bag, handed Connie a torch, took one for himself, and then hid the bag behind a large wheeled garbage bin.

“UV,” Connie said.

“You can use UV lights?” he asked, amazed.

“We close our eyes,” Patrick said. He was smiling at Lee, looking him up and down, and Lee realized this was the first time he’d seen Patrick since the Humains’ existence had been revealed. He seemed to be taking great pleasure in that.

“Got one for me?”

“Looks to me like you’re already tooled up.”

Lee drew one of the guns, weighing it against the lights the two Humains carried.

“These will hurt them,” Connie said. “But we can’t use them for more than a flash, so it’s just a brief hurt. What you’ve got will kill them. Head shot.” She smiled like a sweet teenaged girl, but her teeth detracted from the complete image. “We blind, you kill. We’ll make a good killing team.”

“Killing team,” Lee thought. And as they made for the large rolling shutter doors, it dawned on him that this was what he’d been working toward for ten years. Since watching Phil be killed by a monster he could barely understand or believe in, his life had been a pursuit of vengeance, both for his dead friend and for what the experience had done to him. His wife, his job… he’d lost everything, though the obsession sometimes seemed to make up for all of it. That was the true mark of his state of mind—that this could make amends for everything he once had. And now he was hunting them, and would perhaps kill them. There was that vampire out by Heathrow three years before, but that had felt like a minor victory. In a way, finding one hiding away like that had only been proof that there were many more.

“‘Killing team,’” Lee said. “I like the sound of that.”

Patrick and Connie wedged their fingers beneath a roller shutter and lifted. From the grinding of metal against metal, and the protesting grating noises from the door’s mechanism, Lee understood the strength required for what they were doing. Inside, they moved across the large loading space and Lee quickly lost sight of them. He took a penlight from his pocket and flicked it on, and Patrick glanced back at him.

“I can’t see in the dark,” Lee whispered.

He followed the two of them through into a long corridor, the weight of the big gun in his hand a solid comfort. He’d test fired his homemade ammunition in his soundproofed basement, seen what it could do, and he was keen to try it on a living, breathing… He chuckled softly at his train of thought. No living and breathing things in here. The vampires he hunted were as dead to him as the exhibits they slunk around.

And what of the Humains? he thought. But that was a distraction. They were a problem for afterward, and he was wise enough to know that they thought of him the same way.

“So?” Connie asked.

“Follow me,” Lee said. He hurried along the corridor at a crouch, aware that the subtle light could give them away but unable to move without it. He trusted his companions would let him know when danger was near.

They moved out into a hall, passing the remains of a massive stone horse and other tall larger-than-life statues. Lee ignored the history that sat quietly around him and approached an information point. He plucked a leaflet from the stand and ducked behind the desk, flattening it on the ground and holding the penlight between his teeth.

“What?” Connie asked angrily.

“You think I know the layout of this place?” he asked. He examined the floor plan, but it showed only the display areas, not those vast basements where millions of objects were stored. “Fuck it,” he muttered. He located a staircase on the layout, fixed it in his mind, and folded the map.

“Which way, human?” Patrick asked. Lee cringed, but he supposed that was humor.

“Down,” Lee said. “Into the basements. There’ll be rats, if you’re hungry.”

Something crashed to the floor. It rumbled and rolled, a noise that came in from some distance and grumbled on for several seconds. The whole building seemed to shake.

“That’s our cue,” Connie said. “Which way?” She nudged Lee hard in the back, and as he rushed toward the staircase he wished only that he could wash where she had touched him. He felt sullied.

Duval and the others froze seconds before Marty heard the impact sounds echoing through the huge halls. It was as if they had sensed the noise before it happened. Tube? he thought. Truck outside?

“They’re here,” Duval said, and Marty knew who he meant. Rose and the others were here as well, and now this would be a chase to the prize. If they know exactly where it is and I can keep the true room number to myself… But he knew that was unlikely. The tortures he had suffered at Duval’s hands before were nothing compared to what they’d do to him soon. His body ached in a hundred places, and his finger throbbed where the nail had been torn off, a white heat that seemed to set his hand on fire. He imagined that same heat applied everywhere across his body, inside and out. Perhaps he would die before telling them, but probably not. They seemed familiar with torture.

“You two, go and kill them.” Duval waved at Stoner and Kat, and the two humans grinned as they stalked away along darkened corridors.

“Duval—” Bindy said, but the tall vampire held up his hand. When the humans were beyond earshot he said, “It’ll provide a distraction. We don’t need much time. You come with me.” Then he nodded at the other two vampires. “You hide down here. Listen to what’s happening, and be ready when they come down. They’ve lost any opportunity to join us, so kill them all.”

“They use UV lights,” Bindy said, and that was the instant Marty realized she was the vampire escapee from his parents’ house. She killed Mum, he thought. The fury rose so quickly that the blood-rush made him dizzy, tingling all along his nerve endings, and he launched into her. Surprise gave him a couple of seconds before she reacted… He punched and kicked, flailing his arms, fists connecting with her eye and cheek and mouth, and it was like punching a tiger—all teeth. She recovered quickly and knocked him from her onto his back. Then she was on him, mouth wide and monstrous, hissing as her hands pressed down on his chest and twisted his head up and back to expose his throat.

“Bindy,” Duval said mildly, and she moved back from Marty with a cat’s grace. She squatted by his feet, mouth and lips and tongue still engorged. Her teeth had slashed her top lip, and a faint track of blood ran down both sides of her mouth. There wasn’t much.

“You want to stay alive, don’t do that again,” Duval said.

“Maybe I don’t,” Marty said, glaring at the monstrous Bindy.

“She squealed when I killed her,” Bindy said, the words strange coming from her alien mouth.

“Bindy. Please.” Duval grabbed Marty by the hair and lifted him, and it was all he could do not to squeal himself. The vampire propped him on his feet then shoved him forward. “Room twenty-seven. Find it.”

Almost time, Marty thought. I’ll be found out soon. He walked along the corridor, checking room numbers by the pale illumination from night-lights as he went. At the end was a set of double doors, and he marched through them without pause. Whatever was on the other side, let it be. He hoped Rose was there, and maybe Lee with some of his guns, but there was no one, just another dark corridor perpendicular to the one they were on.

The doors were numbered even and odd on either side, like house numbers on a long, straight street. They soon reached number twenty-seven, and Marty paused outside.

“The door’s—”

Duval shoved the door. Its frame cracked and the door burst inward, and he walked through with barely a pause. Bindy nudged Marty inside and turned the light on behind him.

The room was twice the size of the floor area of his burnt-down house. There were eight walkways, and on either side of each, storage shelving held boxes and bags, some numbered, others seemingly placed at random. The shelving reached the underside of the service ceiling, above which pipes and wires snaked in all directions. To the left of the door was a large table and several chairs, and on the table was a set of sorting shelves with three dozen pigeonholes. The table’s surface was smeared with dust and grit, and the remnants of a shredded piece of string.

“It’ll take forever,” Marty said.

“Not that long,” Duval whispered. And he turned on Marty.

That’s it, he thinks it’s here, he’ll kill me now and—

But Duval had other plans. “You can join us,” he said. “I’m about to become the most powerful vampire on the planet. We’ve lost some, and we need to replace.”

“Are you bullshitting me?”

“No,” Duval purred, and Marty could see that he wasn’t. He was filled with revulsion, sickness rising into his mouth. He swallowed, wincing at the burning sensation in his throat, and spat.

“Fuck you, freak,” Marty said.

“We’ll see.” Duval surveyed the room for a moment, then started searching for the Bane, pulling boxes from the shelves and upending them on the floor, kicking through the contents, moving on to the next.

For a moment, Marty wanted to blurt out his deception, make the toothed fucker realize he’d been duped. It would be a sweet moment of petty vengeance. But then the time lost in searching here would be made up again… and he could not afford that. He had to give Rose and the others as long as he could.

As if in answer to that thought, gunfire rattled in the distance, reminding him of the police station slaughter. Duval didn’t even pause in his search. Bindy smiled at Marty before starting to look as well, and he realized that it was she who would turn him in the end.

Joining them had not been an invitation.

Rose ran behind a plinth, ducking low as bullets scarred shards of granite from the other side, UV light banging from her hip. When the shooting paused, she made a dash for a wide arch leading into the next hall, but realized the shooter’s intention as the firing commenced again. They weren’t out of bullets at all.

The bullets caught her across the left hip, shattering the light and driving her against the wall. The impact knocked a fire extinguisher from its mount and she tried running again. Another burst took her across the chest. She slid motionless to the floor, analyzing the pain, curious at the sensation rather than panicked. She had never been shot before.

She could feel each hot bullet folded in the grip of her cool flesh. Two in her side, three in her chest, each of them a distinct star in the cold vacuum of her undead body, and she already sensed her vampire flesh starting to fill in around them. Two of the rounds in her chest had ricocheted from her ribs, one passing through her right lung and lodging against her spine. Cracked ribs fused. Shredded lung tissue closed together. She writhed slightly, uncomfortable now rather than in any kind of agony, and stared across the floor as the figure approached.

It was a woman, tall, clad in black leather and cradling a very big gun. As she walked, she ejected the magazine and inserted another clumsily, having to pause and prop the gun’s stock against the floor to do so. She was breathing hard and fast, and her scent gave off a sexual excitement. It also spoke of her addiction, currently being fed; stale sweat and the rankness of bad, chemical-filled blood.

The woman stood again, and Rose tensed to move. The instant the barrel came around for the head shot, she would be on her. A quick snap of the neck, and then away. No blood. No feeding.

But the woman seemed to appreciate the melodrama of the moment, because she wanted to talk first.

“How’s that feel, bloodsucker?”

Rose chuckled, a noiseless grumble deep in her chest.

“Funny?”

“You? Yeah.”

The woman stopped five steps away and aimed at Rose’s stomach. “I blow your guts out, you won’t be laughing then, eh?”

“I like the leathers. Very Underworld.”

A quick burst into Rose’s stomach, three bullets, and at this range they passed right through. She groaned and rolled in fake pain—that’s what the woman wanted, after all—but in reality the impacts had felt little more than punches. They did not wind her, because she had no breath.

“Oh, yeah,” the woman sighed, shifting her weight back and forth from one leg to the other.

“Getting off on this?” Rose asked.

“Believe it.”

“What did they promise you?”

“Everything. All the things you weaklings are too afraid to be. You’ve got the fucking world at your fingertips, and—” As the woman talked, the gun barrel drifted until it was pointing at Rose’s throat, and that was that.

Rose threw herself from the wall, a shadow through the air, knocking the gun aside and straddling her attacker as she fell onto her back. The weapon clattered across the polished floor. The woman’s wide, startled eyes rolled slightly as her head struck hard, and when she brought a knife up in her left hand, Rose snapped it at the wrist, twisting her hand three times until it came off with a wet, grinding noise. The woman’s mouth opened, the pain so bright that the scream was locked in shock.

Rose grabbed the woman’s ponytail and pulled her up, bending, mouth open, tugging the bound hair down now so that her pale throat was exposed—

The suit’s startled eyes, involuntary sexual excitement, that gush of living blood that had come to mean so much…

Rose held back. The hunger was rich and burning, every fiber of her body craving the warm rush, but something in her altered mind still gave her pause. Something, she supposed, that maintained a portion of her humanity. The Humain part of her.

The woman whined. She was actually smiling. “Holy shit, you poor deluded bitch,” Rose said. She rested the back of the woman’s neck on her free arm and pulled hard on the ponytail, snapping her spine. The woman tensed for a second, then her whole body fell loose.

Rose checked her heart. One final, weak beat and she was dead. Gone. But her blood was still…

She bit out the woman’s throat and started drinking.

Warm.

Down in the basement of the British Museum, the darkness felt so much more threatening. It was deeper, for a start, and the Humains hadn’t allowed Lee to use his light. There was some background light, provided by faint yellow emergency lighting which he guessed was on all the time, though the glow did not reach very far. But there was also something else: a sense that this darkness was occupied, and that down here the rest of the world mattered little.

Gunfire sounded far off, a rapid crackle. Lee froze and grasped the .454 in his hand harder. Connie nudged him.

“Move on,” she said. “They’re doing their job, we need to do ours.”

Patrick rushed past them and paused twenty steps ahead by an open door. He ducked into the room and emerged again almost immediately. “Dead guard.” As they passed the door Lee was not tempted to look in, but he smelled the devastation done to the man.

They reached another staircase, and he saw that they’d been in a subbasement, a place of offices and storage, but not where the majority of items not on display were kept. That explained the lack of room numbers.

It was one long flight down, and then he could smell the past around them. It was not only the must of old things, packaged away and perhaps not opened for years or decades. It was the smell of gathered time, artifacts from all of human history brought together to bear witness to the passage of time, whatever that was. Sometimes the ten years since he’d left the SIS felt like ten days, and other times he couldn’t remember ever having worked for them at all. Time messed with him. He wondered what it felt like for someone all but immortal.

They stalked down one corridor and entered another, doubling back on themselves and finally reaching room number seventy-two. He paused, nodded at the door, and Patrick tried the handle. It was locked. The vampire twisted harder, shoved, and the door gave with a brief shriek of broken metal.

A sound came from somewhere else in the building, a hollow boom. Lee felt subtle vibrations transmitted through his heels, but he couldn’t tell where it had come from. It might have been a door slamming in the next corridor, or a cannon firing up in one of the great display halls.

“We might not have very long,” Connie whispered, coming close to do so. Her pale face hovered before him, but there was no hint of warm, stale breath. Instead, only a smell that reminded him of the rest of these basements: time, confused.

They entered the large room, and neither Humain objected when Lee snapped on the overhead fluorescents. Patrick pushed the ruptured door closed as much as he could and stood guard, ear pressed to the opening.

“What are we looking for?” Connie asked.

“You don’t know?”

“I thought you were the expert.”

Lee chuckled dryly. “And that from a vampire. Well, I guess we’ll know when we see it. From what I could glean from Richards’s blog, she’d never even opened the package again. So it’ll be wrapped, packed away, addressed to her at her home, Otter Street. She brought it here soon after, hid it away.”

“Like Indiana Jones,” Connie said.

“Eh?”

“Raiders of the Lost Ark. The end. You know?”

“You saw that?”

Connie shrugged. Lee had a brief, disturbing image of Connie sitting in darkened theaters, watching a movie while she selected who she would follow home. Right now, that wasn’t his business.

They started searching. He pulled the first box from the first shelf and lifted off the top. It was an archival box, sturdy and with a proper lid that didn’t need ripping or cutting open, and the contents were varied. A smashed jug, shards packed together in foam; a curved metal moon shape, rusted and rotting away; a handful of innocuous-looking pebbles in a wooden box. And, going through the box, Lee realized that he didn’t really know what he was looking for. He paused for a moment and looked at the other two—Patrick by the door, Connie just visible at the other end of the room, searching through the contents of the first shelf there—and then he started looking again. He’d have to assume that he’d know it when he found it.

He only hoped he’d lay hands on the Bane first. If that happened, he’d use it to kill the vampires that had come to London searching for it. And after that, these Humains.

Lee closed his eyes briefly, trying to shove down the sense of betrayal that idea prompted. Patrick had only ever been a prick to him, and Connie—

Just a little girl!

—pretended to be a young teenager, but she was likely older than him. Travesties of nature. And yet there was Rose, whose body he had once fantasized about, and who maintained some of her human cares and concerns.

“Fuck it,” he said quietly.

“What?” Patrick asked.

“Nothing. Moving on.” He took down another box and started rifling through its contents, but realized that he could never move on, not really. Whatever happened here tonight, whoever emerged from the British Museum after this was all over, there would always be one more vampire for him to hunt down.

Starting with that deceitful Olemaun bitch.

Flushed with blood, senses blazingly sensitive, Rose prowled the halls of the British Museum looking for something else to kill. Her clothes were sprayed with blood, her teeth rich with it. Her hands were smeared, and she licked between her fingers without really thinking about it, tongue snaking down across the back of her hand to lap at the droplets on her delicate arm hairs. She hadn’t fed that well since…

But she was dead, she thought. Her heart had stopped. It’s how Jane survives, taking blood just past the moment of death. There’s nothing wrong with it. There’s nothing wrong with it.

There was more gunfire from a couple of rooms away, and Rose went that way, passing ancient Mayan statues that stared down at her with timeless ambivalence. She could imagine that a human would find these great silent halls spooky at night, places so used to the bustle of school groups and foreign visitors unsettling in their silence. But there was no silence now. More machine-gun fire erupted, and behind it came a scream she thought she knew.

Jane!

Rose ran, the feeding giving her speed. She sprinted silently into the great African hall where she thought the shooting had originated. She dashed fast and silent as a shadow, unconcerned at the bullets that might come her way, and she smelled something she had no wish to smell: insides and blood, but not of the living.

Jane was sprawled on the floor in a circular seating area, empty benches bearing witness to her demise. Her long skirt was played around her legs. Her head was a mashed mess, skull and brains scattered across a wide swath of floor. Rose could see the white scars of bullet marks beneath the gore from her shattered head, and imagined the shooter standing above her as he or she fired down at an angle.

Bastard! she thought, and it came as a surprise. Bastard! She and Jane had never really been friends. No Humains ever grew that close, and she suspected no vampires could, but the two of them had acknowledged their differences and let that be that.

She looked around, searching for the killer, and that was when she heard the groaning. She moved quickly, low and fast, and she was standing astride the huge man before he even knew it. His back was broken: he was hauling himself along with his hands, gun discarded, legs trailing behind him like a scarecrow’s. He rolled onto his back and stared up at her, opened his mouth to say something. But there was nothing to say.

Rose brought her foot down onto the man’s face with all her strength. His skull crumpled, and she felt the solid contact of her heel on the stone floor. Warmth flushed into her boot. She looked away, because she didn’t want to feed from the man who’d killed Jane. Then she kicked the mess from her foot and ran.

From the Egyptian room, she could hear the sounds of vampires hissing, and as she approached the entrance archway a brief flash of light brought her up short.

She screamed, hands covering her face. It was dark again, but the UV flash had imprinted itself on her pupils, burning into them an echo of the wall, sculptures, and floor patterns. She leant over and rubbed at her wounded eyes, and from the next room heard the agonized screams of more injured vampires.

I have to move past this, she thought. Got to get through to help. That’ll be Francesco in there, and it sounds like there are two of them. So she moved again, blinking rapidly and willing her sight to return. She saw Francesco first of all, turning the UV light in her direction and squatting down as he prepared to turn it on.

“It’s me!” she shouted, and then a vampire barreled into Francesco, knocking him to the ground and going at him with hands and teeth. Francesco fought back, and even through her blurred vision she saw the staggering violence being wrought on both vampire and Humain.

She leapt forward to help and then sensed movement to her left. She turned her head just in time for the other blinded vampire—eyes still steaming, thick gore singed onto his cheeks—to fill her field of vision. Rose went down, and the first swipe of his hand opened her cheeks and tore off most of her nose.

This one was strong. Stronger by far than the vampire that had attacked Marty and which she’d fought off. She tried to buck him aside, but his weight seemed pinned down, far heavier than he looked. She slashed back at him and felt her long, sharp fingernails parting skin, raking through flesh. But it seemed to have no effect. She could smell the cooked ruins of the vampire’s eyes and she poked her fingers at them, feeling her right thumb sinking into one sticky socket. The vampire hissed and drew back, and that allowed her the opportunity she needed. She sat up and flung her head forward, forehead connecting with his lower jaw and driving it downward, repeating the motion quickly until she heard a satisfying snap.

Francesco and the other vampire were on their feet, circling one another, their faces and chests tattered and torn.

From the distance came a low, persistent howl, grumbling like a large machine’s motor. Both vampires paused, heads tilted to one side as they listened. Rose saw immediately what was about to happen. She reached forward, still sitting up, and clawed into the flesh of the vampire’s thigh.

With one sweep of its arm, it knocked her hand aside, fingers and wrist snapping. She hissed and watched the two vampires run, flowing across the hall and then disappearing into shadows. She heard a door slam somewhere, and then the terrible silence.

“What the hell was that?” she growled, nursing her ruined hand. Everywhere ached as her body began repairing.

“Their master calling them back,” Francesco said. “They might have found it.”

The two Humains, torn and in pain, ran as fast as they could after the vampires.

With the room a mess of upturned boxes, spilled contents, and tumbled shelving, Duval came at Marty and snatched him from where he knelt. Marty would have gasped if the hold around his throat was not so tight. The vampire’s face was inches from his own, terrifying, a nightmare given life in these deathly shadows. He lifted the boy, stretching, and pressed Marty into the suspended ceiling.

Tiles fell around him as Marty was pushed higher. He kicked his legs, waved his arms, feet and fists connecting with the vampire but having no effect. He struggled to draw breath, but none would come. Metal struts dug into his back and thighs, and he felt blood flow as his skin was pierced in several places.

He’ll smell that, he thought, and then in the pale light he saw rosettes of his own blood splashing on the vampire’s face.

Duval’s tongue snaked out and licked each splash away with a delicate dexterity. And then he growled, “Where is it?”

Marty shook his head because he could not speak. His vision was blurring, and he thought he might die up here in this dusty, spider-infested crawl space. Then the vampire let go and stepped back, and Marty fell into a pile of smashed porcelain jugs and torn cardboard. He just managed to bring his arms up before his face, slashing his hands and forearms. More pain bit in. His body was a map of pain.

“I… I don’t know…” he managed before the vampire grabbed him again. He was thrown across the room, flung with the ease of a grown man heaving a puppy. He crashed into shelving, smashing his lips against his teeth. He tasted blood. It was sickly, and he spat it out, thinking as he did so that he should have swallowed.

As he sat upright, he saw Bindy watching with wide eyes, coiled like a snake about to strike. She wants to feed from me, he thought, and the idea disgusted him more than anything else. This was what he had to endure. This was giving the others time, and with every new pain inflicted upon him by the bastard vampire, he felt that much braver.

Duval glanced at Bindy, who moved quickly to the door and exited the room. A moment later she came back in, nodding.

Duval then walked to Marty, grinning. “We have your bitch sister,” he said.

Rose! Marty blinked, sweat and blood dribbling into his right eye. He wiped at it, only smearing in more blood from his slashed hand. Duval squatted and stared hard at him.

“I’ll tear her limb from limb myself,” he whispered.

“No.”

“Yes. I’ll let you watch.”

“She’ll fight you. She’ll die before you can—”

Duval leaned in closer. “You have no idea who I am, have you? And neither does your sister, nor her weakling friends. I’ll make you drink her blood.” He snatched up a chunk of ancient pottery. “But first, I’ll fuck her with this. Bring her in!” Bindy left the room again, and Marty closed his eyes in desperation, knowing what he should do but knowing also what he must.

“Room seventy-two,” he said. “It’s in room seventy-two.”

Duval grinned and tipped his head back, letting out a horrific howl that rattled shelves, brought dust from the ceiling, and seemed to seat itself in Marty’s deepest parts. It went on and on, and after he stopped he looked down at Marty one more time.

He stared, as if examining the boy, turning his head this way and that, watching the blood seep from Marty’s wounds. What is he thinking? Marty wondered. Does he think I’m brave? But no, there was nothing of that in the monster’s eyes. There was little there at all. He was a hawk playing with a mouse. When the door opened and the other two vampires entered, Duval stood and turned his back on Marty for the last time.

“Kill him slowly,” he said to one of the new arrivals. “Make it hurt. And when you’ve finished, make sure you take off his head. Meet us in room seventy-two.” He moved quickly to the door, and the other male vampire followed. Bindy glanced back once, and Marty read her expression: she wished it could have been her.

“Wait,” Marty said, but he bit back anything else. They’d fooled him about Rose: they didn’t have her at all. A stupid trick that he’d fallen for. He was fucked, well and truly, and there was nothing he could do about it. The last thing he’d give these bastards was the satisfaction of watching him beg.

Duval and the others left the room, and the vampire knelt before Marty and eyed his various wounds. His tongue slipped from his mouth like a giant slug, wet and heavy, tasting blood on the air. His teeth were many.

“Where to begin… ?” he said.

15

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS that?”

Lee was dragging a box from the back of the third tier of shelving when the howl filled the room. He felt it deep inside, caressing his spine and ribs, setting his hair on end and chilling his balls.

Connie and Patrick shared a glance. “We don’t have long,” Connie said.

Lee let go of the box and pulled his guns. They felt good and heavy, grips backed with rubber to cushion against their heavy recoil. He’d read about these .454 rounds stopping a buffalo, and he couldn’t wait to see what they did to a bloodsucker’s face.

Patrick stared at him from across the room, where he was still standing by the door and listening for danger. “Put them away,” he said. “Keep looking. Something happens, I’ll give you time to draw your toys.”

“This toy could take your skull apart.”

“How good’s yer aim, human? How steady’s yer hand.”

Lee laughed, holstered his guns and started searching again. He trusted Patrick that much, at least. If and when the vampires hit this room, he’d have prior warning while the Irish Humain took them on, time at least to draw his guns and get off a few good shots. Body shots first, hopefully, to blast out their spines so that they couldn’t move anymore. Then the head shot.

He dragged a box out and emptied its contents across the floor. They’d stopped trying to search quietly, ceased the orderly hunt, because with the noise going on elsewhere in the building it was only a matter of time before they were found. Lee had thought about why the vampires hadn’t reached this room already, and there was only one explanation: Marty had lied to them about where the Bane was. If Richards had told him the right room number, he’d managed to keep it from the vampires, the consequences of which would be dire for him. He admired the kid’s guts. He felt close to the kid. They were the only humans involved in all this, apart from those scumbag servants the vampires had taken to themselves. And “human” wasn’t a name he’d honor them with.

Even Stella Olemaun.

“Fuck it,” he said again. It was becoming a refrain, and for some foolish reason it brought a trace of comfort. Fuck it. Fuck everything. He couldn’t let what had happened affect what would happen, however much he’d been deceived, lied to, and manipulated. And really, the Humains had only used him for purposes he’d support, hadn’t they?

Kicking through the box’s contents, he saw nothing that might be the Bane, or contain it. He moved on to the next shelf. Connie was drawing closer, and soon they’d meet in the middle of the room, searching the last shelving stack together, reaching the final box, and if nothing came to light, then they’d have to assume the Bane wasn’t here at all… or they’d missed it.

From Ashleigh Richards’s archived blog, he’d gleaned only the vaguest of descriptions: damned round thing.

Next box.

Through Assyria, into Greek and Roman sculpture, and Rose saw a fleeting shadow disappearing into a stair area. She followed, the smell of blood bringing her up short. A guard lay dead at the feet of a Greek god, taken apart like a lion’s kill.

“Rose,” Francesco said. He grabbed her arm and ran on, but she’d seen the way he looked at her. He knows. He can sense the blood on my breath. But that didn’t matter right then.

They descended two flights of stairs, Francesco swinging around the junction without pause. It was too late for care or caution. This was a running fight now, with the Bane as prize for whoever reached the end first. Rose hoped that Marty had not got in the way already, but she knew it was a vain hope. Even if they had kept him alive upon arrival, once they had the Bane they’d have no purpose for him anymore. He’d die. Or maybe they’d turn him, to replace one of those she and the Humains had killed.

She would do whatever she could to stop either possibility, but if it was a choice of two, she would give him death.

At the bottom of the stairs they emerged into a junction of three corridors. Francesco faced one corridor, turned, took a few steps along another. Rose scanned the floor for any trace of the vampires’ presence, trying to sense which way they had gone, where they had disturbed air in their passing. She wanted to run and fight, but she knew these few seconds were vital. If they chose the wrong direction, that might lose them the prize.

Francesco paused and tilted his head to one side. Then he nodded to Rose and rushed off along one of the corridors. She followed, and after turning one corner Francesco stopped outside a room, pointing at the ruptured lock.

“Hope you choke,” she heard from within, and it was Marty, and she burst through the door and located him instantly, hunkered down in a corner with one of the male vampires crouched over him, his arm raised and fingers clawed ready to deliver a hacking swipe.

“Eyes!” Francesco said softly. She closed her eyes and clapped her hands over them, heard Click click, and then the vampire’s screams.

Her own exposed skin burning, Rose ran, opening her eyes to the vaguely lit room and smelling the stench of the vampire’s scorched eye sockets. Marty was a shadow in the corner—she could smell his blood, feel his pain—but she could not let that distract her. Not yet.

She struck the vampire hard and shoved him across the room, heels plowing furrows through piles of ransacked boxes and their shattered contents, her fingers curling into his throat and closing, fingertips touching in cool wetness.

He hit a tier of shelving and grunted, and Rose punched him hard in the face. She felt her fingers and hand shredded by his teeth, but she grasped his jaw and pulled down on it with all her weight. He thrashed, hands battering her back and shoulders, and then her head. But by then she’d unhinged his jaw and all but torn it off. She let him fall and kicked him over onto his side.

“Head,” Francesco said, but he didn’t have to tell her. Rose knew very well how to finish him off.

Afterward, she went to Marty and knelt before him. He was bleeding from a dozen places, and his eyes were only open a crack.

“Marty?”

“Yeah.”

“You okay?”

“Dandy.”

“What room, Marty?” Francesco was beside them now, and for an instant Rose resented the fact that he wasn’t at all interested in her brother’s well-being. But there was so much more going on here.

“Seventy-two.” His voice was fading, and his eyelids fluttered as they closed.

“Marty, did he bite you?” Her brother didn’t answer, so Rose grabbed him by the shoulders and shook, ignoring the warmth of his blood on her right hand. “Marty!”

“Nah,” he said, shaking his head and wincing at the pain it caused him.

“Rose,” Francesco said, stern. “You have to leave him for now.”

Marty had slipped into unconsciousness. Blood loss, pain, shock, fear—they’d all combined to usher him into the dark, and even if awake there was little he could do to help them anymore.

“I’ll come back for you, Marty,” she said. She picked him up and slid him onto an empty shelf at eye level, shoving some torn boxes in after him. It was poor camouflage, but it would have to do for now.

As she turned, she caught Francesco looking at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Come on.”

They left to find room seventy-two.

He’d thought that he would have time. But he almost didn’t.

The door smashed open and Lee spun around, glimpsing Patrick falling beneath a shadowy shape and two more vampires entering behind him. One of them was tall and bald but for a tied-back Mohawk, and he was the least-human vampire Lee had ever seen. His eyes were black pits in his pale face, like coals pressed into the face of the most grotesque snowman ever built, and his long arms tore the air before him as he went for Connie. It was her size that prevented her from having her throat torn out immediately; she fell between the shelving tiers she was working and scampered away out of sight.

The third vampire scanned the room quickly, growled, and came for Lee.

He dropped the box he’d been holding. Something inside shattered as it hit the floor, and he held his breath, knowing that the next two seconds would decide his fate. Quickly but calmly, he drew the pistol from the holster beneath his left arm, dropping into a shooting stance as he brought it up and out, cupping his right hand with his left, and firing before consciously taking aim. He’d been a crack shot ten years before when he’d left the SIS, and he’d kept up the practice in his soundproofed basement, working so hard that gunplay eventually became natural for him. The gun was an extension of his hand and he punched with it, once, twice, tracking the shadow as it thrashed in midair and fell amongst a mess of torn boxes and spilled contents.

The gunshots were explosive, the recoil punching back into his shoulder and chest, and his hearing only faded back in slowly, whistling and humming as sound returned from a distance.

Lee gasped and sucked in another breath, then took two steps forward. The vampire was writhing on the floor, arms thrashing through the detritus as it tried to drag itself away. One bullet had blasted away most of its left hip, taking out a chunk of meat and bone that spattered somewhere across the room. The other had struck its stomach; judging from the exit wound on its back, Lee guessed it had shattered the base of the creature’s spine.

Good. Fucker. One more shot and—

A whole tier of shelving to his left started to tumble, frame tilting, shelves falling like scattered playing cards. Lee retreated a little, left arm held up to ward off the metal falling toward him. He let off a wild shot at the crippled vampire, but his line of sight was already blocked by the fallen shelving, its base now lifted from the floor and propped against the next tier.

Lee ducked down as the tier jarred to a halt at an angle just above his head. Then he went on his hands and knees and followed the vampire. He could hear the noise of fighting from elsewhere through the hum of his damaged hearing, but he could do little to help Patrick and Connie. His only hope was that they were stronger than the vampires… but surely that was a vain hope? Humains denied much of their nature, and that could not help but make them weak.

He squeezed beneath the tilted tier, gun hand held before him, and when he saw a shadow shifting to his right, he fired twice. There was no sign that he’d hit anything. On the other side, he felt around on the floor to heave himself upright. He felt the edge of a broken metal container and his hand slipped inside, touching something wet and thick.

Blood. But warm?

In the poor light it was difficult to see, but he thought the box had likely fallen from the very top of the shelving tier as it had been knocked aside. Right then, many things should have crossed Lee’s mind: What pushed the tier over? Where did Connie and that vampire go? I should take it and run, hide, because I know what this is really, don’t I? I know what this is. But instead he tipped the box and spilled its contents, then tugged at the thick wet cloth that wrapped a heavy, circular object. The cloth fell apart in his hand. Wet, rotten, it crumbled in shreds to the floor, exposing a glimmering arc of metal underneath.

Flipping the box over, he saw a familiar name scrawled in fading marker.

Lee knelt and picked up the Bane in his left hand. A rush of despair hit him, and its source was a mystery. He sobbed, coughing up an anguished gasp that seemed to reverberate all around the room. And then he saw the flapping legs of the crippled vampire disappearing beneath the next tier of shelving, and he had purpose.

Dropping his gun, he fell across the space between shelving banks, grasped one ankle, and pulled. The wounded vampire slid out on his stomach, clawed fingers struggling to gain purchase on the floor. When he was clear of the shelving, he rolled onto his back and opened his mouth wide, displaying those terrible teeth.

Lee held the handle that sat at the center of one side of the object, swung it in an arc over his head, and slashed through the vampire’s throat. With one more heavy strike, its spine shattered and its head bounced away, eyes still wide, teeth still chomping.

Lee stared at the Bane, and the slick of impossibly warm blood that coated its surface. He saw his vague reflection in there, and he was human. I’m holding all the power now, he thought. And then he heard the voice.

“Oh, that’s not nice,” it said, and it was the most unnatural voice he’d ever heard, forced from a throat that was made for swallowing blood, not spewing inanities.

To his left stood the tall bald vampire. The decapitated head had struck one of his boots and come to rest looking upward, mouth still moving. The bald vampire’s right hand was buried to the wrist in Connie’s throat. Her body hung limp beside him, legs trailing back and arms hanging down, relaxed fingers just touching the floor.

Lee held the Bane up before him.

The vampire laughed, threw Connie to one side, walked to Lee, and knocked his arm aside as he swung the Bane, sending it clattering from his hand and falling against the leaning tower of shelves.

Lee panicked, reaching for the gun beneath his right arm. The vampire was no longer laughing. His face was split into a grin, all teeth and darkness. He now swiped the gun from Lee’s left hand, and Lee watched it reflecting weak light as it spun out into the room. The vampire watched, too, and that allowed Lee the half second he needed to snatch the other gun from the small of his back and press it into the monster’s gut.

He pulled the trigger twice before the vampire grasped his arm and snapped it at the elbow.

Lee cried out and went to his knees, and the vampire took two swaying steps backwards. He looked down at his gut, and Lee could see all the way through, pale light from beyond finding its way past the swaying curtains of shattered insides and splintered bone. The heavy dumdums had done their job, and there was one more thing to do. With his left hand, he plucked the gun from his right, but only after forcing his clawed, insensitive fingers apart. Every movement was agony. White bone poked through at his right elbow. Head shot, he thought.

The vampire fell, and for one glorious moment Lee thought he had won. But then the monster grabbed the Bane and stood again in one unbelievably quick, fluid movement.

“Human!” he spat.

Lee paused in horror and disbelief, because this could not be.

“Lee!” someone shouted. Rose’s voice. There was a flash and a scream, and then the vampire fell upon him, the Bane falling in an arc toward his face.

He felt it strike. There was no pain—the shock was too great—but he heard his skull rupture, and in the moment before everything ended he thought, My blood on the Bane. There was no implication, only the knowledge. And then there was nothing at all.

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck…

Rose saw the tall vampire pull the object from Lee’s caved-in head, and she knew instantly what it was.

I have to tell you, Rose, that from what I’ve heard of the Bane, and if it’s actually for real, you have to find it before those vampires. You have to.

To her left she saw a flutter of movement, and then a woman vampire disentangled herself from Patrick’s embrace and limped to Duval, her features blurred as a result of terrible violence. She stood close to the tall vampire as he turned around, staring not at his face but at his hand, and the thing he held there.

If Lee had kept hold of it if he’d used it if he’d known how dangerous it could be in his hands…

But perhaps he had. It no longer mattered. Lee was dead, and Rose felt a curious sense of loss that had eluded her upon her parents’ deaths. Maybe, against expectations, they had been friends after all.

Francesco pushed past her and moved to her right, far enough away so that they did not offer an easy target. Patrick was standing to her left, making strange grunting noises as his head jerked at the air like a startled chicken’s. He’d been damaged, but she sensed that he still had some fight in him.

Good. They were going to need it.

“And here we are,” Duval said, his voice like a corpse’s teeth falling onto a gravestone. Here was a creature that should never talk, because his language was something other than words. “The vampires, and the Humains.”

“Humains that have killed enough of you,” Rose said.

Duval shrugged. “We can always swell our ranks. You… you lose a Humain, and your weak philosophy means you can’t replace them. Like this one.” He nodded at Connie’s crumpled corpse. “A child, thin spine, easy to crush. But she had the feel of… thirty years? A lot of vampire knowledge just… gone.” He opened his hand as if releasing a butterfly, and Rose sensed Francesco tensing to attack.

“Back,” Duval said. He held up the Bane. It was an unremarkable thing, considering what it was purported to do. Worked in metal, shaped like two large bowls rim to rim, a handle on one domed side. Its edges glimmered with blood, and Rose sensed something very old emanating from it, as well as something fresher.

“It’s a lump of metal,” Francesco said. He laughed. “You think it gives you any more power than you had before?”

“I feel it,” Duval said, and he sounded so convinced that Rose had little doubt. “It’s filling me with itself. Older than we know, and stronger.” He held it up to the light, turning it this way and that.

“How’d you even know it was here?” Francesco asked, genuinely interested.

“Your human wasn’t the only one who could use the internet. The pet of an associate of mine across the ocean heard… a whisper. Passed the whisper on to me. And here we are.”

“What sort of whisper?”

“The usual,” Duval said. “Rumor of rumors. I’ve been chasing down such Bane whispers for a century.”

Just killing time, Rose thought, her choice of words disturbing more than amusing. There’s the two of them, the three of us… and this has to end soon.

“Well, now you have your lump of metal,” Francesco said. “A piece of rubbish dug up from an old grave, surrounded by myth. And it’s suckers like you that believe it.”

“‘Suckers’?” Duval grinned, and he was all teeth. “Then why are you going through so much to stop us?”

“Just in case,” Francesco said. And then he shrugged. “And because, sometimes, being a Humain gets boring.”

“I don’t believe you,” the vampire said. He looked at Rose, then Patrick, then back to Francesco. “Three of you, two of us. One of you is”—he nodded at Patrick, feigning sadness—“almost finished, it seems. And another”—to Rose—“five years, maybe? Probably less. You fight well, yes. But not when it counts.”

He lowered the Bane and held it out to Bindy. She touched it and gasped, and Rose tried to see what the true effect was. Were the vampires really seeming to swell before her eyes? Did their teeth really seem to grow? Or was it all in her: an expectation of things happening?

“Francesco?” she whispered.

“Wait,” he said. “Wait.” She heard the caution in his voice as well, and realized that he had no idea what was about to happen. Then: “When I give the word, we rush them.”

“Yes,” Rose said, and she glanced at Patrick to see if he’d heard. He nodded strangely. His left arm was twitching, left leg seemingly hanging limp and taking no weight. She thought perhaps his neck was broken.

“Ready…” Francesco said, and then there was a sound behind them.

Rose spun around and Marty was there, shuffling into the room with an old spearhead clasped in one hand, the other hugged his chest, holding in the pain. Rose was so shocked that for a second she couldn’t move, and that was all her brother needed to pass close to Patrick and start along the aisle beside the tumbled shelves.

Duval sighed. “If a job’s worth doing…” He nodded at Bindy, and she grinned horribly as she advanced on the bloodstained boy.

Marty paused and dropped the spearhead. It clanged off a fallen metal shelf, the sound surprisingly loud. He swayed, looking down at the floor, and Rose knew that he was about to faint.

“Leave him,” she said, pleading. “He’s just a—”

Bindy leapt, hands reaching, jaws stretching, and Marty stepped to one side faster than Rose could follow. He punched the falling woman, using her own momentum to drive his clawed hand into her stomach, and as she doubled over his forearm Marty growled, new teeth bared in pink, split gums.

“What—” Francesco said.

Marty chewed away the back of Bindy’s neck with one massive bite, exposing her spine and the base of her skull. Then he drove his other hand up through the wound and pulled, dragging out a handful of brain.

“Oh, Marty,” Rose said, but he was not looking at her. As he shoved the dead vampire aside, flicking the mess of her brains from his hand, he turned to face Duval.

“You killed my parents,” he said. “So come on, then, fucker.”

Duval grinned, lifted the Bane, and did as he was invited.

Maybe it was the rage that made him unbeatable.

Upon waking back in that deserted ransacked room, and realizing what had happened, Marty’s first instinct had been to exult. The grief of his parents’ deaths, which he had somehow been keeping at bay, was lessened now, a remote thing that seemed as if it had happened years ago, not days. The pain from Duval’s tortures, both physical and mental, had similarly faded. He had slid from the shelf and stood tall, taking in his surroundings even though the lights were now off. And he had felt more in control than he ever had before.

And then the rage had started to build as he thought of that vampire biting into him. He’d thought he wanted it, but the vampire had given him no choice. He had asked Rose to turn him, and that would have been his long-lost sister—his guardian angel—not that monster. Choice had been taken from him, along with whatever was left of his life. Undeath stretched before him. And, knowing that, he wasn’t at all sure he had ever wanted it at all.

It was only a short walk to room seventy-two, but in that time his rage built and his old, human self remained, an angry force that he was not sure he could ever shed. Humain? he thought, and he wondered at Rose’s turning. Had she felt like this? Perhaps he would get to ask her.

But first, the monster needed to pay.

On the way, he slipped through a door into a darkened room, all pains and injuries vanished, now that he was something else. He’d never felt such power. It took seconds to find what he was looking for, an unremarkable old weapon wrapped in oilcloth. He would not need it… it was just a part of the play.

Then room seventy-two, and his easy killing of the vampire bitch, and Rose’s gasped Oh, Marty as he stood facing the monster Duval. Those two words cast one sliver of doubt, but he flicked the mess of brain and shattered bone from his hand and said, “Come on, then, fucker.”

Duval lifted the thing in his hands and came at him.

Marty stepped quickly to the side, kicking out at Duval’s legs and hearing bones snap. The vampire screeched and swung the Bane again, and Marty held up his right arm to deflect it, feeling flesh part and bone rupture as it passed through with ease. His forearm and hand flopped down useless, but he did not back away. With the Bane still swinging away from him, Marty leapt for it, closing his good hand around Duval’s on the handle and letting his weight do the work.

“No!” Duval screamed, and as they toppled the Bane fell away from both of them.

Marty sprawled on his stomach. The ancient artifact rolled away from them, coming to rest against the tilted shelf tier, and as he got to his knees to go after it Duval fell on him. Pressed against the floor, the vampire’s weight forcing him down, he was powerless to protect himself against the assault.

Duval was a ravening animal, claws slashing, teeth piercing, legs coming up to kick and pummel. Marty felt the impacts but the pain was remote, a vague niggle in his vampiric brain. The damage being wrought on his body registered more, but even that was something distant and obscure, as if he were watching someone else being attacked. He gathered his strength, pulling his senses inward until they concentrated on one point. Even being torn to shreds, Marty could not help but wonder at what he had become.

“Marty, gimme ten!” Rose shouted, and as distant memories of hide-and-seek sang in, Marty squeezed his eyes closed.

Straddling his back, Duval screamed as UV light filled the demolished room.

“Found you!” Rose said, her own voice pained, and Marty opened his eyes again and bucked the vampire from his back. Duval was holding the burnt remnants of his eyes within their sockets with the splayed fingers of one hand while the other thrashed at the air, searching for Marty and ready to deliver the killing blow. And Marty could have taken one step closer and killed him then. He felt the power in his good hand, the astounding strength that would enable him to punch through the older vampire’s head and scatter his brains across the floor. But instead of one step, he took three.

One, to pick up the Bane.

A second to turn and hold the object to one side, hand curled around the handle, and the sudden impact of what he was holding—the object of these last few days’ trials and deaths, including the brutal murders of his parents—struck him hard, adding to the strength gathered at his core.

And the final step back toward Duval, swinging the Bane and meeting the vampire’s neck even as he launched himself at Marty. The dull, blood-smeared edge of the old weapon passed through Duval’s throat and shattered his spine, and as he completed his leap his head tilted back and rested between his shoulder blades, and he fell and writhed on the floor at Marty’s feet.

Marty looked at the others, the three of them watching him with some measure of amazement and, from Rose, both pride and sadness. With one kick, he parted the remaining scraps of flesh and skin and the tied Mohawk, and Duval’s head bounced away beneath the fallen shelving. His body slumped down into a sitting position, seeming to shrink from the darkness.

The Bane was heavy in Marty’s hand. The weight of Duval’s smeared blood made it heavier.

“Rose,” Marty said, and his voice was deeper than ever before.

“Oh, Marty,” she said again. And for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why she was so sad.

16

ROSE WATCHED THE HEAD roll away, its thin rope of tied hair flapping at the floor. Then she looked back at Marty. His right arm hung limp and useless by his side, but she knew the healing would already be starting. His clothing was shredded by Duval’s brief, vicious attack. His throat was raw and torn. The Bane swung from his left hand, heavy and bright in the poorly lit room. Every particle of light in there seemed to be reflecting from the wet blood around the object’s edge.

He looked down at the Bane and seemed hypnotized by its weight.

“Oh, Marty,” she said again, because her little brother was no more.

To her left, Patrick sat down, and she heard his body relaxing in relief. His mending would come, but it would be long and harsh. To her right, Francesco took one faltering step toward Marty. Stella Olemaun’s words echoed back at her once more: The balance is being challenged all the time, and that thing could tip it either way. And she knew what she had to do.

She sensed the Humains’ surprise as she darted to Marty’s side. He looked at her with wanting eyes, and she felt a surge of sadness. She touched his face and felt the strength in him, simmering below the shock. Then she shoved him backwards, snatched the Bane from his hand, and ran.

Rose was out of the door before she heard the first startled shout. It came from Francesco, and it was more a question that anything else: “Rose?”

She didn’t answer, because he’d know what she was doing.

Through the corridors, up the stairs, past the bodies, the thing clasped in her hand weighed heavily but gave her little else. There was no sense of complete power, no idea that this object could project her to the head of a vampire army or give her the power to be the greatest of vampire killers. It was just an old thing, buried and dug up, and now requiring burying again. Because though the thing itself might not hold the powers attributed to it by legend, the pursuit of it could lead some way toward realizing what those legends promised.

Around her in the British Museum, bodies both vampire and human awaited discovery. She knew that Francesco would be compelled to take care of them before coming after her, and that gave her time. It gave her plenty, plenty of time.

She left the museum the same way she had entered, moving swiftly through the shadows. The feeding had enlivened her. The fight had made her senses sing. Her wounds would be extreme for a human, but she could feel the itch of their healing already: her torn-off nose was re-forming, slashed flesh mending, bones knitting. Being out in the night air felt good. The farther she ran from the museum, the more she came to realize just what they had done.

It would be faster if she descended into the tube, but there were no shadows to hide in down there in the trains. Pausing outside a closed shop, she examined herself in the window, checking the wounds, confirming that she was still far too damaged to show herself in public. She smiled at her image. Lee might still have believed that vampires showed no reflection.

She had no idea what his intentions had been past tonight, but she chose to think of him as brave.

The fight in the museum had lasted less than half an hour, though it had felt much longer. Francesco and the others would be clearing up, retrieving every trace of vampire involvement. They’d take the bodies down deep, and burn them in the hidden roots of the city, close them into a subterranean room as the flames took hold and scorched away any trace of fused bone, undead flesh, and fang.

The night was young. Rose had plenty of time to reach her destination.

By dawn, she had healed. She descended into the tube system and sat amongst the human beings, staring down anyone who dared catch her gaze. No one lasted more than a second. Some of them picked at lint on their suits or examined their fingernails, and others looked into the middle distance with a distracted frown twisting their features.

She’d stolen some clothes from a shop, washed in an abandoned flat; her worst injuries were now little more than pale pink patches on her skin. Amongst the strange and stranger of London, she was just another curiosity.

She made her way down into the depths, not rushing, not dallying. Her hands were empty. She carried only the slight concern at what her brother had become, and what had been taken away from him.

Patrick met her in the short tunnel approaching their chamber. He was on guard, as quiet and unseen as ever, though she could see that his healing would take a lot longer than hers. He could walk, but his head still turned to the side, and his left eye was almost closed. The left corner of his mouth hung down, permanently exposing the teeth in his bottom jaw. He nodded at her, she smiled, and they entered the chamber together.

“Rose,” Francesco said, and he did not even glance down at her hands. He was old and wise, and he had not become their leader for nothing.

“Where’s Marty?” she asked. Francesco nodded into the far corner, and she saw the shape hidden under a pile of blankets and old coats. All she could see of him was his hair, long and greasy, untended. Marty had always washed his hair every day.

She knelt by him and pulled a coat aside, and he was looking directly up at her.

“Hi,” she said. He did not reply. “You knew it had to be hidden away, didn’t you? All the time we were looking for it?” Still no reply. “I’m sorry this happened to you.”

Marty blinked slowly.

“We got them back for Mum and Dad,” she said. “There’s that too.”

Marty’s lips parted. It was not a smile, nor an attempt to speak. If anything, he was just showing her his teeth.

“He hasn’t spoken at all,” Francesco said. “Caught a rat on the way down and fed from it. He’s been over there ever since.”

“Did he help you?”

“Yes. Patrick couldn’t really, so… Yes, he did. I didn’t even need to ask.”

“What did you do with the bodies?”

“Buried them deep. What did you do with the Bane?”

She glanced back at Francesco and smiled.

“Did you feel anything from it?” he asked, and he was trying not to show how keenly he needed to know. “Anything at all?”

“No.”

“Everything’s changed,” he said. “With Lee gone, we’re blind. We won’t know if others are coming for it. I doubt Duval worked alone. And we might not even know if it’s found, not unless… not until…”

“Francesco, it’s just a lump of metal,” Rose said. That closed the conversation, and she sat by her brother’s side. He was staring up at her still.

After a long time, Marty asked, “Where is it?”

“Somewhere no one will ever find it. Somewhere safe.”

“I’m so hungry, it hurts.”

“I’ll help you through,” she whispered. “The first weeks and months are… strange. Sometimes a trial. The hunger is strong, and it gets stronger from time to time.” She thought of the suit, and his terrified eyes. “But I’ll help you, little brother. Help you be strong. I’m your guardian angel, after all.”

That morning, there was no blood to wipe from her hand. Ashleigh Richards woke as ever, with her left hand hidden away beneath the covers, waiting to be exposed. She hated this moment every day, but she was used to going through with it. The smear of blood, the washing, the cloth to wipe it off should the stain appear again during the day. But today there was none, and she sat up in her bed for a very long time staring down at her unblemished skin.

She went about her business, but there was something lighter in her step. A weight had lifted. The memory was always there, and it always would be. In her more detached moments, she knew that she had gone mad, though she also knew that the madness had been brought on by something removed from her, not some malformation inside. But today, she felt better than she had in…

In a long time.

It was midday before she stepped to the front door and opened it, gun in her right hand and hidden behind the door. In the street, there were no faces. She dropped the gun and stepped outside.

The sunlight felt very good on her skin. The idea of walking struck her, and it was no longer terrifying. Yes, something had definitely changed.

Given time, and if the blood stayed away, she thought perhaps she might even welcome the night.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tim Lebbon is the winner of four British Fantasy Awards, a Bram Stoker Award, and a Scribe Award, and was a finalist for the International Horror Guild and World Fantasy Awards. His books include the official 30 Days of Night movie novelization (a New York Times bestseller), Hellboy: Unnatural Selection, Dusk, The Island, The Map of Moments (with Christopher Golden), Changing of Faces, Exorcising Angels (with Simon Clark), Dead Man’s Hand, Pieces of Hate, Fears Unnamed, White (optioned for film), Desolation, and Berserk. He lives in South Wales with his family. Find out more about the author at www.timlebbon.net.

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Novels available from Pocket Books

30 Days of Night: Rumors of the Undead

30 Days of Night: Immortal Remains

30 Days of Night: Eternal Damnation

30 Days of Night: Light of Day

30 Days of Night: Fear of the Dark

Graphic Novels/Comic Books available from IDW Publishing

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30 Days of Night: Spreading the Disease

30 Days of Night: Eben and Stella

30 Days of Night: Beyond Barrow

30 Days of Night: 30 Days ’Til Death

30 Days of Night Annual 2004 (featuring “The Book Club,” “The Hand That Feeds,” “Agent Norris: MIA,” “The Trapper”)

30 Days of Night Annual 2005

30 Days of Night: “Picking Up the Pieces” (featured in IDW’s Tales of Terror)

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ISBN 978-1-4391-2228-0

ISBN 978-1-4391-6933-9 (ebook)

Content

Tim Lebbon
30 DAYS OF NIGHT™
FEAR OF THE DARK
Based on the IDW Publishing graphic novel series

Prologue

LONDON PRESENT DAY

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Enter the terrifying world of 30 DAYS OF NIGHT

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