Will Hill - Darkest Night

Valentin walked across the cell and held out a chipped mug of steaming tea. Frankenstein took it, noting the grimace on the old vampire’s face; it clearly pained him to present his guest with such an inelegant receptacle.

“Thank you,” he said, and took a sip. The tea was excellent, as always.

“You’re welcome,” replied the vampire. “What news from the world above?”

“Nothing changes,” said Frankenstein. “People are scared, and lashing out in every direction. At vampires, at the police and the government, at Blacklight. Dozens die every night, and nobody seems to have the faintest idea how to stop it. At this point, the Operators are little more than glorified police.”

“And inside the Department?” asked Valentin. “Is Major Turner continuing to inspire everyone to keep fighting the good fight?”

Frankenstein smiled narrowly. “That is uncalled for,” he said. “Paul Turner is doing the best he can, in circumstances that are increasingly trying.”

“What circumstances might those be?”

“The public remains grossly misinformed where Blacklight is concerned,” said Frankenstein. “So the prevailing narrative has become that we have failed them, that we should have destroyed every vampire by now, or at the very least managed to keep them secret so they don’t need to worry. They blame us for a country that appears to be tearing itself apart, despite the many thousands of people who are only alive today because of the work of this Department.”

“I’m afraid that’s irrelevant,” said Valentin.

“In what way?” asked Frankenstein. “In what world , for God’s sake?”

“People not being killed by vampires was merely evidence of Blacklight doing its job,” said the vampire. “People being killed by vampires is evidence of the opposite, at least as far as the public are concerned. Surely you see the distinction?”

Frankenstein nodded. It pained him to agree with the vampire, but he was right; more than a century of silent efficiency meant far less than a single innocent victim splashed across the front page of a tabloid.

“If it makes you feel any better,” said Valentin, “my former master will likely rise before public anger reaches the point of revolution, which will resolve the situation one way or the other. You will either defeat him, and be heroes, or you will fail, and nothing will matter any more.”

Frankenstein grunted with laughter. “Thank you, Valentin,” he said, a lopsided smile on his grey-green face. “I can always rely on you to be the voice of optimism.”

“You’re welcome,” said Valentin. “How’s Jamie?”

The smile disappeared. “I don’t want to talk about him,” he said. “As I have told you so very often. Must we go over it every time I come down here?”

“Why come down here at all if you genuinely don’t want to talk about him?” asked Valentin. “You wear your pain like a badge of honour, so proud and strong and stolid, while week after week we play out this little flirtation without ever getting to the meat of anything. So let me ask you again. How is your favourite little vampire? I assume he still can’t stand the sight of you?”

Frankenstein shook his head. “You are a petty child, Valentin. Can’t you resist the urge to provoke, even this once?”

“It’s hardly provocation, my dear Colonel,” replied the vampire. “The very purpose to which you have devoted yourself for so long has been removed. One Carpenter out there alone, impotent to influence the events for which he spent his life preparing, the other a central player in what is to come, but who rejects your help. Your situation strikes me as nothing less than an existential crisis, and I am intrigued as to whether you see it in similar terms. But we can continue to talk about banalities, if you prefer? Perhaps you could tell me how the weather has been lately?”

“Mostly cloudy,” said Frankenstein.

Valentin didn’t respond; he merely stared at the monster with his pale blue eyes, and waited.

“I want to hear about Larissa,” said Frankenstein, eventually. “If we are unburdening ourselves, I want to hear about the night she left.”

“I will tell you what I feel is mine to tell,” said Valentin. “You have my word.”

“Fine,” he said. “Then no. Jamie still can’t stand the sight of me. He can be in the same room as me now, can even acknowledge me in the presence of others, but somehow that seems worse. When he hated me, when anger radiated out of him so thickly I could almost see it, it was painful but at least it was real emotion, clear and unchecked. But now? Now he just seems indifferent, and that hurts far more.”

“You have lived a long life,” said Valentin. “You have known many men, both good and bad and everything in between. Yet despite all that human experience, you were unable to see that this might unfold as it has? I find that hard to believe.”

“Of course I knew,” said Frankenstein. “Jamie prizes loyalty above everything else. It’s one of the very best things about him, even when it prompts him to be reckless and stupid. A long time ago a traitor told him I was there the night he saw his father die, and his anger at what he believed was my betrayal almost got him killed. I knew that if the truth about Julian came out, he would not be able to forgive me again. But what choice did I have?”

“Tell him the truth?” suggested Valentin.

“Brilliant,” said Frankenstein. “Just tell him that he didn’t really see his father die, because I helped Julian fake his own execution, and that the man he mourned was probably still alive, despite not even being able to be certain about that. What good would that have done him?”

“I suspect Jamie’s argument would be that it was not your decision to make.”

“I was trying to protect him,” said Frankenstein, his voice low. “As I swore I always would.”

“I believe you,” said Valentin. “What I do not believe is that you have given up any hope of a reconciliation. Surely that is not the case?”

Frankenstein let out a deep sigh. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s been more than six months, and I feel nothing between us except ever-expanding distance. And in all honesty, why would he waste his time on such a reconciliation? He doesn’t need me now, if he ever did.”

“Perhaps you should tell him that,” said Valentin. “That you understand he doesn’t need you. Offer him a friend, rather than a protector.”

“I don’t know,” repeated Frankenstein. “The prudent thing to do is leave him alone. There are bigger things at stake than hurt feelings.”

“Honourable,” said Valentin, and smiled thinly. “Stupid, but honourable. If the world ends, what will prudence have mattered? All it will have gained you is months of uncertainty and unhappiness.”

Frankenstein grimaced. “You’ve made your point,” he said. “And I really don’t want to talk about this any more. You’re never going to tell anyone where Larissa is, are you?”

Valentin shook his head. “She asked me not to. And I won’t betray her, not after France. She could have let me die, but she didn’t.”

The monster smiled. “Of course, we only have your word for what she said that night,” he said. “For all we know, she specifically asked you to tell everyone where she went.”

“True,” said the vampire. “Is that what you think she said?”

Frankenstein shook his head. “No,” he said. “I think she wanted to disappear, I think she asked for your help, and I don’t think you agreed because you were grateful for France. I think you agreed because you knew it would cause trouble. Although I suppose I can’t prove that either, can I?”