Will Hill - Battle Lines

The Operational frequencies of the various Departments, the access codes to their bases and computer systems, these were things that could have one day been extremely useful to Vlad and Valeri. However, both vampires knew full well that they would all have been changed the minute Henry Seward was taken, rendering his knowledge of them useless.

He must know that too , thought Dracula, his gaze locked on his guest. Surely he must. Yet he refuses to tell us, regardless. Admirable.

Until his recovery was complete and he was ready to take direct action, Vlad was content to let Seward believe he was successfully resisting. When that time came, Seward would tell him everything, whether he wanted to or not, at which point Vlad would kill whatever was left of the man and send his head to Blacklight on a spike. But for now, he was content to play Seward’s game. They would continue attempting to get the Director to give up the information he didn’t want to reveal, using what he would allow Seward to believe were his most persuasive methods, and his guest would continue to refuse. It afforded Seward a measure of dignity, and it helped to pierce the boredom that Vlad had felt so keenly since he had been reborn, boredom that was slowly beginning to abate as the recovery of his mind and body gathered pace. It also afforded him an agreeable dinner companion, sparing him the stoic silence of Valeri’s company or the embarrassment of dining alone.

At the other end of the table, the servant had finished refilling Seward’s glass. Vlad raised his own and waited until his guest did likewise.

“ Noroc ,” said the ancient vampire.

“ Noroc ,” replied Henry Seward. He had spoken the Romanian toast many times over the last month, evening after evening, glass after glass; it was now almost second nature.

He drained half his wine, looking forward to the numbing effect of the alcohol, feeling his arm tremble as he raised the glass to his lips. It was one of a number of shakes and tremors that had appeared over the last month, one result of the tortures inflicted upon him every night. Another was his inability to sleep, even when the torment was over: his body was always wracked with pain and thrumming with adrenaline, and when sleep did eventually come, it was fitful, full of bad dreams and echoed agony.

Seward was exhausted, in constant pain, and knew his body was beginning to fail him. It wasn’t the result of any one particular torture, but the cumulative effect of them all; he had begun to cough up blood in the mornings and see spots of red in the toilet bowl after he urinated. He coughed steadily, and struggled for breath after climbing only a handful of stairs. It was now clear that he didn’t have long to live, as he knew very well that Dracula was never going to let him leave this place; he had come to terms with the realisation that he would never see his family and friends again. He also knew, although he didn’t think Dracula realised that he did, that he was resisting telling them information that was worthless.

He knew that Dracula believed he was playing with him, letting him be brave and resilient while waiting for the right moment to prise whatever Seward was hiding from his head. But the ancient vampire was wrong: he was holding no secrets, no information that would be of use to them. When the monster unleashed whatever agonies he was holding back, he would tell him everything; when the vampire realised that none of it was useful, Seward would spit blood in his face before he died. In the meantime, he would grit his teeth and take what they gave him, and join his captor in this bizarre facsimile of normality each evening, as though they were two old school friends having dinner at their club.

“What are we having?” he asked, glancing at the hovering vampire servants.

“Wood pigeon, I believe,” replied Dracula. “Is that agreeable to you?”

“I’m sure it will be,” replied Seward. The food and wine he had eaten and drunk since he had been taken by Valeri, dragged kicking and screaming into the sky as men and women he had once commanded fought for their lives beneath him, had been uniformly excellent. He supposed he should not be surprised: Dracula had been a Prince when he was a man, then a Transylvanian Count as a vampire, and had been used to the very best of everything, throughout both of his lives.

The man and the vampire sat in silence as the servants suddenly burst into action, delivering silver trays to the table and placing them before the two diners. The lids were withdrawn to reveal a delicate foie gras parfait and home-made brioche that made Seward’s mouth water despite the steady throbs of pain that coursed through his body. He attacked the food, aware of Dracula’s faintly reproachful expression, and demolished the plate within a minute. He sat back in his chair, feeling the energy being released by the food in his stomach and the endorphins radiating out from his pituitary gland.

Eating emboldened him. He had allowed the previous dinners to be filled with small talk, with mindless chatter about the modern world, with stories and tales of their pasts; nothing that had any edge, nothing that might cause offence. It was time for that to change.

“You’re still weak,” he said.

Dracula tilted his head slightly to one side. “I beg your pardon?”

“It was a straightforward statement. You’re still weak. Your powers have not fully returned to you.”

“What makes you say so?”

Seward looked round the room. “The evidence of my own eyes,” he said. “Why else would you be hiding here, surrounded by servants to protect you?”

Dracula frowned. “To protect me?” he said. “They are honoured that I permit them to serve me. It is the highlight of their tiny lives.”

Seward smiled. “I’m sure that’s what you tell yourself. It must be hard for you to admit that even the weakest vampire in this building could kill you with one hand if he chose to.”

Dark red started to bubble in the corners of the first vampire’s eyes, and Seward felt a surge of satisfaction in his chest. Then the ancient eyes cleared and Dracula began to laugh, an awful sound that started small, but went on and on, getting louder and louder.

“Wonderful,” he said, as his laughter finally stopped. “I understand now. You hoped to annoy me with your comment, yes? You believed that I would consider it impertinent. I am extremely sorry to have disappointed you, my dear Admiral.”

Seward swallowed hard. “They’ll find you,” he said, willing his words to be true. “Blacklight will find you and stop you. Your rise will fail.”

“You are like a child,” said Dracula, his voice warm and friendly. “You understand nothing. My rise has already begun, my dear Admiral. I am out there in the darkness, as we speak. I am everywhere. I am legion .”

“What are you talking about?” asked Seward, cold fingers working their way up his spine.

Dracula shook his head. “You will find out soon enough,” he said.

The servants scuttled back into the room, removing the plates and placing new cutlery before the vampire and his guest. Then they were gone, as a second team delivered new plates of food.

Dracula lifted the silver lid from the plate before him and favoured Seward with a wide, contented smile.

“As I thought,” he said. “Wood pigeon. Bon appétit .”

“So where do we start?” asked Patrick Williams.

“Intelligence is putting together probable location lists,” replied Holmwood. “We’ve had every available satellite working outwards from the hospital since early this morning, and we’ve tracked over a hundred heat blooms. They’re where we start.”