There was silence.

Tentatively, the driver reached toward him, but Jamie shoved his hand away.

“Don’t touch me!” he yelled, rising back to his feet. “Just leave me alone!”

He ran, stumbling into the forest, leaving the two men by the van.

Jamie sat at the base of a wide oak tree. He could see the van’s headlights through the black maze of the forest and could hear the driver’s and the monster’s low voices.

Let them look for me. They won’t find me in here. Let them think they’ve lost me.

His head rushed with frustration, anger, and guilt. The chemist would have told him more about Alexandru, he was sure of it, if the stupid monster hadn’t opened his big, stupid mouth. They could be on their way to rescue her right now, could be hot on her heels, but instead they were no further along the path that led to her than they had been before they arrived. It had never even occurred to him that Alexandru would have taken his mother out of the country, not after the message that had been carved into the man’s chest and left for him to find, so that information was useless—Frankenstein had been right about that. But it was what was going to come next, what he was sure the Chemist was going to go on to say that might have helped them. Because Jamie was convinced one thing the vampire had said was true: No one else would be willing to risk Alexandru’s wrath to help them.

Then he realized that was wrong. There was one person.

He pushed himself up from the ground, ignoring the howl of pain from his injured neck and crashed blindly back through the trees toward the headlights. He emerged to find the driver and Frankenstein leaning against the van. The look on the monster’s face suggested he had not been overly concerned.

“Got that out of your system, did you?” asked Frankenstein, his voice containing a hint of laughter, and Jamie scowled at him.

“Take me back to the Loop,” he said. “I want to talk to her again.”

Frankenstein’s mouth narrowed.

“Talk to whom?” he asked.

“You know who,” said Jamie, and smiled.

22

THE CITY THAT NEVER SLEEPS, PART II

New York, USA

December 31, 1928

John Carpenter was roused from sleep by a loud knocking on the door of his room. He awoke instantly, his hand reaching for the wooden stake he had placed on his bedside table. He slipped from beneath his bedding and padded softly across the carpeted floor to the door.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Henry Victor,” a low voice boomed from the other side of the wooden panels.

Carpenter put the hand containing the stake behind his back and opened the door six inches, the length of the sturdy chain he had left fastened. Henry Victor stood in the hallway, his vast frame reaching to within an inch or two of the ceiling. He looked down at Carpenter with a look of anger on his face.

“You know who I am,” he said. It was a statement rather than a question. “I believe I do,” answered Carpenter.

“Who did you tell?”

“I told nobody.”

“Your partner. Willis. Not even him?”

“Not even him.”

Victor reached into the pocket of his overcoat and withdrew a thick white envelope.

“Then perhaps you will be able to explain this to me,” he said, handing the envelope to Carpenter.

Carpenter took it, noting as he did so the enormous size of the man’s hand, and slipped the chain off its latch. He opened the door wide.

“Come in,” he said, walking over to the small desk beneath his window and placing the envelope on the wooden top. Victor did so, shutting the door behind him. Carpenter pulled three sheets of stiff card from the envelope. The first two were invitations, gold-edged rectangles of board with three lines of ornate printing on them.

CENTRAL PARK WEST AND WEST EIGHTY-FIFTH STREET

DECEMBER 31, 1928

11 P.M.

He set these aside and looked at the third card. It was a note, handwritten in beautiful copperplate script.

Dear Mr. Frankenstein:

Please do me the honor of gracing me with your presence evening. And do with your presence this evening. And do bring your new British friend—he has taken a room at the Hotel Chelsea on West Twenty-Third Street, in case you need to find him. Masks are mandatory, black tie is preferred.

Yours,

V

“I haven’t used that name since I arrived in America,” Frankenstein’s voice said from above Carpenter’s head. “More than a year ago.”

“Do you know anyone whose name starts with a V?” Carpenter asked.

“No.”

V for Valentin, thought Carpenter and a shiver ran up his spine. The youngest of the three brothers turned by Dracula himself. Could it be him?

“What about Haslett? Jeremiah Haslett?” he asked.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Frankenstein took a deep breath that sounded very much to Carpenter like an attempt at keeping his temper. “Mr. Carpenter, I keep myself to myself. Especially where vampires are concerned.”

Carpenter snapped his head round. “What did you say?”

Frankenstein laughed. “I’m sorry. Did you assume that you and your friends were the only ones who knew?” He laughed again, this time at the look of surprise on John’s face. “I am a creature of the night, Mr. Carpenter, for reasons that should be obvious to you. I have traveled widely and seen and heard a great many things. I knew the sorry tale of Dracula before the Irishman wrote it down. I heard the rumors about Crowley and others like him. I have heard about your little organization. I have even heard of you, Mr. Carpenter. Or your father, at least.”

Carpenter stared at the monster, stunned. “Then you know why I am here,” he said, trying to regain his composure.

“I presume you are here to make sure that Mr. Haslett does not return to England’s green and pleasant land?”

Carpenter nodded.

“And I would imagine that this evening’s gathering strikes you as your best opportunity to carry out your task?”

“I am certainly hoping so. Will you let me have both invitations?”

Frankenstein laughed and shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Carpenter. I want to ask this V certain questions of my own. But I will accompany you, and if the opportunity to assist you in your mission presents itself, then I will certainly consider doing so. How does that sound?”

“That sounds fine.” Carpenter hesitated for a moment. “One of the oldest vampires in the world is believed to live in this city. His name is Valentin Rusmanov. Have you heard of him?”

“The youngest of the three brothers.”

“Indeed. I wonder if he could be the V who sent the invitations.”

“If that turns out to be the case,” said Frankenstein, “we will be well-advised to be extremely careful.”

Carpenter showered and dressed quickly after Frankenstein had left but was still ten minutes late meeting Willis in the diner on Broadway that the American had selected as they said their farewells the previous evening. He slid into a red leather booth opposite Willis, ordered coffee and eggs, and quickly filled his partner in on the morning’s developments. Willis listened intently, then asked the question Carpenter had been waiting for.

“Surely you realize that this invitation is a trap of some kind?”

“Of course I do,” replied Carpenter. “But it still represents the best opportunity for me to carry out my mission. Surely you realize that?”

Willis sipped his coffee.

“I do, John,” he said. “I just felt it necessary to draw your attention to the fact that this V’s motives for inviting you and the monster are unlikely to be honorable. I meant no offense.”