“What do you mean, she’s telling the truth?” Lawrence asked, his voice almost a growl. “How can she be telling the truth?”

“I mean I turned her,” said Grey, simply. “She reminded me of my wife, my Helen. So I followed her, and when I found her on her own, I drank from her. Then I came home. I thought she was dead.”

Jill, the vampire in the yellow dress, started to cry. A young vampire in a red T-shirt put a hand on her shoulder, and she gripped it, tightly.

“What about our rules?” said Lawrence, his voice like thunder. “What about everything we stand for? Everything you started?”

Grey looked at his friend, his eyes wide and pleading. “I’m weak,” he replied, his voice hitching. “I always have been. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help it. Do you understand me? I can’t help it.”

Clarity flooded into Jamie’s mind. “This wasn’t the first time, was it?” he asked, softly. “Larissa isn’t the only one.”

Grey looked at the floor, and a chorus of gasps and groans filled the study.

“How many?” asked Lawrence. “How many innocent humans?”

“A lot,” replied Grey in a strangled voice, his eyes fixed on the uneven wooden floorboards. “One every few years, since the beginning.”

“Every time you told us you were going away to clear your head?” spit Lawrence. “Every time you told us you were going out into the world to remind yourself why Valhalla was so important, you were taking human lives. You were betraying the one thing we stand for above everything else.”

Grey said nothing.

“I can’t bear to look at you,” Lawrence said, his voice shaking. “You’re worse than any of them, the vampires out there killing and feeding. At least they don’t pretend to be something they’re not.”

“What do you want me to do?” cried Grey, his face hot and full of shame. “I can’t bring any of them back. I wish I could, believe me I wish I could, but I can’t. They’re gone. If you want me to leave, I’ll go. If you want me to destroy myself, I’ll do it. Just tell me how I can make this better.”

“You can’t,” said one of the vampires near the back of the room. The crowd parted, and he stepped forward, a heavyset man in his forties, wearing a thick woolen jumper and a pair of dusty black jeans. “You can’t undo what you’ve done. But you can leave and never come back. That’s what I want you to do.”

Several of the vampires around the man shouted in protest, but he didn’t even acknowledge them. He stared levelly at Grey, his face as rigid as stone.

“That’s what I want, too,” said another, and the crowd hissed and gasped anew. The second voice belonged to a middle-aged woman wearing a long smock covered in garish splatters of paint.

Grey looked at the two vampires who had spoken and then helplessly at Lawrence, who stared back at him without an ounce of pity.

“Is that what you want?” he asked, his voice trembling. “Do you want me to leave?”

Lawrence looked at his old friend. “Yes,” he said. “It’s what I want. It’s all you deserve.”

Grey put a hand over his eyes. For a long moment, it seemed as though no one in the room was breathing; the silence and stillness were absolute. Then Grey lowered his hand and looked around at the men and women gathered in his study.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll go.”

There were shouts of protest, but he raised a hand and silenced them.

“I let you all down,” he continued. “Worse than that, I let you believe better of me than I deserved. I’ll go, and I won’t come home until I find a way to atone for the things I did.”

He smiled, the wide, genuine smile of a man who has been keeping a secret for too long and is relieved beyond measure to have finally let it out.

“If you would all excuse me,” he said. “There are some things I need to say to our visitors. I’ll come and say my good-byes before I leave.”

Slowly, reluctantly, the vampires of Valhalla began to file out of the room. Lawrence was the last to go, casting a final look at Grey as he closed the door of the study behind him. The expression on his face was one of profound disappointment.

Grey watched them go, then turned his attention to the Blacklight team standing silently in front of him. Larissa was looking at him with open hatred, a look that Jamie was loyally replicating. Frankenstein and Morris were expressionless, staring at Grey as though they didn’t quite understand what had just played out in front of them.

“Before the Russian Revolution of 1917,” Grey said, “men who were convicted of treason against the czar were offered the choice of death or exile. The majority chose death. It seemed only fair that I allowed my friends to make the decision for me.”

He walked back around his desk and flopped into his chair. “I understand why you came to see me,” he said, looking at Larissa. “But did the rest of you have something you wanted to ask me? Lawrence thought that you might.”

Jamie stepped forward. “There is something,” he said. “We’re looking for Alexandru Rusmanov. We were told you might know where he is.”

Grey looked at Jamie, then burst out laughing.

“My dear boy,” he said, gently. “Did you look around as you made your way up here? We live where we live for a reason; because it is hundreds of miles from the nearest vampire. We have no desire to associate with any of them, especially not someone as violent and unpredictable as Alexandru. I’m afraid you were misinformed.”

Jamie looked at Larissa, who refused to meet his eyes.

“I must confess, I thought you were here about Dracula,” said Grey.

Frankenstein flinched. “Why would we want to ask you about a vampire who’s been dead for four hundred years?” he asked.

Grey looked at him with surprise on his face. “Because you know as well as I do that Dracula was not destroyed,” he said. “His throat was cut, his heart was pierced, and he bled out, but his remains could easily be revived. I thought you were going to ask me how to destroy him permanently.” Jamie’s head was spinning with questions. Thankfully, Morris asked the two most important ones first.

“Why would we need to know that?” he said. “And why would we think you would have the answer?”

“Even all the way up here, we hear rumors,” said Grey. “From the vampires who return here from the outside world, from the wolves making their way north. Even Blacklight must be aware that Valeri has spent the last century trying to revive his master; it is my understanding that he is close to accomplishing his goal.”

Fear shot through Jamie, and he looked at Frankenstein. “That can’t be true,” he said. “Can it? They can’t bring Dracula back, tell me they can’t.”

The monster looked at Jamie. “It’s theoretically possible,” he said, slowly. “With his remains and enough blood, it could be done. But you don’t need to worry. The remains are lost forever. At least three expeditions in the last century have dug over every inch of the mountain where Castle Dracula stood and haven’t found a thing. He’s gone.”

“If you say so,” said Grey, looking at Jamie as he spoke.

He’s not lying. Neither of them are. But one of them is wrong. God, I hope it’s not Frankenstein. Please let it be Grey.

“In which case,” Grey continued. “My information is useless to you. If you’re sure there’s no chance of his return.”

“Stop prevaricating,” growled Frankenstein. “If you are going to tell us what you know, then tell us. If not, then we’ll bid you farewell. It’s up to you. But I am not in the mood for games.”

Grey nodded. “Fair enough,” he said, his tone conversational. “I’ll tell you. In 1971 I spent some time in New York, for reasons that are personal. Over the course of several months, I became friendly with Valentin Rusmanov, the youngest of the three brothers. We frequented some of the same clubs on the Lower East Side, and I attended some of the parties he threw. He was a notoriously generous host; vampires from the length and breadth of the East Coast would come to his building on Central Park West, to take speed and cocaine, and drink from the seemingly endless supply of teenage runaways Valentin was able to supply.”