In the distance, across the flattened landscape, the medieval city perched atop its hill, the highest point for miles in any direction. Turner looked back as they approached it through what had been the city’s commercial district and felt his heart surge in his chest; the sky behind the column of vehicles was full of helicopters, a wide black line flying low and slow. Inside them sat more than three thousand Operators, each one armed to the teeth, each one ready to fight, and kill.

The lead truck drew to a halt a mile before the foot of the hill. The rest of the column peeled to the left and right and stopped, creating a long line of vehicles with fifty metres between them. The roar of the helicopter engines increased as they descended; they touched down a safe distance behind the line. The doors of the holds slid open and a tide of black-clad figures disembarked and jogged between the vehicles to their rally points. Turner watched as Blacklight’s vampire Operators moved to the front of the rapidly filling line; they would lead the army into battle, their supernatural power put straight to use.

The helicopters immediately rose back into the air and hovered half a mile behind the army they had carried in their bellies, their weapons systems trained on the wide space between the black line and the foot of the hill.

No-man’s-land, thought Turner.

“Initial deployment complete,” said a voice in his ear, over the command frequency that he and the rest of the Directors had tuned their comms systems to.

“Copy that,” said Bob Allen. “Ready One. Wait for my go.”

“This is it,” said Turner, his voice low.

Allen gave him a hard, thin smile. “It looks like it,” he said. “Scared?”

“Of course I am.”

“Me too,” said Allen. “Wouldn’t be human if we weren’t, right?”

Turner shook his head, and looked out across the line of Operators. It was an astonishing display of strength, particularly given the speed with which it had been assembled, but, even as he looked at it, he knew that the space in front of the army was not where the battle was going to be won or lost; their ultimate fate rested in the hands of five men and women who were still six miles behind their colleagues. He twisted the comms dial on his belt and spoke into his helmet’s microphone.

“Strike team,” he said. “Do you copy?”

“Copy, sir,” said Angela Darcy. “Standing by.”

“We’re in position,” said the Director. “Wait for my go.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Out.”

The Security Officer looked round at her squad mates. “Everyone get that?”

Jamie nodded, as the rest of the strike team murmured in agreement.

“Good,” said Angela. “Stay calm. They’ll let us know when they need us.”

They were standing in a secure room at the middle of the camp’s command centre, watching an array of screens showing live feeds of the battlefield from satellites and vehicle-mounted cameras; the army of Operators was clearly visible, still and silent as it waited. Ellison and Qiang and Jack Williams and Dominique Saint-Jacques and dozens more of Jamie’s friends were among them, and he felt pride flood through him as he stared at the screen.

Nobody could have asked us for more than we’ve given, he thought. Nobody can ever say we didn’t do everything we could.

Seventy miles away, in the waters off the town of Perpignan, Commander Alain Masson ordered the Terrible up to launch depth.

The submarine was the lead boat of the Triomphant class, the cornerstone of France’s nuclear deterrent. There were four, with at least one at sea at all times, ready to do the unthinkable if the unthinkable was ever required. In hardened tubes that ran the length of her foredeck, sixteen M51 missiles waited silently, each containing ten independently targeting nuclear warheads capable of delivering a hundred times as much firepower as the bomb that had destroyed Hiroshima.

Command of the Terrible was the highest honour the French Navy could bestow, and Masson did not take it remotely lightly. His crew were their country’s last line of defence, a devastating deterrent lurking silent and unseen beneath the waves, and if the time came for him to give a launch order, Masson knew they would do their duty, regardless of the consequences.

“Launch depth, sir,” said the diving officer.

“Good,” said Masson. “Commence hover.”

“Hovering, sir.”

He nodded, and checked the communications screen where new orders would appear if they were issued, orders that he could still scarcely contemplate.

The screen was dark.

For now.

Turner stared up at the medieval city, his heart full of unexpected joy.

Deep down, the Blacklight Director did not expect to survive the coming battle; he believed the remainder of his life could likely now be measured in minutes rather than years. But as he stared, he found that the prospect didn’t fill him with fear; he was proud of the life he had lived, a life of thrills and marvels and danger, and if it was really about to end in these blasted ruins, then so be it.

He would meet death head-on, without regrets.

Purple and orange blazed across the horizon to the west, reflecting against low banks of clouds to create a breathtaking vista of light. Turner smiled; it was as though the universe had decided to provide their army with a glorious final reminder of what they would soon be fighting for, of the beauty and wonder of the world they were trying to protect.

The air changed.

He felt it before he heard it, in his teeth and his bones; a thick humming vibration, rising rapidly. Turner frowned and looked along the line of Operators. His vampires had felt it too, whatever it was; they were growling and hissing, several of them holding the sides of their helmets.

What the hell? he had time to wonder, before the noise rose to a deafening, pulverising scream, and coherent thought left his mind.

The sound tore through him, making his insides feel like they were going to be shaken to pieces; it was otherworldly, impossibly loud and terrifyingly high-pitched. Vampire Operators collapsed to the ground and thrashed in the ash and mud as their Director fell to his knees, his head boiling with pain, distantly aware that the sound would be even louder without the dampeners and filters in his helmet, a prospect he could not begin to imagine. Beside him, Bob Allen lurched to his right and tumbled out of the back of the jeep on to the ground; Turner could do nothing but watch.

The pitch rose and rose as he screamed silently behind his visor. On his belt, the lens and bulb of his ultraviolet torch shattered, sending broken glass tumbling to the ground. He saw the same happen to the weapons of the line of Operators, and managed to twist round on his knees in time to see the windscreens of the vehicles and the lights of the helicopters explode, their glass unable to withstand the aural onslaught that had been unleashed from God only knew where. The windscreens of the helicopters were bulletproof plastic, and didn’t break, but he saw several lurch alarmingly as their flight crews reeled against the noise.

Turner looked down as the agony inside his head reached a blistering crescendo, saw the broken shards of his UV beam gun, and slumped to the floor of the jeep’s bed as understanding hammered into him.

Sonic-disruption weapon. Destroy our UV lights. Disorient our vampires. Dear God, what else is there? What more has he planned that we haven’t seen coming?

Then, as suddenly as it had arrived, the sound disappeared.

Turner lay flat on his back, his eyes squeezed shut, trying to clear his mind. He reached a trembling hand inside his helmet and clicked his fingers beside his right ear, praying that he would hear the snap. It was distant, low and muddy, but it was there, and he breathed a sigh of relief.