He is important, he thought. Whoever he is. He is in command.

Qiang checked his surroundings, then bolted from cover. He ran away from the battle in a low crouch, circling up and round the side of the hill, past the half-burnt ruins of a hotel, and down into what had once been Carcassonne’s moat. He crept forward across the grass, keeping to the deep shadows at the base of the towering walls, and looked up at the drawbridge; the vampire commander’s attention was focused entirely on the battle, and, as Qiang got nearer, he spoke to one of the vampires surrounding him in rapid Spanish.

The Chinese Operator stopped and raised his T-Bone, steadying the vampire’s chest in the centre of its sights.

He took a deep breath, and pulled the trigger.

Osvaldo was so focused on the battle that when he heard a bang and saw something hurtling towards him out of the corner of his eye, he was almost fatally slow to react.

His eyes flared as he turned his head away, his hand coming up automatically to protect himself. Something hot and sharp splattered the hand to pieces, sending severed fingers flying into the dark night air, and tore along the side of his head. His right ear was ripped off and spun away in front of him, before a metal stake followed it, trailing a gleaming wire and taking most of his cheek with it. Blood sprayed into the air as his intact hand flailed for the speeding wire and took hold of it. He yanked the wire with all his strength as the pain hit him; he tipped back his head and screamed, his eyes blazing with crimson fire. From down in the moat, a dark shape was jerked into the air, its limbs flailing, and crashed down on to the wooden boards of the drawbridge.

The soldier’s helmet flew off as he hit the ground, and Osvaldo saw an infuriating lack of fear in the man’s eyes; he saw determination, and something close to resignation, but that was all. Osvaldo’s head was full of fire, and his hand felt like it had been soaked in acid; he raised it to his face, saw the spurting stumps where his fingers had been, and felt bright, savage rage. As his guards, who had been unforgivably slow to respond to the attack, turned towards him with wide eyes, he leapt on the soldier and took hold of his head. The man kicked and fought, until Osvaldo hammered his head down on the wooden planks with a sound like a cracking egg, and the man’s eyes rolled white. He slammed it down again, and again, a howl of pain and fury erupting from his mouth, until all he was holding in his one good hand was blood and limp flesh. He staggered to his feet, his guards staring at him, and licked the blood from his hand; the pain receded, and he looked hungrily down at the mess that was left of the soldier.

No, he told himself. It would not be proper. Control yourself.

“Blood,” he growled. “Bring me blood. Now.”

One of the guards nodded, and raced away into the city. Osvaldo took a deep breath, and turned his gaze back to the raging battle; the blackened ground was now so littered with corpses and soaked with blood that it was rapidly becoming a swamp. He took a deep breath, lifted his radio from his belt, and pressed the SEND button.

“Now, my lord?” he asked.

“No,” came Dracula’s voice. “Not yet. I will tell you when it is time.”

Julian ducked as a vampire soared over his head, reloaded his MP5, and ran forward with the submachine gun set against his shoulder.

The battle around him was raging chaos, but he felt no fear. His professional instincts, which he had feared lost during his years of inaction, had burst to the fore and taken over; to Julian, it suddenly felt like the time since his false death – the awful, wasted time – had passed in a heartbeat.

He sighted down the MP5’s barrel and fired into a cluster of vampires descending from the dark sky. They scattered, snarling and hissing, but one wasn’t fast enough; a bullet took him above his left eye and ripped off the top of his head. The glow in the vampire’s eyes disappeared as he fell to the ground, blood and brain oozing from the gaping crater in his skull. Julian drew his stake, and was about to plunge it into the stricken man’s heart when a dark figure raced across the blasted landscape and beat him to it. The vampire burst, and the Operator turned towards him, visor raised, a wild grin on his face, his eyes glowing with red fire.

Julian stopped dead, panic rushing through him.

It was Jack Williams, one of the many men and women who had joined Blacklight during the period in which Julian had been one of the Department’s senior Operators, and one of the relatively small number of combatants who would undoubtedly recognise him. His gloved hand rose involuntarily to his visor, checking that his face was still hidden, and touched smooth plastic.

“Good shooting!” shouted Jack. “Come on.”

Julian nodded, and followed his former colleague down into a broken concrete trench. They scrambled up a pile of rubble at the other end of the valley, and emerged behind a trio of vampires backing away from an advancing line of Operators. Jack’s stake was still in his hand, and Julian drew his own.

In the moment before they leapt forward and plunged their stakes into the backs of the retreating vampires, his mind turned to his son, who was even younger than Jack, and even more inexperienced, despite the astonishing things he had done in his brief Blacklight career.

Please let him be OK, thought Julian. That’s all I ask. Just let him be OK.

Jamie’s eyes opened as a boot stamped down towards his chest.

His head was spinning and his limbs felt like lead, but he managed to bring a hand up and deflect the foot; it crunched against his shoulder, sending a bolt of agony through his body. The pain galvanised him, and as the vampire stumbled, his balance momentarily compromised, Jamie rolled to the side and pushed the man’s leg as hard as he could. The vampire toppled to the ground as Jamie got to his feet, a low growl rumbling from his throat. The vampire stood up and stared at him, his glowing eyes flicking to the weapons on his belt. Jamie took a step forward, letting his hand go to the grip of his T-Bone, hoping that the threat appeared convincing; his legs felt unsteady beneath him, and he thought he might be about to throw up.

The vampire hissed, and took a step backwards. The road they were standing in was narrow, and Jamie moved to one side, trying to show his enemy an escape route: a crossroads barely ten metres behind him, wreathed in deep shadow. The vampire backed further away, his eyes smouldering. Jamie took another step, willing the man to retreat; after a long, still moment, the man took his chance and raced away along the road. Jamie waited until he disappeared round the corner before he let out the breath he had been holding; he felt dizzy and shaky, and was genuinely unsure what would have happened if the vampire had attacked him.

A thick grunt echoed against the high stone walls that surrounded him. Jamie drew his T-Bone, and pointed it unsteadily in the direction the vampire had fled, where the sound had come from. For several long seconds, nothing happened. Then something came flying out of the shadows at the crossroads, something that bounced and rolled across the cobblestones and came to rest at his feet. Jamie looked down, and felt his stomach revolve.

It was the vampire’s head.

The man’s eyes rolled as his mouth worked furiously, as though he was still trying to speak. Jamie stared, then took a staggering step backwards, his T-Bone raised, his eyes flaring red behind his visor.

“Who’s there?” he shouted. “Show yourself!”

A figure walked round the shadowy corner, dragging something behind it. Jamie’s finger tightened on the trigger as the shape moved into the light, then relaxed as he breathed out with relief.