A hundred of them, she thought. At least. And four of us.

She had been in fights with worse odds, although none of them were experiences she was keen to relive. But there was nothing to be done; there was no backup they could call, no strategy or surprise they could deploy. All they could do was fight, until they could do so no more.

A low growl rose from Jamie’s throat. She glanced round, saw the crimson glow below his raised visor and complete absence of fear on her ex-boyfriend’s face, and felt her heart surge. It was not in Jamie’s nature to back down from anything, a quality that was often maddeningly frustrating, but which, in circumstances like these, was also one of his greatest strengths.

The air crackled with tension, with the prospect of imminent violence, as the vampires stared at them, and Larissa felt the heat in her eyes rise to a temperature that was almost unbearable.

Come on then! she silently screamed. Come on!

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement. Up by the highest towers of the ancient church, she saw a black silhouette floating in the darkness and two glowing pinpricks of red light as Dracula stared down at them.

You’re next, you old monster, she thought. As soon as we’re done here, we’re coming for you.

The tension in the square became unbearable, as though the air itself was alive with electricity. A vampire near the centre of the crowd opened his mouth, his fangs gleaming, presumably to give the order to attack, and Larissa took a deep breath. But before the vampire was able to form the first syllable, a silver-haired man at the front of the small crowd in the hotel entrance raised a submachine gun in hands that were visibly steady, and pulled its trigger.

The gunfire was deafening in the enclosed square. The bullets ripped into the crowd, who had all made the mistake of turning their backs on the man. Screams rang out and blood flew as three more of the – hostages? – men and women opened fire; bodies crashed to the ground, blood pouring from them, as the rest of the vampires leapt into the air; panic overwhelmed them as they dodged the deadly streams of lead, all thoughts of attack forgotten, their only focus suddenly on defending themselves.

Jamie saw their chance, as Larissa knew he would.

“Go!” he bellowed, and raced towards the crowd, his MP7 raised. She followed him, a huge smile on her face, her mind blazing with violence.

Floating beside the Basilique Saint-Nazaire, Dracula watched as the four soldiers joined the fight in the square below.

They had fought their way up through the medieval city, which deserved a modicum of his respect. If they made it past the remainder of his guard, it would increase, right up until the moment he killed them himself.

We are entering the final act, he thought. Now we’ll see whether I will be required to bloody my hands.

The command screen on the bridge of the Terrible glowed into life again. Commander Masson grabbed the order as it emerged from the printer, and felt his chest tighten.

“What is it, sir?” asked Clément.

Masson passed the page to his executive officer, and watched the man’s face pale as he read it.

“I do not understand,” said Clément. “How can this be necessary, sir?”

“This order means the battle at Carcassonne is lost,” said Masson. “That is the only explanation. Would you have Dracula and his army sweep across the entire country unopposed?”

The executive officer stared at him, but didn’t respond.

“Give me weapons control,” he said.

Clément grimaced, but opened the comms line. Masson lifted the handset, and waited for the voice on the other end of the line to speak.

“Weapons control.”

“This is the Captain,” said Masson. “The President of the Republic has ordered the launch of missile six on target package 0193/3475. Please confirm that you understand your order.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Carry it out immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Confirm the launch,” said Masson.

There was a moment of silence that seemed to stretch out forever, until the entire submarine rumbled beneath his feet and the steady beep of an alarm rang out across the bridge.

“Missile away, sir,” said weapons control. “Altitude seven hundred metres, speed two hundred kilometres, both rising. Time to target six point one minutes.”

“Very good,” said Masson. “Give me thirty-second updates.”

“Yes, sir.”

Clément stared at him. “What do we do now, sir?” he asked.

“Pray,” said Masson. “We pray.”

“For them or for us?”

“Both.”

Frankenstein raised his M4 to his shoulder and fired the assault rifle point-blank into a panicking group of vampires.

The heavy bullets punched gaping holes in their bodies, shattered bones and severed limbs, and sent them screaming to the ground. The monster checked behind him, and backed up to the edge of the square; he looked to his right, and saw the men and women in the hotel entrance driving back a wave of vampires, kicking and punching and firing guns they had taken from the vampires that were falling all around them. A number of them were lying still on the cobblestones, but the older man, the one with the silver hair who had unleashed the chaos that had quickly engulfed the square, was calmly directing the survivors with quick, clear gestures that left Frankenstein in no doubt whatsoever as to what the man was.

A soldier, he thought, as he laid down a burst of suppressing fire and moved along the front of the hotel. A soldier if ever I’ve seen one.

The square was a frenzy of movement, as the remaining vampires desperately attacked both the Operators who had appeared behind them and the hostages who were now fighting back with such determination; howls and hisses rang out above the constant thunder of gunfire. Vampires were strewn across the ground, bleeding and screaming. The strike team were disabling as many of them as possible as quickly as possible; there would be time to stake them all once the fight was won. Frankenstein could see his squad mates darting back and forth through the crowd in a series of black blurs; despite the thousands of fights he had survived in his long life, they moved with such incredible speed and precision that watching them made him feel like a ham-fisted amateur. Jamie’s helmet was gone, and blood was running freely from Larissa’s nose, but that appeared to be the extent of the setbacks they had sustained.

The monster sidestepped along the front of the hotel, reloading the M4 as he moved, and arrived at the entrance. The silver-haired man glanced round at him, and nodded; if he was surprised to see such a huge figure dressed all in black, he gave no sign of it.

“NS9?”

“Blacklight,” said Frankenstein. “Is this all of you?”

The man fired his SIG, and shook his head. “There’s more inside,” he said. “They didn’t want to come.”

Cowards, thought Frankenstein, then silently chastised himself. Fear and torture were incredibly powerful weapons, and he had no idea what the other hostages might have been through since Dracula had taken the old city.

“Thanks for the assist,” said the man. “Thought we were done for till you guys showed up.”

“No problem,” said Frankenstein. He sighted down the M4’s barrel and sent a bullet through the ear of a vampire on the other side of the square. “Military?”

“Army,” said the man. “Retired. Alan Foster.”

“Good to meet you.”

“Don’t you have a name?”

“Not one I can tell you,” said Frankenstein.

Foster grunted with laughter. “Fair enough,” he said. “On your left, stranger.”

The monster spun, and saw a vampire dragging himself across the cobblestones towards him. His left leg was gone below the knee, his right arm missing entirely, but his face was alive with hate, and his eyes still burned red. Frankenstein shot the vampire between the eyes, and turned back to Alan Foster’s side. He raised the M4, and was about to pull its trigger again when Bob Allen’s voice burst into his ear.