“What do we do, sir?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Allen, his voice full of what sounded dangerously close to resignation. “I honestly don’t. Whatever you can. I’m sorry.”

The line went dead.

Jamie looked around the square, panic rising through him in a steady wave; vampires still flew back and forth, but most were now on the ground, broken and bleeding. In the hotel entrance, Frankenstein and the man with silver hair had been sniping them out of the air like two friends on a Sunday morning duck hunt, but the monster was now staring straight at him, his M4 lowered, his eyes wide with shock.

“Sub launch,” said Valentin, appearing at Jamie’s side as suddenly as if he had teleported. “It has to be.”

“Where’s the nearest coastline?” asked Larissa, joining them in a blur of black and glowing red.

“To the south-east,” said Valentin. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Take care of it?” repeated Jamie, incredulously. “What are you talking about? What are you going to do?”

Valentin smiled. “I have absolutely no idea,” he said. “But don’t worry. I’ve always been very resourceful.”

The ancient vampire leapt into the air, and disappeared over the rooftops.

“What do we do, Jamie?” asked Larissa, her voice low.

He shook his head. “We carry on,” he said. “If Valentin manages to do something, then brilliant. If he doesn’t, I don’t think being at ground zero of a nuclear explosion will hurt very much.”

Larissa smiled at him. “Probably not,” she said. “Let’s finish this.”

Valentin accelerated almost vertically, searching the expanding horizon for the missile.

The absurdity of the situation struck the ancient vampire as he climbed, and he fought back the sudden urge to laugh. The fate of thousands of men and women now rested solely in his hands; unless he was able to do something, they – along with several square miles of the French countryside – would be vaporised by nuclear fire. But if he was able to stop the missile, to somehow divert or defuse it, and they then failed to kill Dracula, he was going to be essentially responsible for the end of the world.

A voice in his head was screaming for him to just get to a safe distance, hover in the warm air, and watch the blast obliterate Carcassonne; it was the sensible thing to do, and inarguably in his own best interests. But as he soared upwards, he found himself unable to do so. He had happily broken his word on many occasions when it suited him, but he had made a promise to Paul Turner, and told Jamie and the rest of the strike team that they could trust him; for reasons he didn’t fully understand, he was unwilling to let them down.

Besides, a nuclear blast would make it impossible to know for absolutely certain that Dracula was dead. And that could not be tolerated.

In the distance, streaking across the darkening sky, he saw the missile’s vapour trail, and growled with anger. It was far higher than he had expected; as he tracked the trail across the sky, he saw that it was already past him. He swore, and hurtled after it, pushing his body as fast as he could through air that was increasingly cold and thin.

Less than thirty seconds later, Valentin pulled alongside the missile and marvelled at the sheer size of it.

The cylinder of grey metal was more than twelve metres long, with a long trail of fire and heat blasting out from its rear. He looped round it, trying to concentrate through the deafening roar of the rocket, momentarily transfixed by the astonishing destructive power hidden beneath the innocuous-looking panels of grey metal.

Do something, he told himself. Anything. It’s not like you can make it worse.

Valentin matched the missile’s speed and floated beside it. He ran his gloved hands along its smooth surface, feeling the slight depressions at the edge of the metal panels; in his mind, he was picturing a cross-section of a missile that he knew was almost certainly inaccurate, but was all he had to go on. In his mental image, the rear of the cylinder contained the engine, the middle contained the fuel, and the front section and nose contained what he was interested in: the nuclear warhead itself, and the computers that controlled the guidance and firing systems. The missile was cold beneath his hands as he slid towards the front, and stopped. He dug his fingers into the ridges at the sides of a wide panel, took a deep breath, and ripped it out.

Nothing happened.

Valentin breathed out with relief, and tore at the second layer of metal, dragging out panel after panel, exposing the interior of the missile. The noise of the rocket was so loud that he could barely think straight, but he risked a glance to the west, and forced himself to concentrate.

On the distant horizon, probably no more than thirty miles away, his supernaturally sharp eyes could see the medieval city of Carcassonne.

The target.

Larissa raced across the cobbled square, staking stricken vampire after stricken vampire without slowing.

Jamie and Frankenstein were doing the same, finishing off the dozens of men and women who had fallen under their guns and swinging fists. The surviving vampires, no more than ten of them in total, had fled up the hill towards the Basilica, but the strike team had not given chase; it would only take a few litres of blood to revive the vampires lying on the cobblestones and turn them back into threats.

Larissa’s heart was pounding; she had no idea whether there was still any point to what they were doing, whether they and the hostages standing in front of the hotel were all about to be vaporised, but all she could do was carry on. There were only three of them left now, probably not enough to stop Dracula if they even got close enough to try, but turning back, when they were so close, was not an option.

“Clear,” shouted Jamie. “Let’s move.”

He was standing in front of the hotel with Frankenstein and the hostages, who were staring at the blood-drenched square with obvious disgust. She flew across to join them.

“Where to?” asked the monster.

“Up,” said Jamie. “Until there’s nowhere left to go.”

“What about them?” Larissa asked, nodding at the hostages.

Jamie turned to face them. “Get as far away from the city as you can, as fast as you can,” he said. “Don’t go through the main exits if you can help it. Is that clear?”

Most of the men and women nodded, their eyes bright with fear. The silver-haired man, whom Frankenstein had been beside as the fighting raged, narrowed his eyes.

“Are you going after Dracula?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Jamie.

“Good,” said the man. “I’m Colonel Alan Foster. I’m coming with you.”

“I’m not going to stop you,” said Jamie. “And I don’t have time to argue. But we won’t be able to look after you.”

“That’s fine,” said Foster, and smiled. “I can take care of myself.”

I bet you can, thought Larissa.

A woman stepped forward and took hold of Foster’s arm.

“Alan?” she said. “Do you have to?”

“You know I do,” said Foster, and gave her cheek a gentle kiss. “I’ll be all right. Help the others, OK?”

The woman nodded, her face pale but tight with determination.

“All right,” said Jamie. “Follow me.”

He turned towards the narrow road that led up to the summit of Carcassonne, where death or victory awaited them.

The wind howled around Valentin as he wrenched out a plastic screen, exposing a mass of wires. As he stared at them, the missile shifted as its nose began to tilt towards the distant ground.

All right, he told himself. It’s all right. There’s still time.

He drew in a deep breath, and took hold of two handfuls of the wires. He was suddenly aware that what he was about to do might be the last thing he ever did; no amount of blood was going to help if a nuclear missile went off in his hands, because he was pretty sure there would be no remains to revive. He glanced down and saw that the ground was already closer.