Out of the corner of his eye, Jamie saw Angela stagger to her feet, sight down the barrel of Larissa’s T-Bone, and pull the trigger. The weapon fired with a bang of exploding gas, and the metal stake screeched through the air towards Dracula’s chest. At the last millisecond, at the point when it seemed impossible that the metal projectile would not find its target, Dracula ducked under Valentin’s arms, grabbed his waist, and spun his former servant into the stake’s path. It plunged through Valentin’s left eye with a sound like a slamming door and exited the back of his head, trailing blood and brains behind it.

Dracula let the twitching body crash to the ground, blazing triumph on his narrow face, and seized the metal wire as it sped past him. He yanked it forward, hauling Angela off her feet. She spun through the air, her eyes wide with shock, and into the first vampire’s waiting arms. Her fists pounded at him as he took hold of her head and twisted it sharply to the right. Her neck broke with a loud snap, and she dropped limply to the floor beside Valentin.

Just like that, thought Jamie. Just as fast as that.

He forced his reeling body into action and stood up, his legs unsteady beneath him.

Dracula stared at him, a wide smile of pure arrogance on his face. Jamie stared back, trying not to let shock and exhaustion show on his face; the sounds of the stake punching through Valentin’s eye and the breaking bones in Angela’s neck would stay with him for a long time, if there was such a thing left. He walked into the central aisle, a dreadful sense of inevitability sweeping through him; somehow, he had always known it would come down to this, and now the moment had arrived.

“You are strong,” said Dracula. “And fast. Who birthed you?”

“I was turned by the first person you ever drank from,” he said. Talking to the old monster felt obscene with his friends lying broken around him, but every extra second allowed his muscles to recover a fraction of their strength.

Dracula frowned, then smiled again, more widely than ever. “The gypsy,” he said. “I should have made sure he was dead, but I was not myself at that moment. Although it matters not. Shall we finish this?”

Jamie was terrified, more scared than he had ever been in his life, but he knew he could not refuse; there was nobody to take his place, nobody left to stand with him. He gripped the metal stake tightly in his hand, and walked down the aisle as the first vampire strode to meet him.

Dracula threw a punch, long and lazy but still fizzing with power. Jamie slipped under it, stepped in, and slammed the blunt end of the stake into the side of his head. The first vampire recoiled, took a step backwards, and grinned.

“Strong,” he growled. “As I said. But not strong enough.”

Dracula burst forward, so fast that even Jamie’s supernatural eyes could barely follow him, and unleashed an overwhelming series of punches, like tree trunks being swung against his arms. He was forced backwards, the brutality of the attack completely irresistible; the first vampire’s eyes burned with savage cruelty as his fists came down over and over again. Jamie’s right arm fell, no longer able to withstand the onslaught, and he followed it, ducking low and sliding to his right, then drove his foot into the ancient vampire’s ribs, drawing a thick grunt and sending him back a step.

Dracula let out a deep growl, and came again. Jamie thrust out the stake, sending it on a direct line towards the old monster’s heart, but the first vampire darted left and sent his fist crashing into Jamie’s chin, knocking him flat. He leapt back up, his eyes full of fire, and drew his Glock from his belt as he ducked beneath a vast haymaker. He fired the pistol point-blank into Dracula’s back, the bullets punching ragged holes in his flesh; blood sprayed out in dark bursts, and the vampire howled with pain. He spun and swung a fist out behind him, a blind punch that connected with Jamie’s shoulder and sent the Glock spinning away into the distance. He reached for his T-Bone, but found only an empty loop and his shattered UV beam gun; his stake was all he had left.

The first vampire leapt forward, his face twisted with pleasure, even as he bled from half a dozen bullet wounds that would have ended a normal man. Jamie jabbed the stake out again, sinking it into the flesh of the vampire’s arm, but Dracula kept coming as though he hadn’t even felt it; he swung his fist into Jamie’s stomach, driving what little breath he had managed to recover back out of him with a sound like a bursting balloon. The stake flew from his hand as he staggered backwards, the light in his eyes fading, until Dracula kicked him dismissively in the chest, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Can’t beat him, Jamie thought, panic spreading through him. Can’t even breathe. Nothing I can do. Nothing.

Dracula flew forward, his expression almost sympathetic.

“You tried,” he said. “You did your best, and it was admirable. Let that console you in the next life.”

Jamie pushed himself backwards, dragging a wheezing stream of air into his lungs, and kicked out weakly as the ancient vampire reached him. Dracula’s expression changed to one of disgust; he swooped easily over the outstretched leg, and hammered the toe of his boot into Jamie’s ribs. At least two of them broke, audibly, and he shrieked in pain. Dracula kicked him again, a sickening blow that shuddered through his bones, and again, and again. Jamie heard himself screaming as he was driven backwards, but there was no escape to be had; panic had overwhelmed him, turning his limbs to lead and his stomach to water.

Failed, he thought, his mind pulsing with terror. Never had a chance. Failed. I’m sorry. So sorry.

Dracula dug his foot under Jamie’s side and flipped him over on to his front. He kept crawling, even though it was pointless, even though there was nowhere to go. Ahead of him, lying in the aisle, he saw the motionless shape of Frankenstein, the sword hilt sticking out of his body, and dragged himself towards it, acting almost entirely on instinct.

The first vampire walked alongside him, raining punishing kicks on his back and ribs. When Jamie was almost within reach of the monster, Dracula stamped on the back of his right calf with an impact that felt like a car had been dropped on it. Jamie heard the bones break, and a millisecond later the pain hit; it rolled up his body as a great grey wave of nauseating agony, churning his stomach and wiping his mind clear. He didn’t scream; instead, he let out a terrible howl of pain and misery, his head thrown back, his body reeling at the damage done to it. He dragged himself forward a final time, and reached out a trembling hand for the sword hilt.

His gloved fingers closed on nothing but air.

Over, he realised. It’s all over.

Jamie slumped to the ground, and saw something among the broken tiles in front of him, something small and angular. He reached out and closed his fingers round it; it was a wooden crucifix, small and plain and rough.

Hands that felt like vices took hold of his shoulders and turned him over on to his back. He stared up at the face of the first vampire, the cross gripped tightly in his hand. Dracula settled over him, his knees either side of his waist, and looked down at him with dreadful finality.

Jamie stared back, lost in the swirling crimson-black of the ancient vampire’s eyes, and found himself looking past the narrow face looming over him; in the molten darkness, he saw his mother smiling at him with the pride and love that always filled her eyes, saw the faces of Larissa and Kate and Matt, of Henry Seward, of John Morton and Lizzy Ellison and Paul Turner, of Frankenstein and his grandfather and the ancestors he had never known. His heart swelled in his chest, tapping some distant reserve, and he raised the crucifix towards Dracula.