There was no way for her to process what had occurred inside the Basilica, what she and her colleagues had done; it was too big, too huge, and she suspected it would take days, if not months or even years, to come to terms with. On a rational level, she understood that they had won – Dracula was gone, his vampire army scattered to the winds – but the scale of the carnage, the sheer number of men and women who had lost their lives made it hard to feel triumphant. Instead, she focused her mind on a single manageable thing, a long-held hope that could now become reality.

She accelerated over the French coast, pushing herself ever faster, trying to let her brain find neutral, to let the sight of Dracula being pulled down into an unnatural, impossible pit drift away, but the black, oily hands would not leave her mind; she wondered how often she would see them again in her nightmares.

Quite often, I suspect, she thought. For a while, at least.

Barely twenty minutes later, she descended towards the anonymous-looking patch of forest that hid the Loop from prying eyes. She touched down in the hangar, and strode towards the double doors at its rear, wondering what it must have been like to be here while the battle raged, to be able to do nothing more than watch, and wait for victory or defeat.

The hangar had been empty, but the Level 0 corridor was both busy and noisy. Men and women were wandering in and out of the open door of the Ops Room, incredulous expressions on their faces as they talked in low voices, clearly barely able to believe the news that was arriving from France. Several of them congratulated her as she passed, shaking her hand and hugging her and asking dozens of questions; she merely smiled, and nodded, and pressed forward towards the lift at the end of the corridor.

Larissa got out when the doors slid open on Level C and flew down the corridor, more aware of her supernatural abilities than she had been in a long time, full of something that was close to pre-emptive nostalgia as she pushed open the doors of the infirmary.

One of the medical staff instantly appeared, concern on his face. “Lieutenant Kinley,” he said. “Are you OK? Are you hurt?”

“No,” she said, and shook her head. “I’m not hurt.”

“OK,” said the doctor, frowning slightly. “Then what can I do for you?”

She smiled. “You can cure me,” she said. “Right now, please.”

The active roster of Department 19 descended out of the darkening sky.

Blacklight’s own helicopters had been destroyed as the Battle of Carcassonne had turned brutally and seemingly irrevocably against them; their remains were still lying, twisted and blackened, in the ruins of the city, being picked over by the forensic teams that would be investigating the details of the battle for many months to come. As a result, the helicopters lowering themselves towards the wide landing area outside the Loop’s hangar belonged to the RAF, and had been sent to France hours earlier specifically to bring the Operators of Blacklight home; it had seemed, to both the Prime Minister and the Chief of the General Staff, like the least the country could do for the men and women who had saved the world.

Not all of the survivors were crammed into the helicopter holds, however. More than fifty Operators were still lying in beds inside the displaced persons camp hospital, although none were now listed as critical; they would be shipped home as soon as they were deemed fit to travel, and discharged.

Doors slid open in the sides of the helicopters as they touched down on the tarmac, and a flood of black-clad figures began to spill out, their arms laden with bags and helmets, their faces pale with exhaustion but full of relief at having made it home in one piece.

Inside the hangar, those members of the Department who had stayed behind were waiting for those who had fought and survived. As the Operators walked into the cavernous space, there were no cheers, and no applause; just an atmosphere of tangible pride, and a low rumble of noise as their friends and colleagues welcomed them home.

Jamie walked into the hangar with his colleagues, barely able to keep his head up and his eyes open.

He had spent the last twenty-four hours alternately trying to sleep for more than half an hour without waking up in a cold sweat with a scream rising in his throat, convinced that oily black liquid was creeping across his body, and going endlessly over what had happened in the Basilica; he had been required to tell the story over and over, to what had started to feel like an endless succession of audiences, each with their own list of questions at the ready. Paul Turner had eventually taken pity and sent him to the camp’s command centre with a stenographer who had transcribed his account of the death of Dracula, producing a detailed document to which all enquiries were now being referred. Not for the first time, he had found himself immensely grateful to his Director.

Jamie had eventually received the news that Qiang had not survived the battle; by then he had been expecting it, but expectation had not diminished the cold pain of the reality. He knew it was not his fault – his selection for the strike team had rendered him unable to protect either of his squad mates – and he knew, with absolute certainty, that Qiang would have fought as hard as he could, for as long as he could. But that ultimately meant nothing, as did his relief that Ellison had survived, along with Jack Williams and Dominique Saint-Jacques and Paul Turner and dozens of other men and women he cared about; his squad mate was dead, and no amount of soul-searching or self-justification was going to change that unrelenting truth.

Qiang was dead, and Frankenstein was dead, and Dracula was dead.

At the macro level, he understood that the loss of two of his friends, along with all the others who had fallen outside Carcassonne, would be considered a price worth paying for the destruction of the first vampire. Jamie didn’t believe that he would ever be able to feel the same way.

Matt pushed through the throng in the hangar towards him, Natalia close behind, a huge smile on his face. He launched himself at Jamie, almost knocking him over, and wrapped his arms tightly round him; Jamie hugged his friend back, a smile rising unstoppably on to his face, as Natalia looked on with eyes that brimmed with tears.

“You did it,” whispered Matt, fiercely. “You and Larissa and the rest of them. You bloody did it.”

Jamie gently extricated himself from his friend’s grip. “Thank you,” he said. “It’s good to see you too.”

“It is good,” said Matt. “It really, really is. I’m so pleased you’re OK. I heard … well, I know a lot of people … aren’t.”

Jamie grimaced, and nodded.

“Welcome back, Jamie,” said Natalia. “You have done so well.”

His smile returned; it was small, and it was bittersweet, but it was genuine.

“Thank you, Natalia,” he said. “Have either of you seen Larissa?”

Matt frowned. “Isn’t she with the rest of you?”

Jamie shook his head. “She flew back on her own yesterday.”

“I haven’t seen her,” said Matt, and turned to Natalia. “Have you?”

The Russian girl shook her head. “But I am sure it is OK,” she said. “I am sure she is fine.”

Jamie nodded, but he didn’t remotely share Natalia’s certainty; he was sure he knew why Larissa had come back, and what she would likely already have done.

“I’m sure you’re right,” he said. “How’s Kate? Is there any news?”

Matt frowned. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”

Jamie’s heart lurched. “Tell me what?” he asked. “Is she dead? Don’t lie to me, Matt. Tell me the truth.”