Jen rolled her eyes, tapped the UV torch on her belt, and strode away across the wide room. Pete watched her go, then walked behind the row of tables and out through the community centre’s back door, unease momentarily filling him.

They were required to provide their volunteers with at least rudimentary protection against the supernatural; the insurance policy that covered SSL employees explicitly demanded it, and Pete knew many of the volunteers felt better with ultraviolet torches hanging from their belts. But if it had been an option, he would have strongly argued for their removal, for two reasons.

Firstly, he didn’t like the message that it sent to the queuing vampires. Sales of all things ultraviolet had exploded in the aftermath of V-Day, as the public scrambled to protect themselves from the threat they were now being told was lurking in their midst. Families up and down the country had put UV bulbs into motion-sensor-controlled exterior lights, and men and women – although it was mostly men, Pete had noted – had taken to wearing torches on their belts, like the six-shooters carried by gunslingers in the Old West.

Pete had more reason than most to be suspicious of vampires; he had seen first hand the violence and death left in the wake of Albert Harker’s bloody quest for revenge. But he also knew that it had been more the result of Harker’s damaged, broken mind than because he was a vampire, and he had agreed to found SSL on that assumption: that vampire was not the same as evil, that the supernatural was not something to be automatically feared. Having his volunteers carry weapons that could only hurt vampires felt uncomfortably close to a betrayal of that principle.

Secondly, and far more pragmatically, Pete knew that the ultraviolet torches were next to useless. He had seen Albert Harker overpower three Blacklight Operators, two of whom had turned out to be his daughter and Greg’s son, with apparently minimal effort; if one of the vampires queuing patiently outside the community centre decided to attack someone, he doubted any of the volunteers, or the professional security guards that were also mandated by the insurance policy, would have time to draw their UV torch from their belt, let alone turn it on.

The van that had brought the SSL team from Lincoln was parked outside the back door. Pete pulled the keys out of his pocket, walked round to the rear of the vehicle, and froze solid to the spot, his heart lurching as something huge and full of teeth snarled out of the darkness.

Nothing happened.

Nothing moved.

He dragged in a high, rattling breath, took a closer look at the shadows on the other side of the alleyway, and let out a long sigh of relief.

Jesus, he thought. Who the hell does something like that?

Painted across the crumbling brick and cement was a wide mouth, curled open in what could easily have been either a grin or a snarl. Rows of white triangular teeth gleamed in the darkness, and written in the space between them, as though the mouth was about to swallow them whole, were the words:

Dracula’s followers, he thought.

“Pete?”

He jumped round, his heart accelerating, and saw one of the volunteers, a young man called Rob, standing in the doorway with a curious expression on his face.

“Christ,” said Pete, pressing a hand against his chest. “Sneak up on me, why don’t you?”

“Sorry,” said Rob. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” said Pete, blood pounding in his ears. “Give me a hand.”

He unlocked the rear doors of the van as Rob walked across to join him. It was a battered white Ford Transit that had belonged to a butcher for almost twenty years, but its engine was solid, and its refrigerated cabinets still worked, most of the time. Pete climbed up into the back, hearing the suspension creak beneath him, and put the last twenty bottles of blood into a heavy plastic sack. He jumped back down to the ground, and held it out to the volunteer.

“Cheers, Pete,” said Rob, swinging the sack over his shoulder. “That’s the last of it, right?”

He nodded. “How short are we going to be?”

“Maybe a dozen people,” said Rob. “We’re going to start splitting bottles to try and make them last.”

“Good,” said Pete. “Give everyone as much as you can. I’m going to check the queue.”

Rob nodded, and carried the sack of blood through the open door. As Pete relocked the van, he heard the first cries and shouts from the vampires as they were informed that they were no longer going to be getting an entire bottle to themselves. He walked back into the community centre, past the row of tables and protesting vampires, and headed for the front door, counting the queue as he went. He had reached forty-two when he heard noises from outside that sent a shiver racing up his spine.

Raised voices. A scream.

And something that sounded like the howl of a wild animal.

Pete sprinted through the small atrium, out on to the quiet suburban street, and cut to his left. The queue ran along one side of the building, beneath the large banner that read SSL BLOOD DRIVE – ALL WELCOME and round the corner. Here, the queuing vampires had turned as one, and were staring with glowing eyes at three figures near the end of the line as they grappled and twisted against the wall of the building.

“Hey!” shouted Pete, and accelerated towards them. “Hey! Cut that out!”

He waded into the middle of them without slowing, pushing and shoving until he reached the centre of the commotion and was able to get a good look at who was fighting.

To his right was a vampire in his mid-forties, his eyes blazing, his fangs gleaming, his face contorted with anger. The man was clutching his right hand, as thick smoke rose between his fingers and a low growl rumbled from his throat.

In front of him, standing with his back against the wall, was one of the SSL security guards. He was a giant of a man, barrel-chested and shaven-headed. He had an ultraviolet torch in his hand and a smile on his face so full of arrogance that it filled Pete with the unexpected desire to punch him squarely in the centre of it.

To his left, yelling and thrashing against his outstretched arm, was Jen. Her eyes were wide with shock and fury, her face was pale, and he had to lean into her with both hands and all his strength to keep her swinging fists out of the reach of the security guard.

“Jen!” he shouted. “Calm down, for Christ’s sake! What the hell is going on out here?”

“Why don’t you ask this dickhead?” shouted Jen, dragging herself out of his grip and pointing at the security guard. “Go on, ask him!”

“Don’t point at me, love,” said the giant, his voice thick with condescension.

“Shut up,” said Pete, keeping his attention fixed on his volunteer. “I’m asking you, Jen. What happened?”

She stared at him for a long moment, and sighed deeply. Some of the colour had returned to her face, and tears appeared in the corners of her eyes as her anger was replaced by shock and upset.

“This guy asked me if he could jump the queue,” she said, and nodded at the vampire holding his smoking hand. “I told him he couldn’t, and he asked me to check whether he was definitely going to get any blood because he hadn’t drunk anything for two days. I told him I would. When I turned away, he grabbed my arm.”

“I’m sorry I did that,” said the vampire, his voice low. “I really am. I’m just hungry.”

“It’s all right,” said Jen, shooting him a smile before looking back at Pete. “He didn’t hurt me. I asked him to let me go, and he did. But then Captain America here waded in and torched his hand.”

Pete turned to the security guard. “You did that?”

“The geezer attacked one of your staff,” said the guard. “You ought to be thanking me, mate.”