Paul Turner stared at the wall screen opposite his desk, and felt for a brief moment like he was going to burst into tears.

The Blacklight Director could count on the fingers of one hand the times he had cried as an adult; the most recent, and by far the worst, occasion had been when he had carried the dead body of his son into the Loop after Valeri Rusmanov had murdered him. Those had been tears of agony, of insatiable grief, that had risen up from the very depths of his soul; what were threatening to appear in the corners of his eyes now were tears of almost unbearable relief.

The screen was tuned to the BBC News channel. BREAKING NEWS filled the bottom quarter of the screen as a bright red and white ticker crawled slowly above the headline, six words scrolling from right to left in endless repetition:

PRIME MINISTER ANNOUNCES VAMPIRE

CURE, AMNESTY

The centre of the screen showed a shot of the Prime Minister, as sombre and handsome and sharply dressed as always, standing behind a lectern on Downing Street. In front of him, a tightly packed scrum of journalists jostled behind a rope barrier, waving microphones and voice recorders in the air.

“For those of you just joining us,” said the disembodied voice of the presenter, “let’s listen again to the statement made by the Prime Minister less than half an hour ago.”

The sound switched to the excited clamour of the parliamentary press corps, as the Prime Minister gave them a nod and smiled briefly at them.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I am pleased to announce to the people of the United Kingdom, and to everyone listening around the world, that Her Majesty’s government has today received an exemption from the World Health Organisation for the public release of an unprecedented drug treatment. The treatment, which was developed by the security department most commonly referred to as Blacklight, is a genetically engineered virus designed to reverse the effects of the condition known throughout the world as vampirism. I am pleased to announce that, so far, it has proven one hundred per cent effective.”

There was an explosion of noise as the journalists surged forward against the rope line, bellowing a thousand questions at once.

“What I am announcing this morning,” continued the Prime Minister, “is that, beginning tonight, this new treatment will be made available on a voluntary basis to any and all sufferers of vampirism. It will be distributed at a number of major hospitals throughout the United Kingdom, under the supervision of qualified physicians and the protection of Blacklight. The names and locations of these hospitals will be released shortly. Following meetings of the Cabinet and COBRA, and discussions with the Attorney General and the Home Secretary, I am also announcing a legal amnesty for all men and women who voluntarily receive this treatment, covering any and all crimes committed while suffering the effects of the vampire virus. This amnesty has received cross-party backing in both houses of Parliament, and will provide a clean slate for those afflicted by this terrible condition, and a new beginning for us all. This is a momentous day.”

The news channel cut back to the studio, where the presenter was staring into the camera with an expression of professional solemnity.

“We’re going to leave Downing Street now and get some live reaction to this remarkable announcement,” he said. “In the studio with me are—”

Turner muted the screen. He knew that footage of the statement would be playing endlessly on every TV channel in the world, and he wondered what reaction it was causing in the homes of vampires, in the halls of power, and in the canteen and Briefing Rooms of his own Department. If nothing else, it had, at least temporarily, put an end to the coverage of Dracula’s second video, which was a great relief. He had been given the heads-up by the Prime Minister barely five minutes before the announcement was made; the message had been short, and to the point.

Turn a TV On And Pat Yourself

On The Back.

He had forwarded the message to Robert Karlsson and Matt Browning, then settled down to watch the world change forever.

A tone rang out as a comms window opened up on the screen. Turner read the name of the caller, smiled, and clicked ACCEPT.

“Good morning, Prime Minister,” he said. “And well done, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Thank you, Major,” said the politician. “The credit belongs entirely to you and your Department.”

“How hard did you have to fight for the amnesty?” asked Turner. He had recommended it to the politician the morning after bringing him up to speed on the cure – it had been the key strategic recommendation of both the Security and Intelligence Divisions – and he was delighted to see it announced; he had not been at all confident that it would be.

“Quite hard,” said the Prime Minister. “There was some … resistance, shall we say, from certain quarters.”

“I can imagine, sir,” said Turner.

“It was the right thing to do, though,” said the Prime Minster. “This has been a very good day, Major Turner, for the entire country. For the entire world, no less. Now we need to get to work.”

“Yes, sir,” said Turner. “What do you need from me?”

“I’m going to be relying on your Operators to provide security at the hospitals,” said the Prime Minister. “Can I count on your help?”

“Of course,” said Turner.

“Good. We should have the location list within the hour.”

“I’ll have a plan drawn up as soon as I see it, sir.”

There was a long silence.

“This really is an incredible achievement, Major,” said the Prime Minister, eventually. “Your scientists have done a remarkable thing, and the people of this country are going to be immensely grateful to you all.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said. “I’ll make sure the Lazarus staff know that.”

“Good,” said the Prime Minister. “Thank you, Major. I’ll be in touch later today.”

“Goodbye, sir.”

“Goodbye.”

There was a loud click as the connection was cut. For almost a minute, Paul Turner didn’t move; his mind had been overwhelmed by a wave of emotions that had become unfamiliar in recent months and years.

Pride. Satisfaction. Optimism.

Happiness.

Jamie stared through the window in the infirmary door with a lump in his throat and familiar anger in his stomach.

He knew that taking the cure had been his mother’s choice, and he knew it was not one she would have made lightly, but the sight of her lying in a hospital bed still hurt his heart. The anger churning through him was due to another decision that had been made: to place the infirmary off-limits to everyone apart from the medical staff and members of the Lazarus Project. He understood the reasoning, but it was nonetheless a source of great frustration; when he had reached the long white room after his awful confrontation with Matt in the Lazarus laboratory, his mother had been sleeping off the surgery to repair her broken arm, and by the time he had tried to see her the next morning, the new order had been given. As a result, he had not been able to see her since she had been cured, more than a week ago.

The infirmary was now almost fully occupied by recipients of the cure, men and women sleeping and chatting in low voices. A great many more vampires had already recovered and been returned to the cells on Level H; a dozen or so had even been released from the Loop entirely, free to resume their normal lives with all trace of the supernatural gone. Those men and women had received their treatments after the first trial, when the doctors had known what to expect and had started administering the cure in thickly padded rooms, like the isolation areas in a secure hospital. None had suffered anything more than a pounding headache when they woke up.