As a result, the first vampire had immediately considered killing him; he could not tolerate anything even approaching divided loyalties, and Osvaldo’s death would have made that abundantly clear. What had stopped him was the look in the vampire’s eyes as he bowed before his new master, a look that he recognised instantly: the boiling fervour of a true believer. By the end of their first conversation, Dracula knew that Osvaldo wanted nothing more than to help him burn the world down. And so it had proved.

The call had gone out twenty-four hours earlier.

The first vampire had sent a hundred vampires to board commercial flights around the world, a hundred more to the major underground railways in Europe, America and Asia. Each one of his followers had been given a detailed plan and a time of attack that was to be adhered to on literal pain of death; coordination was vital if his opening salvo was to have the desired impact.

The bulk of his new army, now almost seven hundred strong, had taken wing for Carcassonne.

Dracula walked through the entrance hall of the hotel, his boots clicking rapidly on the wooden floor. A low hum of noise could be heard from around the corner beyond the reception desk, where the corridor opened up into a large lobby full of sofas and tables, with an ornate wooden bar on one side and windows that looked out on to an immaculate garden. He stepped around the corner, enjoying the hush that fell as his presence was noted, and surveyed the wide space.

Huddled together in the middle were a group of men and women, their eyes brimming with fear. Many were bloodied, their clothes torn, but none had life-threatening injuries, just as he had ordered; injured hostages caused complications, which he did not have time for. There were perhaps a hundred of them: waiters and shopkeepers, tourists of every nationality, men and women, boys and girls, young and old.

In a shadowy corner on the far side of the lobby, Dracula saw Emery staring at the hostages with his dark, hollow eyes, and suppressed the urge to shudder with disgust. The quiet, softly spoken Englishman was the only one of his new followers who was not a vampire; what he was, was one of the most profoundly empty creatures Dracula had ever come across. He had appeared outside the farmhouse one morning, his clothes neat, his eyes like black holes behind the sensible glasses he wore at all times. He had carried no bags, and it had become rapidly clear that luggage was not all that he was lacking; he was also devoid of a conscience, a sense of right and wrong, and even the most basic empathy towards other living creatures.

Osvaldo had been obviously wary, and Dracula’s first instinct had been to have the new arrival killed. But when he had summoned the man to his rooms, he had found himself instantly intrigued; Emery had shown no fear in his presence, no panic, nothing but calm, polite composure. He had looked into the man’s eyes and seen darkness, the kind of inky absence of light that he had only seen once before, many centuries earlier; in that moment, he had made a decision, and told Emery that he was welcome to stay. The Englishman had thanked him by telling him the things that he would happily do if he was ordered to, and Dracula, who had forgotten more about cruelty and torture than most people would ever know, had felt his stomach turn with revolted admiration.

The hostages looked suitably terrified as the first vampire swept his gaze across them, which was good; he was searching for the set of a jaw or the narrowness of an eye that might suggest someone potentially capable of resistance. He saw nothing but fear, and smiled widely.

“My name is Count Dracula,” he said, “and you are prisoners in a war that you could not have known was being waged. You should not blame yourselves for the situation in which you find yourselves, and should not take it as anything more than a stroke of misfortune. It is not my intention to kill you, as you are more valuable to me alive than dead, but that is the limit of my generosity. The punishment for resistance, for insubordination, for any refusal to do as you are told, will be death. Is that clear?”

Silence.

“You will not speak to me without permission,” he continued. “If I address you, you will answer by referring to me as ‘my lord’ or ‘master’. You will be fed and watered, and if you conduct yourselves with obedience and deference, your imprisonment may pass without incident. But I urge you not to misunderstand the reality of your situation, which is that you are no longer free. You are prisoners, and will remain so until I decide differently. The sooner you accept this, the better.” He looked at his followers, who were watching him in silence. “Lock them in the rooms on the first and second floors. Give a list of their names and locations to Osvaldo.”

“Yes, my lord,” growled the vampires, and moved forward. Dracula watched the crowd of hostages shrink back in terror, then frowned as footsteps echoed along the entrance hall behind him. He turned to see one of his followers round the corner, pushing an older couple before him. The man’s face was lined and his hair was grey, but his eyes were clear and full of anger. The woman looked more frightened, but she was walking under her own steam; every few seconds, she glanced over at the man, as if drawing strength from him.

“My lord,” said the vampire, and bowed his head. “I found these two in the backstreets. Osvaldo told me to bring them to you.”

Dracula nodded. The vampire bowed again, released the man and woman, and backed towards the entrance hall. The couple stood where they were, looking around at the crowd of people and vampires.

“What is this?” asked the man. “Just what the hell is going on here?”

Dracula smiled. Then he swept forward, far faster than any human eye could follow, and lifted the man into the air by his throat. Screams rang out as the woman made to move towards him, but one of his followers was there before she had the chance. The vampire pinned her arms tightly behind her back and held them in place as the man struggled in Dracula’s immovable grip, his face reddening alarmingly. As it began to turn purple, the first vampire released him. The man fell to the floor, clutching at his neck, spluttering and gasping, as Dracula looked down at him.

“You will not speak unless you are spoken to,” he said. “Stand up. Now.”

The man got to his feet. There was shock in his eyes, and pain, but in the set of his jaw and the squareness of his shoulders was visible determination.

Military, thought Dracula. I’d bet my life on it.

“Tell me your name,” he said.

“Colonel Alan Foster,” said the man. “United States Army. Retired. Who the hell are you?”

“I am the person who will decide whether you live or die,” said Dracula. “Would you like me to make that decision now?”

Foster didn’t respond.

“I thought not,” he said. “I assume this lady is your wife?”

“That’s right,” said Foster.

“Excellent,” he said. “Emery? Come here.”

The Englishman walked forward. He didn’t hurry, the way the rest of Dracula’s followers did when they were called for; he came at his own pace, as slow and deliberate as a spider approaching an insect caught in its web.

“My lord,” he said, and dipped his head.

“Colonel Foster,” said Dracula. “This is Emery. If you cause me so much as a moment’s trouble, your wife will spend some time in his company, and the worst thing you ever saw in your military career will seem like a fairy tale in comparison. Do you understand?”

Foster stared at him for a long moment, then nodded.

“Good,” said Dracula. “Join the others, and be glad you found me in a forgiving mood.”

His follower pushed Foster roughly forward, dragging the man’s wife behind him. Dracula turned away as they were manhandled towards the rest of the hostages, and walked back into the entrance hall, leaving Emery standing blankly where he was. As he exited the hotel, he heard the hostages being shepherded up the staircase and into the rooms where they would spend the foreseeable future.