Inside the city, queues had formed outside the supermarkets and boulangeries as those who had not already left prepared to do so. Despite the early hour, the streets were busy with scared, fractious men and women who did not really understand the horror that had befallen their quiet corner of the world. The police – or rather, those police who had not packed up and left in the night – were out on the streets in force, defusing the fights and arguments that were breaking out with increasing frequency as the shops began to run low on essentials like bread and bottled water. They had been assured that the military would arrive no later than noon to take charge of the situation, but, until then, they were on their own, and hopelessly outnumbered.

At the centre of the city, an enormous crowd swarmed round the railway station as residents without cars sought seats on the first train to anywhere; to Marseilles and Montpellier, to Bordeaux and La Rochelle, even all the way north to Paris. Mothers and fathers gripped their children tightly and dragged them towards the platforms, their faces pale and tight with the effort of attempting to appear calm for the sake of their kids. And from the shadows, unnoticed by anyone, Dracula watched them with a smile on his narrow face.

The first vampire had slipped out of the medieval city under cover of darkness, rising silently into the air and descending into the chaos below. He was wearing clothes that Osvaldo had brought him from one of the newly empty boutiques near the summit of the old city, clothes that felt ridiculous but which he had been assured would allow him to pass unnoticed. The Spaniard had actually attempted to persuade him against venturing down into the city to see what was happening for himself, as he considered it an unnecessary risk, but Dracula had reminded him that if he wanted his counsel, he would ask for it.

The shoes were the only part of his disguise that he was pleased with; they were made of wonderfully soft leather, a far cry from the heavy boots he had worn first as a man then during his first incarnation as Count Dracula. The rest of the clothes – the jeans, the thick woollen shirt, the hooded top and gloves – felt like the clothes a commoner would wear, apparel wholly unsuitable for a Prince who was about to become the ruler of an entire planet. But as he walked among the men and women of Carcassonne, taking care to keep his face, which was his only area of exposed skin, angled away from the sun, he saw that Osvaldo had been right about one thing: nobody gave him so much as a second glance.

On several occasions he had slipped unseen into cities his Wallachian armies had conquered, almost always over the protests of his advisers. He had known it was dangerous, perhaps even foolhardy, but he had not cared; there was nothing more thrilling than experiencing the terror of his enemies first hand, to bask in the knowledge that the same men and women who were ignoring him would soon be dead at his command.

This was different, in some ways, as it would no longer matter if anyone recognised him; in those days he had been human, whereas now he could have defended himself against the entire population of Carcassonne without breaking a sweat. But the fear, the sweet, palpable fear, was the same; he could see it in the wide eyes of every man and woman who hurried past with their meagre belongings in their arms, could smell it rising from their pores.

He had allowed his army a few hours to celebrate once the medieval city had been taken; vampires had filled the Hôtel de la Cité and the cobbled squares, drinking blood and alcohol, tormenting and torturing the last few tourists who had been flushed from their hiding places in the surrounding streets. The hostages, locked safely in their rooms, were off-limits, however; he had made that abundantly clear, along with the penalty that would befall anyone who disobeyed his orders. In the early hours, he had called the revelry to a halt, and ordered Emery to oversee the creation of the gruesome decorations that now adorned the walls of the city. They had finished their work as the first light crept over the eastern horizon, and he had allowed most of them to seek the cover of darkness and the emptiness of sleep; there would be work to do as soon as the sun set again. The rest were on a watch rota that Osvaldo had organised; they patrolled the empty streets and perched high above the low sprawl, waiting to see what form the human response would take.

Dracula was confident that it would not come for at least a day, whatever it was; in truth, he was counting on it. His enemies’ best option would have been to send everything they had into Carcassonne, as quickly as they possibly could; his vampire army was loyal and enthusiastic, but it was also inexperienced and undisciplined, and he knew it could be routed if it was attacked with enough conviction. But to respond so quickly, with the overwhelming force a frontal assault would require, would have risked the deaths of thousands of innocent civilians, and he was certain that they would not entertain the prospect of such losses, especially given the carnage that his followers had unleashed around the world overnight.

Osvaldo had shown him the television coverage of the crashed planes and the blood-soaked underground stations, and he had felt a brief surge of pride; his followers had carried out their missions to the letter, and had provided an invaluable diversion. Dracula knew, probably better than anyone alive, that battles were won by the commander best able to focus solely on the destruction of the enemy; collateral damage, innocent victims, destruction of property, morality and fairness were all distractions, and ultimately worthless. Victory was earned, more often than not, by sheer, bloody force of will.

His enemies’ attention would be divided while they gathered forces from around the globe, analysed and overanalysed the terrain and resources and tactics they would employ, and reassured the relatives of the men and women on the list of hostages that Osvaldo had dropped on to the television crews gathered around the walls, all of which played directly into Dracula’s hands; he was a medieval General, and a large-scale, winner-takes-all battle was not something he feared.

It was, in fact, exactly what he wanted.

Death or glory, he thought. Win or lose. One battle to end them all.

He walked away from the station, leaving the increasingly restless crowd to their desperation. The main street that ran up to the walled city was almost deserted; its clothes shops and mobile-phone kiosks and brasseries and cafés should by now have been getting ready to open, but their shutters were all down, and the pavements were empty. He turned south, heading out of the central commercial district and into the residential streets that encircled it.

The contrast was immediately striking; here, the narrow roads were full of activity, as civilians dragged their belongings out of their homes and forced them into overflowing car boots or on to groaning roof racks. There was a feverish sense of urgency rising from the residents, as if they were worried they might look at their watches and see that forty-eight hours had passed in an instant, or – perhaps more likely – that Dracula would not keep his word. The thought gave him great satisfaction; he intended to honour the two days he had promised, unless his position was attacked, but it pleased him to see that this was not being taken for granted.

There was nothing in the world he enjoyed more than proof that people were scared of him.

He strolled along one of the streets, ignored by everyone. Up ahead, in the small garden of a terraced house, a heavy-set man was bellowing up at an open window, demanding that his wife hurry up. The woman strode out of the house, her face crimson with anger, and shouted back at her husband, demanding to know exactly why he thought it was OK for him to just stand outside and order people around.