Pete’s heart stopped dead.

Greg had changed clothes while he was inside the warehouse and was now wearing all black. But as he climbed back up into the van, Pete had clearly seen the crude white outline of a wolf’s head on his friend’s chest.

Night Stalker, he thought. Oh, Greg. What the hell have you done?

The van roared away from the warehouse. By the time Pete got back to his car, fired up the engine, and reached the main road, it was barely more than a black speck in the distance. He put his foot down, his insides churning with worry.

Even now, as he chased after the van, he did not believe that Greg Browning was a bad man. But he was easily led, and easily manipulated, and possessed of a wellspring of frustration and a rage that was never far below the surface. Pete had not known him before the darkness had reached into both their lives and laid waste to them, but he was sure that, knowingly or not, his friend had retrospectively idealised that time; to hear Greg tell it now, his had been a life of domestic bliss with a wife he adored and two kids who idolised him. What was undoubtedly real, however, was his bitterly held belief that the subsequent unravelling of his existence and estrangement from his family was due to vampires, to Blacklight, to bad luck and bad timing; in short, that it was everybody’s fault apart from his own.

Pete had thought their ordeal at the hands of Albert Harker had softened his friend, had shown him that violence and intimidation were futile; he had believed that was what had led to the founding of SSL. But now, as he closed the gap on the van, he wondered whether the truth was exactly the opposite; that Greg’s anger and hatred had been solidified by their experience, that his world view had been twisted far more radically than Pete had realised.

I have to do something, he thought. I need to stop this before it’s too late.

He knew he should call the police; he should have taken out his phone and dialled 999 the second he saw his friend emerge from the warehouse with what was very clearly the Night Stalker logo emblazoned on his chest. But he hadn’t, and until he knew why Greg was doing it, until he could look him in the face and ask him to stop, he wasn’t going to.

Part of him was thinking about SSL. If it got out that one of the charity’s founders was also part of a vigilante group who were responsible for the murders of at least a dozen vampires, it would ruin them, and all the good they had done would be for nothing. But even though there could be no possible way to justify what Greg and his fellow Night Stalkers had done, a larger part of him simply wanted to give Greg the chance to explain himself; he felt he owed his friend that much.

On the edge of Lincoln, where the city bled into the countryside, the van turned down a narrow lane. Pete slowed, saw a postbox on a pole at the turning, and swore heavily. He had been hoping the road led to a village, but the lone postbox suggested that all that was down there was a single house; if that was the case, there was no way he could follow without giving himself away. He drove past the turning, looking for a place to pull over and wait for the van to re-emerge. After barely two hundred metres, his headlights picked out a lay-by; Pete pulled gratefully into it, turned off the car’s engine, and got out.

For long minutes, he stood at the edge of the road, listening for the telltale growl of an engine over the chirping and rustling of the woods and the thudding of his heart. On two occasions, he thought he heard it, only for a car to sweep past him and disappear into the darkness, its headlights blinding. Eventually, as the tension threatened to overwhelm him, he heard a distant rumble. He froze, holding his breath and straining his hearing, until there could be absolutely no doubt.

The van was coming back.

Pete got into his car and waited to see which way the van would turn when it reached the main road. After thirty seconds, surely long enough for it to have come past him if it was going to, he pulled out, accelerated over a low rise, and saw brake lights disappearing round a bend in the distance. He put his foot down and followed Greg back towards the city, a frown etched on his face.

The van led him into Lincoln’s grimy industrial district, until it finally came to a halt on a patch of waste ground beside the canal. Pete pulled into the shadowy car park of a factory half a street away and got out of his car.

Then everything began to happen very fast.

He crept along the road, sticking to the shadows and watching the ground for anything that might creak or crack underfoot. As he reached the corner of the last building, the spot that marked the limit of his cover, the van’s rear door swung open, and Pete clamped a hand over his mouth so he didn’t cry out.

A black figure – wearing a balaclava so he couldn’t tell whether it was Greg or one of the others – jumped down from inside the vehicle and hauled an old man out on to the ground. The man’s arms and legs were limp, his head lolling back as he was dragged away from the van, but his eyes were open, and Pete could see the naked fear that filled them. Near the edge of the canal, the Night Stalker lowered the old man and positioned him on his knees, like he was arranging a doll. The limp figure almost overbalanced, but the masked man grabbed his shoulders and set him upright.

“Sit still, you old fart,” said the Night Stalker, and Pete felt his stomach churn as he recognised Greg’s voice.

The driver’s door opened and the second Night Stalker got out. The dim glow of security lights on the surrounding buildings illuminated them, and Pete realised that the two men were armed; guns hung from their belts, alongside ultraviolet torches. He stood in the shadows, terrified by what was happening in front of him, but equally terrified of revealing himself; he didn’t think Greg would hurt him, but he wasn’t sure enough to force his legs or his vocal cords into action.

“Jacob Hillman,” said Greg. “Look at me.”

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the other Night Stalker stepped forward, and roughly pushed the old man’s head back.

“That’s better,” said Greg. “You preyed on desperate and vulnerable boys and men for more than two decades. You confessed to your sins, and the time has come for you to be held accountable for your crimes. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

The Night Stalker shook the old man’s head from left to right, and the two black-clad figures laughed.

“Good,” said Greg. “I’ve no time for excuses. Take a moment to make peace with whatever you believe in.”

The second Night Stalker released the old man’s head and let it flop forward. Greg drew a metal stake from his belt, and Pete felt himself move, his legs carrying him forward seemingly without any instruction from his conscious mind, his hands raised, his face ashen. The Night Stalkers didn’t notice his approach; their attention was entirely focused on their victim.

“Greg,” he said, his voice high and wavering. “Please stop this. Please.”

The Night Stalkers jumped as though an electric current had been passed through them, then spun round, drawing their guns from their belts. They pointed them at Pete, who raised his arms even higher.

For long seconds, nobody moved. Then Greg reached up and pulled his balaclava over his head.

“Pete?” he said, an incredulous frown on his face. “What the hell are you doing here, mate?”

“I followed you.”

“Why?”

Pete had no response; the circumstances seemed so insignificant now that he was faced with the reality he had discovered. He merely stared at his friend.

“Turn around and walk away, Pete,” said Greg.

The other Night Stalker turned towards him. “What are you—”

“Shut up,” said Greg. “I’m serious, Pete. Go home, right now, and keep your mouth shut. This doesn’t have to change anything.”