Читать книгу Department 19 - 3 Book Collection - Will Hill, Will Hill - Страница 33

“Happy New Year, Mr Carpenter,” said Valentin Rusmanov, in a smooth, gentle voice. “I wonder if it will be your last?”

Carpenter turned slowly to face him. The man’s eyes now shone red, a red that was somehow simultaneously both dark and bright against the pale perfection of his skin.

“Do you know me?” Valentin continued.

Carpenter nodded.

“Good. We are well met, and I welcome you to my home. Although why you are here is a question that interests me a great deal.”

Valentin glanced over at someone in the crowd and nodded. There was a commotion in the crowd as the guests parted, creating a path to where Carpenter and Valentin stood. Through this new gap two large men in white tie appeared, dragging a barely conscious Frankenstein between them and depositing him heavily on to the floor. The monster’s eyes rolled in his head, his mouth hanging stupidly open.

Carpenter made to kneel next to the fallen man but Valentin told him sharply to stay where he was, and he forced himself to comply.

“Your friend has an impressive appetite for opium,” said Valentin. “It isn’t easy to incapacitate a man of his size, but we persevered.”

He smiled at Carpenter, but when he spoke again his voice contained not a trace of humour. “Tell me, Mr Carpenter. Are you here to kill me?”

Carpenter was surprised to find his equilibrium returning; the likely inevitability of his death had sunk into him, and he was determined that he would not show this creature fear if he could help it.

“No,” he replied. “That is not my mission. But I would certainly consider it a bonus.”

Valentin took half a step towards him, his teeth bared, an awful, serpentine hiss rising in his throat, then quickly regained his composure and laughed – a high, feminine sound that echoed around the cavernous ballroom.

“I admire your honesty,” he said. “Most refreshing. So, if you are not here for me, who are you here for? Given what I know of your father and his friends, I am disinclined to believe you are in New York for a holiday. Am I correct?”

“You are. I came here for one of your guests.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“Jeremiah Haslett.”

A low murmur of interest rolled through the crowd.

“And what has Mr Haslett done to warrant transatlantic pursuit?”

“His crimes are too numerous to list. But they are also largely irrelevant; he is a vampire, and that alone is enough to warrant his extermination.”

The crowd around him pulsed and hissed, but he felt no fear; it was already clear to him that Valentin alone was going to decide his fate, that the crowd of snarling vampires would do nothing without his permission.

Their host regarded him for a long moment, then spoke. “Bring Mr Haslett before me.”

There was a cry of outrage from within the crowd, and then a commotion as the skeletal figure of Jeremiah Haslett was gripped by four vampire men and dragged through the revellers. He was thrown to his knees before Valentin, spluttering and protesting. He rose to his feet, brushing down his dinner jacket, and in an act that must have required superhuman will, Frankenstein did the same, his eyes focusing more clearly on Carpenter, a look of terrible shame on his huge face.

The four figures stood in a circle, eyeing each other.

“What to do?” mused Valentin.

“What on earth do you mean?” cried Haslett. “There is no decision to be made here, surely? Kill him, and this abomination as well, and let us return to our celebration.”

“Be quiet, Mr Haslett,” said Valentin.

Haslett blustered, his face reddening, but did as he was told.

“Mr Carpenter,” Valentin continued, almost cheerfully. “What do you think we should do about this unfortunate situation?”

“Let us leave,” replied Carpenter, instantly. “We will go without a fuss, and you will not see us again.”

Around him, the vampires howled with derisory laughter. Valentin didn’t even smile.

“Why should I do that?” he asked.

Carpenter took a deep breath.

Please. Please let this work.

He slipped his dinner jacket off, and pushed his cummerbund down to his waist. Beneath it was a leather belt, wrapped tightly with three rows of light brown sticks. Inserted into the one nearest the belt buckle was a brass fuse, wired to a trigger that was now resting lightly in John Carpenter’s hand.

“Because of this,” he replied. “This is gelignite. And it will bring this entire house down on all our heads unless you do as I say.”

There were gasps and shouts from the assembled vampires. Valentin made no sound, but regarded him with a look of genuine admiration.

“Bravo, Mr Carpenter,” he said. “It is rare to be confronted with a man who is genuinely prepared to die for what he believes in. Bravo.”

He looked at Haslett, whose narrow face was white with fear, then at his guests, then back to John Carpenter.

“You may go,” he said.

There was a communal howl of anger from the crowd, and a bellow of objection from Haslett. Valentin’s eyes flared crimson, and he stepped into the air, hovering a foot above the ground, so that everyone in the room could see his pale, beautiful face.

“Silence,” he roared. “You will do as I say, or none of you will see another night sky.”

The room fell silent, and he looked down at Carpenter. “You are free to go,” he said. “I am sure we will see each other again, and I’m capable of patience.”

“What?” screamed Haslett. “He’s free to go? He came here tonight to kill me.”

“That’s right,” replied Valentin. “He did. It’s because of you that he is here.” He looked at the crowd. “Take him,” he said.

Haslett opened his mouth to say something, but the words died in his throat as the first vampire landed on him. A second leapt from the crowd, then a third, and he screamed as he was borne to the ground, disappearing under a blur of dinner jackets and ball gowns. Tearing sounds, horribly loud, came from within the squirming pile of bodies, and Haslett’s screams reached an ear-splitting pitch as dark red liquid began to seep out across the marble floor.

Carpenter turned away, nausea rising in his stomach.

“Look!” shouted Valentin. “This is why you are here, so look!”

Carpenter turned back, and watched.

Eventually the screams stopped, and the vampires began to stand up, their clothes and faces drenched in crimson blood. They stared at him with frenzied hunger in their eyes.

“I suggest you leave now, Mr Carpenter,” Valentin said.

“I will not leave without him,” Carpenter replied, gesturing at Frankenstein, who stared at him with an uncomprehending look on his face.

“Fine,” Valentin replied. “Take him with you. In truth, I cannot imagine anything worse than the taste of his warmed-over blood.”

Carpenter stepped forward, gripping the trigger tightly in his hand, and put his other hand on Frankenstein’s shoulder.

“Can you walk?” he asked, in a low voice.

Frankenstein nodded.

“All right,” said Carpenter. “Follow me. Slowly.”

He turned round and walked carefully towards the crowd of vampires, who stepped out of his way, reluctance painted openly on their faces. The two men walked between the silent, red-eyed guests, towards the wide double door that they had come through, only an hour earlier. Carpenter took the carved wooden handle in his hand and was about to turn it when Valentin’s voice echoed across the ballroom, and he turned to face the pale vampire.

“Our paths will cross again, Mr Carpenter,” he said, happily. “Of that, I have no doubt. Happy New Year.”

Carpenter almost replied, but forced himself not to. Instead, he opened the door, walked down the hallway, and led Frankenstein out into the night.

The two men staggered down the steps of the townhouse. They had gone no more than ten yards from the building when a familiar voice hailed them, and the sound of running footsteps echoed in the still night air.

“Good God, John,” said Willis, skidding to a halt in front of them, his eyes taking in the gelignite belt around Carpenter’s waist and the dazed look on Frankenstein’s face. “Are you injured? Do you need me to call the uniforms? Are you—”

Carpenter cut him off.

“I’m fine,” he said. “We’re fine. The mission was a success.”

“Well, that’s splendid,” exclaimed Willis, but his face still wore a mask of concern. “I shall need to speak to you before I prepare my report, but perhaps tomorrow would be more agreeable?” Carpenter told him that he was sure it would, and thanked the American. Willis took a final look at the two men in their now dishevelled dinner suits, and then turned and disappeared along West Eighty-Fifth Street.

Carpenter and Frankenstein walked slowly down Central Park West, looking for a carriage. After two blocks Frankenstein stumbled to his knees and vomited into the icy gutter, but when he stood up his eyes were clearer, and he looked at John Carpenter.

“I let you down,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“We both still live,” Carpenter replied. “That is all that matters.”

“Thanks entirely to you.”

Carpenter regarded the huge man. His voice was low and trembling, but his face twitched with anger; he was obviously deeply ashamed.

“You saved my life,” Frankenstein said. “When you could have left me, you didn’t. Why didn’t you?”

Carpenter shrugged. “The thought never occurred to me,” he answered.

Frankenstein studied him carefully, looking into the Englishman’s open, honest face. He saw nothing but the truth, and in the sluggish opium-addled depths of the monster’s mind, a decision was made.

“I owe you my life,” Frankenstein said, slowly. “I don’t say that lightly.” Carpenter opened his mouth to protest, but Frankenstein waved a hand at him, and continued. “If there’s anything I can do to help you, you only have to ask. Whatever it is, wherever you are.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Carpenter replied. “But I don’t need a bodyguard.”

“Given the last thing Valentin said to you,” Frankenstein replied, “I’m not sure that’s entirely true.”