LITMIR.BIZ

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      The noise came from beside Van Helsing’s head, and he slowly turned in its direction. Six inches in front of his forehead hovered a Colt 45 revolver, the silver gleaming yellow beneath the oil lamps that were suspended above the docks. The gun hung motionless in the air, and holding it at arm’s length, smiling gently, was Ivan Bukharov.

      “What is the meaning of this?” growled Van Helsing.

      “I’m afraid my orders regrettably contravene yours, my dear Professor,” said Bukharov, his English suddenly smooth and flawless. “They are to bring the spoils of this journey back to Moscow, for inspection by the Imperial Tsar. Which means that I cannot allow you to return the remains to London, an inconvenience for which I sincerely apologise.”

       You stupid fool. You underestimated this man because his manners were rough and his English was poor. Now you stand without a single card to play. Stupid old man.

      Bukharov side-stepped in a tight circle around Van Helsing, the gun never so much as flickering in his grasp. He stopped beside the cart, and regarded Henry Carpenter.

      “Please step back alongside your master,” he said, pleasantly.

      The valet did so, walking slowly backwards until he was beside the old man, revealing to the Professor the identical revolvers held in the hands of the three Russian men, guns that had been pointing silently at the valet while Van Helsing descended the gangway.

      Bukharov said something quickly in Russian, and one of his men holstered his pistol, before climbing up into the first of the carriages that had brought them to the docks. When he emerged, he was carrying the two Englishmen’s suitcases and travelling bags, which he placed on the ground before them. As the man bent to release the bags, Carpenter flashed a glance at his master and twitched his hand towards the pocket of his waistcoat. Van Helsing shook his head, so sharply it was almost invisible; the two-barrel derringer that the valet kept upon his person at all times would not be sufficient to extricate them from this situation.

      “I wish you a safe and speedy journey home,” said Bukharov, the Colt still pointing squarely at the old man. “I’m afraid we must say our farewells now, as we have a ship of our own to catch, and many miles to travel once we reach Odessa. But I would like to say that it has been an absolute priv—”

      “You have no idea what you’re doing,” interrupted Van Helsing. “Those remains are quite likely the most dangerous thing in existence. They need to be studied, and stored where there is no risk of their seeing the light of day again. I implore you; let me have them.”

      Bukharov’s genial expression faded, and was replaced by a look of cold displeasure.

      “Such arrogance, to assume that only in Britain can anything be studied or safely hidden. I can assure you, Professor, that once we are finished with our examinations, the remains will be stored where no one will ever be able to find them.”

      Chapter 36

      THE SECOND INVASION OF LINDISFARNE

       LINDISFARNE ISLAND, NORTHUMBERLAND TWO HOURS AGO

       They came from the mainland, when the island’s inhabitants were curled up in front of televisions or asleep in their beds.

       There were almost forty of them, emerging from the mist that wreathed the causeway, some walking along the damp road, others floating inches above it. Alexandru led them, his long grey coat flapping gently around his ankles, his crimson eyes blazing with madness.

       Behind him strode Anderson, a large object wrapped in a cloth sack over his shoulder. Further back were the rag-tag group of vampires that had attached themselves to Alexandru, overlooking or ignoring his sadistic extravagances for the protection his favour afforded.

       Two dark, silent men walked behind the rest. They scratched at themselves almost continually, and every few minutes they cast a furtive glance at the moon. It was hours from full, and hung large and bright in the night sky.

      They approached the island in silence. They could already see the distant lights shining through the windows of the houses and the amber glow of the streetlights, rising up the hill from the harbour that opened on to the North Sea.

      Kate Randall woke with a start.

      She had been awake since five that morning, helping her father prepare bait and line, washing the small fishing boat on which he spent his days, and she had fallen asleep on her bed as soon as she had finished dinner. She had no doubt she would have slept through until the following morning if something hadn’t disturbed her.

      Kate sat up on her bed and stared across her bedroom at the open window above her desk. The pale yellow curtains fluttered in the night breeze, and the cold air raised gooseflesh on her arms.

      It’s just the cold, she thought, rubbing her arms with her hands, trying to warm the skin. Just the cold.

      But she wasn’t sure that was true.

      She had heard something out there in the darkness.

      Something that sounded like a scream.

      Kate climbed out of her bed, wincing at the temperature. She was still dressed in sweatshirt and jeans, but she reached for the dressing gown hanging on the back of her door regardless. As she slid her arms into the sleeves, she felt the air swirl as something moved behind her, near the open window.

      She spun round.

      The room was empty.

      Fear rippled through her like one of the slate-grey waves that pitched her father’s boat. But she did not cry out.

      Her father would be asleep by now, and if she had learned anything in her sixteen years, it was that she must not wake her father, under any circumstances. This rule, this non-negotiable law, had sunk so deeply into her that she obeyed it even now, as she stood trembling with fear in her own bedroom, no more than fifteen feet away from him.

      Instead, she walked towards the window.

      She could smell the crisp, dry scent of a fire on the beach far below the small house she had shared with her father since her mother had died, could see a thin pillar of pale grey smoke rising above the small island, small clouds of sparks and orange embers floating lazily on the night air.

      She could hear music, a classical piano piece, drifting out of the windows of her neighbours’ house. Mr Marsden was away on business in Newcastle, and his wife was making the most of her opportunity to control the stereo. It was normally the heavy bass and driving drums of Metallica and Motörhead that echoed out of their attic sitting room, at a volume that had led to more than one complaint.

      Everything seemed to be normal. But Kate could not shake the feeling that something was wrong.

      A dark shape, far too large to be a bird or a bat, swooped past her bedroom window, close enough to brush the blonde hair that fell untidily across her forehead, and this time she did scream, long and loud.

      Kate staggered back from the window. In the bedroom across the hall she heard her father swear, and then the thump of his feet on the wooden floorboards. She was so relieved to hear the movement in his room that she didn’t even worry that she had woken him.

      Half-asleep, Pete Randall pulled a T-shirt over his head and staggered to the wooden door of his bedroom.

      Damn girl, he thought. If there’s a spider in there I’m not going to be happy.

      He had no idea that his teenage daughter had just saved his life. Or that he would never get a chance to thank her.

      Pete crossed the small landing, his bare feet thudding on the uneven wooden floorboards of the old house, and pushed open the door to his daughter’s room. He did not even have time to close it behind him before she flew into his arms, burying her head in his chest.

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