LITMIR.BIZ

      Frankenstein walked down the cellblock and stopped outside the fourth cell on the right. He knew from long experience that the room’s occupant would have been aware of his presence since the moment the inner airlock door opened, but he still paused outside the ultraviolet barrier and announced himself; despite the life he had led, the horrors and violence that he had both witnessed and committed, he still set great store on good manners.

      “Good afternoon, Valentin,” he said. “May I come in?”

      The ancient vampire looked up from his chair, set down the book he had been reading, and smiled.

      “Of course, my dear Colonel,” said Valentin. “I do so look forward to your visits. I don’t know how I would cope without the petty insults and unfounded accusations you are kind enough to level at me. I would be so very bored.”

      Frankenstein rolled his eyes, and stepped through the wall of purple light. He walked across the cell, his huge frame seeming to fill much of the available space, and settled into a plastic chair that groaned audibly beneath him.

      “I’m glad to be of service,” he said. “How are you, Valentin?”

      “What a ridiculous question,” replied the vampire, but his smile remained. “I am exactly the same as I was yesterday, and the day before, and every day since I was put back together after our adventure in France. Very little changes inside a cell.”

      “Courtesy would dictate that you enquire how I am in return,” said Frankenstein.

      “Courtesy presumably believes that I am even the slightest bit interested,” said Valentin. “Tea?”

      “Thank you,” he said. “You should know how I take it by now.”

      This opening exchange of insults was by now a well-practised routine between the two men, performed at least once a week, despite an inauspicious start to their relationship; Frankenstein’s first visit to the cell he was now sitting in, more than six months earlier, had ended with him threatening to kill Valentin if he didn’t stop the private conversations he had been having with Jamie Carpenter, a threat that Valentin had very politely informed him he was in absolutely no position to make good on. But in the aftermath of the dreadful, catastrophic reunion between Jamie and his father, Frankenstein had, for the first time in more than a century, found himself without purpose. Julian was beyond his protection, Marie was safe in her cell, and Jamie, the last Carpenter, no longer wanted anything to do with him.

      For a number of weeks, he had drifted through the Loop like a ghost, passing silently among men and women who were risking their lives every night to keep the country from descending into chaos, alone and seemingly useless. His condition, which still required him to be locked into one of the human containment cells for three days of every month, limited his ability to help. Paul Turner had offered him command of an Operational Squad, but he knew it was merely a gesture, albeit one he appreciated. He had thanked the Director as he refused his offer, then resumed his aimless existence. Until one sleepless night, when he had found himself standing outside the cellblock, without really knowing how he had come to be there. He had passed through the airlock and walked down the wide corridor, uncertain of what he was doing, but desperate to talk to someone, anyone who might have even the slightest idea of what he was going through.

      Valentin walked across the cell and held out a chipped mug of steaming tea. Frankenstein took it, noting the grimace on the old vampire’s face; it clearly pained him to present his guest with such an inelegant receptacle.

      “Thank you,” he said, and took a sip. The tea was excellent, as always.

      “You’re welcome,” replied the vampire. “What news from the world above?”

      “Nothing changes,” said Frankenstein. “People are scared, and lashing out in every direction. At vampires, at the police and the government, at Blacklight. Dozens die every night, and nobody seems to have the faintest idea how to stop it. At this point, the Operators are little more than glorified police.”

      “And inside the Department?” asked Valentin. “Is Major Turner continuing to inspire everyone to keep fighting the good fight?”

      Frankenstein smiled narrowly. “That is uncalled for,” he said. “Paul Turner is doing the best he can, in circumstances that are increasingly trying.”

      “What circumstances might those be?”

      “The public remains grossly misinformed where Blacklight is concerned,” said Frankenstein. “So the prevailing narrative has become that we have failed them, that we should have destroyed every vampire by now, or at the very least managed to keep them secret so they don’t need to worry. They blame us for a country that appears to be tearing itself apart, despite the many thousands of people who are only alive today because of the work of this Department.”

      “I’m afraid that’s irrelevant,” said Valentin.

      “In what way?” asked Frankenstein. “In what world, for God’s sake?”

      “People not being killed by vampires was merely evidence of Blacklight doing its job,” said the vampire. “People being killed by vampires is evidence of the opposite, at least as far as the public are concerned. Surely you see the distinction?”

      Frankenstein nodded. It pained him to agree with the vampire, but he was right; more than a century of silent efficiency meant far less than a single innocent victim splashed across the front page of a tabloid.

      “If it makes you feel any better,” said Valentin, “my former master will likely rise before public anger reaches the point of revolution, which will resolve the situation one way or the other. You will either defeat him, and be heroes, or you will fail, and nothing will matter any more.”

      Frankenstein grunted with laughter. “Thank you, Valentin,” he said, a lopsided smile on his grey-green face. “I can always rely on you to be the voice of optimism.”

      “You’re welcome,” said Valentin. “How’s Jamie?”

      The smile disappeared. “I don’t want to talk about him,” he said. “As I have told you so very often. Must we go over it every time I come down here?”

      “Why come down here at all if you genuinely don’t want to talk about him?” asked Valentin. “You wear your pain like a badge of honour, so proud and strong and stolid, while week after week we play out this little flirtation without ever getting to the meat of anything. So let me ask you again. How is your favourite little vampire? I assume he still can’t stand the sight of you?”

      Frankenstein shook his head. “You are a petty child, Valentin. Can’t you resist the urge to provoke, even this once?”

      “It’s hardly provocation, my dear Colonel,” replied the vampire. “The very purpose to which you have devoted yourself for so long has been removed. One Carpenter out there alone, impotent to influence the events for which he spent his life preparing, the other a central player in what is to come, but who rejects your help. Your situation strikes me as nothing less than an existential crisis, and I am intrigued as to whether you see it in similar terms. But we can continue to talk about banalities, if you prefer? Perhaps you could tell me how the weather has been lately?”

      “Mostly cloudy,” said Frankenstein.

      Valentin didn’t respond; he merely stared at the monster with his pale blue eyes, and waited.

      “I

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