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disgust.

      “What do you want from me?” she snarled, and Alexandru jerked his head back, an expression of admiration on his pale, feminine face. “What do you want with my family?”

      The vampire threw back his head and laughed, the wavering howl of a wolf, deafeningly loud in the basement.

      “You don’t know, do you?” he said. “You really don’t. Oh, how wonderful. I have so much to tell you.”

      He sprang to his feet, dusted himself down, and looked at her with immense enjoyment.

      “There are many things that require my attention,” he said, gravely. “But I will make sure that you and I speak again soon. I will be genuinely looking forward to it.”

      Then he turned, and strode away from her. He barked at Anderson to follow him as he passed the huge man, who tore his gaze away from Marie with obvious difficulty, and did as his master ordered. They clattered up the wooden staircase and threw open the trapdoor, letting in a brief square of tantalisingly warm light, then the wooden hatch slammed shut, she heard the blot slide into place, and she was alone in the basement again.

      I’m sorry, Jamie, she thought, as she slipped back into unconsciousness.

       I love you.

       I’m sorry.

      Chapter 19

      BLOOD AND LETTERS

      Jamie didn’t think he had ever felt so low. Every inch of him was in pain, from his throat to his feet, and his head was heavy with tiredness and sickly remorse. His mother was still missing, and it was up to him to find her and rescue her. He had demanded to look for her, had threatened to defy Admiral Seward and anyone else who tried to stop him; now he was free to begin the search, and he was terrified.

       What if I can’t do this? What if I never see her again? What happens to me?

      Jamie limped into the shower block at the end of the dormitory, washed himself as carefully as he was able, gasping when his fingers touched a particularly sensitive area of bruising, towelled himself dry, then dressed in the Blacklight uniform he had been given by the instructor. It no longer looked as enticing as it had the previous day; in the cool of the morning it looked violent and ugly, and he shuddered slightly as he slid it over his body.

      There was a knock on the door at the other end of the dormitory. Jamie didn’t answer, and after a couple of seconds the door swung open. Frankenstein stepped through, ducking his head slightly, and walked towards Jamie. He stopped in front of him, the thick thatch of black hair atop his huge misshapen head brushing lightly against the whitewashed ceiling, and looked down at him.

      “You need to see something,” said Frankenstein. “Are you ready?”

      Jamie shrugged.

      “Since you can’t be bothered to answer me, I’ll assume you are,” continued the monster, and strode back across the dormitory. Jamie watched him until he was almost at the door, then let out a long petulant sigh, stood up, and followed him.

      Frankenstein walked quickly through the corridors and Jamie struggled to keep up, realising how much the huge man usually slowed down to accommodate him. He followed him into a lift, down two levels, along a wide central corridor and into the infirmary where he had spent the night he arrived at the Loop. His stomach clenched as he stepped through the swinging doors, the memory of Larissa’s attack leaping into his mind, the feeling of terrible powerlessness as her fingers cut his air supply, the warm patter of her blood on his face.

      In the middle of the infirmary was a metal trolley, and clustered around it were three men he recognised; Paul Turner, Thomas Morris and the doctor who had treated him. They looked round as Frankenstein and Jamie approached, and moved aside so they could join them. A small metal table covered in medical implements stood next to the trolley, on which lay a large shape covered in a white sheet.

       Mum?

      His legs were suddenly made of lead. He couldn’t move them, couldn’t even begin to try. Acid spilled into his stomach and he thought he was going to be sick.

      “It’s not your mother,” said Frankenstein in a low voice. Jamie looked up at him, his face sick with fear, and Frankenstein repeated himself.

      “It’s not your mother. I promise.”

      The bile in his throat retreated, and he forced his legs back to life, one after the other, and made it to the trolley.

       If it’s not Mum, then who is it? There’s someone under there.

      His skin broke out with gooseflesh as Morris clapped him on the back and said, “Good morning.”

      “Morning,” he replied, his voice shaking.

      Morris flashed an enquiring look at Frankenstein, who shook his head. Paul Turner watched the exchange, his grey eyes cold and calm.

      “Shall we get on with it?” he suggested.

      “We should,” agreed the doctor. “Jamie, this might be upsetting for you to see, but Colonel Frankenstein believes it is necessary. Do you need a glass of water?”

      He shook his head.

      “Very well,” said the doctor, and pulled back the sheet.

      Jamie looked down at the figure on the trolley, then turned away and retched. His hands went to his knees and he swayed, his head lowered, his eyes squeezed shut, saliva flooding his mouth. Above and behind him he heard the doctor apologise, and Morris let out a low whistle. Frankenstein and Turner didn’t appear to respond at all.

      On the trolley was the naked body of a man in his mid-forties. His skin was pale, his eyes were closed, and he might have looked peaceful were it not for the terrible damage that had been inflicted to his chest and stomach.

      The man’s torso looked like it had been through an abattoir; it was covered in dark, glistening blood, rivers of which had run down his abdomen towards his groin and over his ribcage towards his back. Cut into the flesh were five words.

       TELL THE BOYTOCOME

      Jamie felt a hand placed cautiously on his shoulder and shrugged it off.

      “I’m all right,” he croaked. “Just give me a minute, OK?”

      He had only seen the corpse for a split second before he turned away, but the sheer violence of the man’s injuries had taken his breath away.

       How could you do that to someone? How could you take a knife and do something like that to another human being? My God, what am I up against here?

      Steadying himself, he took a deep breath and stood upright. His head swam for a moment, but it passed, and he turned slowly back to the trolley. It was worse than he had first thought, much worse, but with the element of surprise gone he was able to step forward and take his place next to his colleagues. He was gratified to see that both Morris and the doctor were taking ragged, shallow breaths, their eyes wide, their faces tinged with grey. Frankenstein and Paul Turner looked perfectly composed, and Jamie wondered at the things the two men must have seen.

      “This is a good thing,” Frankenstein said, eventually. “Very good.” Jamie flinched. “How can this possibly be good?”

      Frankenstein looked at him, and some of the usual kindness had returned to the monster’s eyes. “Because it means Alexandru wants you,” he replied, carefully. “It shows that you’re important to him.”

      “And why is that good?”

      Paul Turner answered in his smooth, empty voice. “Because he won’t hurt your mother until he gets what he wants. He knows she’s the only thing that can make you come to him, and he knows that if he kills her we’ll make sure he never gets within fifty miles of you.”

      “How

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