Uprising

Stone raised an eyebrow. ‘What options would you be referring to, my friend?’

Lonsdale let out a deep sigh, and came straight out with it. ‘The deal’s off. I want my money back.’

Stone was quiet for a moment. ‘So you no longer wish to join our circle.’

‘No. Frankly, on reflection, the idea horrifies me.’ Lonsdale cleared his throat and tried desperately to hide the quaver in his voice. ‘Now, if you will be good enough to wire the funds back into my private account, minus a ten per cent administration fee which I’m more than happy to pay you, that will be that and we’ll say no more about it. I’ve been pleased to be able to help you by using my contacts and influence. I hope we can remain on cordial terms, and perhaps do business together in the future.’

He stood up and put out his hand.

Stone looked at the hand. He didn’t move.

‘Now, I should be on my way,’ Lonsdale said briskly. ‘There are people expecting me back in London. They know I’m here,’ he added.

Stone chuckled. ‘That’s your way of telling me no harm must come to you. Really. What do you take me for, a monster?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

Stone walked over to his desk and pressed a button. ‘Please sit down, Jeremy. I’d hate for you to leave without a farewell drink.’

Lonsdale hesitated, bit his lip, made a show of glancing at his watch. ‘Just a quick one. I think I have time.’

Finch entered the library carrying a tray with two glasses and a bottle of Krug. He laid the tray down, solemnly filled the glasses and left. Stone handed Lonsdale a glass.

‘To the future,’ he said, raising his own.

‘To the future,’ Lonsdale echoed uncertainly. He slugged down his champagne and went to stand up again. ‘That was lovely. Now—’

‘Why such a hurry?’ Stone said smoothly. ‘Have another. It’s a very good vintage, don’t you think?’ He paused as he refilled Lonsdale’s glass. ‘You see, Jeremy, I knew what it was you wanted to tell me tonight. That’s why I arranged an entertainment for us.’ He slipped a little remote from the pocket of his robe. He aimed it at the bookcases to the right of the fireplace and the carved wood shelves suddenly parted and slid open, revealing a giant screen. ‘You and I are going to watch a little film.’

‘I don’t have time for a film.’

‘I think you’ll like this one,’ Stone replied, with a flare in his eyes that forced Lonsdale helplessly back in his chair.

‘I trust the scene looks familiar to you,’ Stone said as the screen lit up. The warning look had melted from his face and now he looked almost jovial.

Lonsdale gaped. It was himself he was seeing on the screen, on Hallowe’en night, the occasion of his initiation ceremony. He watched in horror as the nightmarish images unravelled. The girl hanging from the chains. The blade slashing through her neck like something on a butcher’s slab. The blood cascading down, soaking his hair, sticking his shirt to his body. And all through the orgiastic frenzy, the camera was right on him.

‘Stop it,’ Lonsdale wheezed. His heart was hammering dangerously now. ‘Stop it.’

Stone raised the remote and the image onscreen froze into a close-up of Lonsdale’s blood-slicked face and his white, rolling eyes behind the mask.

‘You see, Jeremy, the fact is, as you now see, that you have no options. The deal must be honoured. Like it or not, you’re already part of our family.’

‘That could be anyone in a mask,’ Lonsdale exploded in outrage. ‘Nobody could prove it was me.’

‘Jeremy, Jeremy, do you take us for complete idiots? What I am showing you is merely an excerpt. The best bits, if you will. We filmed you coming into the house. Walking in from the car with the delectable Kate Hawthorne. Putting on your mask. Oh, I think people would have little trouble believing it was you. Then there’s the footage of your bedroom escapades with Lillith. No mask there, if my memory serves me well.’

Lonsdale gulped back rising bile. ‘You could never use this. You’d be incriminating yourself, and your whole bunch.’

Stone laughed. ‘That is of little consequence. None of us exist. Nobody can touch any of us, Jeremy. We are free to vanish. You, on the other hand…’ He shrugged. ‘If I may be permitted to use the vernacular: you’re fucked.’

Lonsdale opened his mouth to protest, but there was nothing to say. He’d been set up. The initiation ceremony, the whole thing, had been concocted just to entrap him. Stone had never intended to make good on his promise of eternal life and unlimited power. He was trapped, and there was no going back. He slumped in the armchair, defeated.

‘Humans are utterly repugnant to me,’ Stone said softly, watching him. ‘But the creature whose verminous ways offend me most deeply of all is a politician. I’m disappointed in you, Jeremy. I had hopes that you might have been different.’

‘Keep the money,’ Lonsdale breathed. ‘Keep every penny. I don’t care. Just let me go on with my life. Please. I beg you.’

‘Your life?’ Stone smiled. ‘That belongs to me now. When I want you, you’ll be ready for me. You are at my bidding, and will provide me with anything I require, at any time, without question or hesitation. Fail me in any way, and every television station and newspaper in Europe will receive a copy of the film. Let the serfs who voted for you know the truth about their future leader.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Now get out of my sight.’

Jeremy Lonsdale staggered from the library and found his way to the marbled hallway. Outside, he drew in huge gulps of the cold night air. It wasn’t until he was sitting at the wheel of the Rolls, fumbling with the key, half blinded with sweat, that his guts heaved all the way over and the vomit burst down his front.

Chapter Twenty-Two (#ulink_d143c3fa-5785-5db7-87c5-f64d8858b5dc)

Canary Wharf, London

9.29 p.m.

‘Thanks, Rudi. See you later.’ Alex snapped her phone shut. The night breeze ruffled her hair as she leaned on the rail of her apartment balcony. A human would have been shivering in the November chill, but she loved the freshness of the air. She lingered for a moment, watching the city lights dance on the river. The sadness that had been hovering over her all day was descending now. She turned from the balcony and walked barefoot in through the sliding glass door of her living room. Philip Glass piano music was playing softly on her stereo system. She padded across the plush carpet of the modern, open-plan living room, then went up the spiral staircase to her bedroom.

As she passed the bed, her sadness sharpened. At the foot of the bed was an oak chest. She stopped, kneeled. While everything else in her apartment was ultra-modern, the chest was pitted with age, splits in the wood patched here and there with metal plates. She and that old chest went back a long way. It had been a while since she’d last opened it.

She reached for the little key she wore around her neck and unclipped it from its leather thong. It was made of the same pitted black metal as the lock of the chest. It slid smoothly into the lock and sprung the mechanism with a tiny click. She carefully lifted the lid until it rested against the foot of the bed.

Inside were her memories.

The diamond and sapphire engagement ring was still as bright and sparkling as the day William had given it to her. She smiled sadly at it, then closed the scuffed, battered little box and replaced it at the bottom of the chest. There was the bundle of letters, still tied with the same yellow ribbon. The lock of his golden hair. The one photograph she had of him, long ago faded to a dull sepia tone.

She gazed at it. Such a long time ago, but she could still remember every moment they’d had together. She could recall the touch of his skin against hers, the softness of his voice, the infectiousness of his laugh.

I’ll come back to you one day, my love.

Those had been his last words to her. A day she didn’t like to remember, but whose memory she couldn’t chase. Not in a hundred and thirteen years.

I’ll come back.

But she was still waiting.

Or was she? As she caressed the faded image with her thumb, she thought about Joel Solomon. It was uncanny. They could have been brothers, twins.

Alexandra Bishop, born 1869, turned 1897, would never have believed in such a thing as reincarnation, as William had. But then, back in those days, she’d never have believed in vampires, either.

She gazed at the picture a while longer, then laid it back inside the chest and shut the lid.

The far wall of the bedroom was one huge solid expanse of mirror. She walked towards it, snatching a remote control off a table as she went. She didn’t slow her pace and, just as she was about to walk straight into the glass, she pressed the button on the remote and the partition instantly slid aside to reveal the hidden room beyond. She stepped inside, aimed the remote behind her and slid the wall shut again.

She was in her weapons room.

The place was as utilitarian as it could be. On a steel wall rack were a pair of assault rifles, a cut-down shotgun and two ex-MOD submachine guns. Beside those, another rack holding four identical .50-calibre Desert Eagle pistols. The opposite wall was covered in industrial shelving, and in between was the workbench where she handloaded her own ammunition. She’d never trusted the stuff that VIA issued the agents. Bolted to the bench was a reloading press with a rotating platform that housed half-a-dozen empty glittering brass cartridge cases at a time. Mounted on top, a clear plastic hopper was filled with peppery gunpowder. It was Alex’s little personal production line.