These laws were enforced by the Federation’s Vampire
Intelligence Agency, or VIA, with a licence granted by the
Ruling Council to hunt and destroy transgressors.
But not all the vampires were willing to obey …
1
Eighteen years later
October 27
Pockets of thick autumnal mist drifted over the waters of the Thames as the big cargo ship cut upriver from the estuary, heading for the wharfs of the Port of London. Smaller vessels seemed to shy out of its way. With its lights poking beams through the gloom, the ship carved its way westwards into the heart of the city.
On the approach to the docks, the beat of a helicopter thudded through the chill evening air.
Eight sailors of mixed Romanian and Czech origin were assembled around the helipad on the forward deck, craning their necks up at the sky at the approaching aircraft. At their feet lay a pair of steel-reinforced crates, seven feet long, that had been wheeled up from the hold. Most of the crew preferred to keep their distance from them. The strong downdraught from the chopper’s rotors tore at the men’s clothing and hair as its pilot brought it down to land on the pad.
‘Okay, boys, let’s get these bastard things off our ship,’ the senior crewman yelled over the noise as the chopper’s cargo hatch slid open.
‘I’d love to know what the hell’s in there,’ said one of the Romanians.
‘I don’t fucking want to know,’ someone else replied. ‘All I can say is I’m glad to be shot of them.’
There wasn’t a man aboard ship who hadn’t felt the sense of unease that had been hanging like a pall over the vessel since they’d left the Romanian port of Constantza. It hadn’t been a happy voyage. Five of the hands were sick below decks, suffering from some kind of fever that the ship’s medic couldn’t figure out. The radio kept talking about the major flu pandemic that had much of Europe in its grip. Maybe that was it. But some of the guys were sceptical. Flu didn’t make you wake up in the middle of the night screaming in terror.
The crewmen heaved each crate aboard the chopper and then stepped back in the wind blast as the cargo was strapped into place. The hatch slammed shut, the rotors accelerated to a deafening roar, and the chopper took off.
A few of the ship’s crew stood on deck and watched the aircraft’s twinkling lights disappear into the mist that overhung the city skyline. One of them quickly made the sign of the cross over his chest, and muttered a prayer under his breath. He was a devout Catholic, and his faith was normally the butt of many jokes on board.
Today, though, nobody laughed.
Crowmoor Hall
Near Henley-on-Thames, Oxfordshire
Forty miles away, the gnarly figure of Seymour Finch stepped out of the grand entrance of the manor house. He raised his bald head, peered up at the sky. The stars were out, seeming dead and flat through ragged holes in the mist that curled around the mansion’s gables and clung to the lawns.
Finch couldn’t stop grinning to himself, even though his hands were quaking in fear as he nervously, impatiently awaited the arrival of the helicopter. He glanced at his watch.
Soon. Soon.
Eventually he heard the distant beat of approaching rotor blades. He rubbed his hands together. Took out a small radio handset and spoke into it.
‘He’s coming. He’s here.’
2
The Carpathian Mountains, Romania
October 31
It was getting dark as Alex Bishop emerged from the path through the woods. Across the clearing, she could see the old tumbledown house. She just hoped that her informant had been right. Lives were on the line.
She quickly checked the equipment she was carrying on her belt, unsnapped the retaining strap on the holster. The steps on the porch were rotten and she overstepped them, treading carefully. She went to the front door, all peeled paint. It swung open with a creak and she could smell the stench of rot and fungus.
Inside, the house was all in shadow. She stepped in, peering into the darkness. The door creaked shut behind her.
Her sharp ears caught something. Was that a thump from somewhere below her feet? She stiffened. Something was moving around down there. She followed the sound through the front hall towards a doorway. A rat, startled by her approach, darted into the deepening shadows.
A muffled yell from behind the door. Then another. Shrill, scared, all hell breaking loose.
Someone had got here before her. She kicked the door open with a brittle cracking and splintering, and found herself at the top of a flight of stone steps leading down to the cellar. She wasn’t alone.
Alex took in the situation. Three young guys in their twenties. One of them lay writhing in a spreading, dark pool of blood. Two still on their feet, one clutching a wooden cross, the other holding a mallet in one hand and a stake in the other. Both howling in panic, wild, demented, as the cellar’s other occupant rose up from their friend’s body and took a step towards them. His mouth opened to show the extended fangs.
Vampire.
The guy holding the cross rushed forward with a yell and held it in the vampire’s face. It was a brave thing to do, textbook horror movie heroics, but foolish. If he’d been expecting the vampire to cover its face and hiss and shrink away, he was in for a shock.
The vampire didn’t blink an eye at the cross. Alex knew he wouldn’t. Instead, he reached out and jerked his attacker brutally off his feet. Pulled him in and bit deep into his shoulder. The young guy fell twitching to the ground, blood jetting from his ripped throat.
There was nowhere for the third guy to run as the vampire turned his attentions to him and backed him towards the corner of the cellar. The young man had dropped his mallet and stake, and cowered pleading against the rough wall.
The vampire stepped closer to him. Then stopped and turned as Alex walked calmly down the cellar steps. He stared at her, and his bloodstained mouth fell open. Recognition in his eyes.
‘Surprise,’ she said. Reached down and drew the Desert Eagle from its holster.
The vampire snarled. ‘Federation scum. Your time is over.’
‘Not before yours,’ she said.
And fired. The explosion was deafening in the room. Even in Alex’s strong grip, the large-calibre pistol recoiled hard.
The vampire screamed. Not because of the bullet that had ripped a fist-sized hole in his chest, but because of the instant devastating effect of the Nosferol on his system -the lethal poison developed by the Fed chemists and issued under strict control to VIA field agents like Alex Bishop.
The vampire collapsed to the cellar floor, writhing in agony, staring at his hands as the blood vessels bulged out of the skin. His face swelled grotesquely, eyes popping out of their sockets. Then blood burst out of his mouth, and his hideously distended veins exploded in a spatter of red that coated the floor and the stone wall behind him. Alex turned away from the spray. The vampire went on twitching for a second, his body peeled apart, turned almost inside out, blood still spurting from everywhere; then he lay still.
Alex holstered the gun and walked over to the young guy in the corner, grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet.
He gaped at her. ‘How did you—’
She could see that he had wet himself with fear. These amateurs had no idea what they were into.
‘It takes a vampire to destroy a vampire properly,’ she said as she unzipped the pouch on her belt. Before he could react, she’d taken out the syringe of Vambloc and jabbed it into the vein under his ear. He let out a wheezing gasp and then lost consciousness. By the time he woke up, his short-term memory of what had just happened would be completely erased.
Alex replaced the Vambloc syringe and took out the one that was loaded with Nosferol. Leaving the young guy where he lay, she stepped over to his two dead friends and injected each of them with 10ml of the clear liquid. Standard procedure, to ensure they stayed dead. She carefully capped the needle with a cork and put the syringe back int
o its pouch.
Two minutes later she was heading back out into the evening with the unconscious body over her shoulder. As she strode out of the house she tossed a miniature incendiary device into the doorway. She was halfway to the trees before the whole place went up in a roar of flame, bathing the murky woods in an orange glow.
Hiding the traces of another day’s work.
‘Rest in peace,’ she muttered. She took out her phone, keyed in Rumble’s number at the London HQ.
‘Harry. You were right. It’s happening.’
Acknowledgements
Once more, the author would like to thank the great team at Avon, Maxine Hitchcock, Keshini Naidoo and Sammia Rafique, for their enthusiasm and dedication.
About the Author
Scott Mariani grew up in St Andrews, Scotland. He studied Modern Languages at Oxford and went on to work as a translator, a professional musician, a pistol shooting instructor and a freelance journalist before becoming a fulltime writer. After spending several years in Italy and France, Scott discovered his secluded writer’s haven in the wilds of west Wales, an 1830s country house complete with rambling woodland and a secret passage. When he isn’t writing, Scott enjoys jazz, movies, classic motorcycles and astronomy. His books have sold worldwide and he is currently working on an exciting new vampire series, to be published by AVON in summer 2010.
To find out more about Scott Mariani go to www.scottmariani.com
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By the same author:
The Alchemist’s Secret
The Mozart Conspiracy
The Doomsday Prophecy
The Heretic’s Treasure
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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A Paperback Original 2010
FIRST EDITION
Copyright © Scott Mariani 2010
Scott Mariani asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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EPub Edition © 2010 ISBN: 978-0-00-735802-1
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Scott Mariani, The Shadow Project
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