The atmosphere inside this final room was like that of a church. It was almost silent; the only noises that could be heard were their breathing and the clatter of their boots on the hardwood floor beneath them. The room was a narrow gallery, with dark red walls and ceiling. It was at least a hundred feet long, and the walls on both sides were covered in painted portraits. Jamie looked at the first one on his right and saw a young man looking down at him, his body at a quarter turn, his uniform identical to the one Jamie was now wearing, a small smile of what looked like pride creeping into the corners of his mouth. He looked at the gold plaque below the portrait and read what was engraved there.
George Harker, Jr.1981–2007
“What is this place?” he whispered.
“It’s the Fallen Gallery,” Morris replied, also lowering his voice as he did so.
“This is all the Blacklight operators who’ve died?”
Morris laughed, then put a hand over his mouth for a second, as if afraid he was about to be chastised for such levity. He withdrew it, and replied.
“Not quite. You would need a bigger room than this to hang a portrait of every member of Blacklight who has been lost. An awful lot bigger. No, this is for the elite of Department 19, the best and the brightest, or those who died before their time. This is where our ancestors live on, Jamie. Every member of both of our families is in this room.”
Jamie was awestruck by Morris’s words, and by the sights around him.
He walked slowly forward, looking at the men and women who stared down at him from the red walls, reading the plaques, seeing the same names over and over again as he made his way down the gallery; Benjamin Seward, Stephen Holmwood, Albert Harker, David Harker, Quincey Morris II, Peter Seward, Arthur Holmwood II, John Carpenter, David Morris, Albert Holmwood.
Three-quarters of the way down the gallery, a single bust of a man’s head stood atop a marble pillar in the middle of the wooden floor. It was carved from dark grey stone, and stared down the gallery towards the door, as if challenging anyone who might enter. The face was rugged, had probably been handsome in its youth, and wore a thick moustache above a thin mouth and angular jaw. Jamie stopped to read the inscription on the marble and Morris, who had been walking quietly six feet behind the teenager, did likewise.
Quincey HarkerAll that we are, we owe to him1894–1982
“Jonathan Harker’s son,” breathed Jamie, and Morris nodded.
Jamie walked around the bust, and continued through the gallery. The portraits were getting older now, the paint fading in some, cracked in others, the frames duller and more beaten down by the years. He reached the end of the gallery, and looked up at the six paintings that faced him from the wall, their eyes full of pride, the men who had sat for the portraits all long dead.
Abraham Van Helsing1827–1904
Jonathan Harker1861–1917
Quincey Morris1860–1892
John Seward1861–1924
Hon. Arthur Holmwood1858–1940
Henry Carpenter1870–1922
On a low shelf beneath the portraits a number of small items had been placed; a stethoscope, a small gold pin with an ornate family crest engraved on it, a battered cowboy hat, and a kukri knife in a leather scabbard.
“My God,” breathed Jamie. “They were real. I don’t think I realised until now. They really lived.”
“Lived, and died,” said Morris. “Some before their time.”
He turned to Jamie, tears standing in the corners of his eyes, and when he spoke again his voice was charged with passion. “You and I are very similar,” he said, his eyes bright. “Descendants of founders. Members of the six great families of Blacklight. But we’re both black sheep. Both weighed down by the actions of our ancestors.”
“How so?” asked Jamie.
“The trouble your father has caused for you must be obvious by now. Mine began over a century ago.”
“Why?”
Morris looked at him for a long moment, as if weighing a decision in his mind.
“I’m not going to tell you it all now,” he said, eventually. “It’s late, and it’s a tale that deserves telling well. But it boils down to one essential truth; you or I could save the world a hundred times over, but we’ll never be a Harker, a Holmwood, a Seward or a Van Helsing. The inner circle will always be closed to our families.”
“What do you mean?” asked Jamie.
“Follow me,” Morris replied, gesturing down the gallery. They walked most of the way back to the arched doorway and then stopped in front of a portrait. Jamie looked at the plaque below the frame.
Daniel Morris1953–2004
“Is that—”
“My father, yes. He was the Director of Department 19.”
Jamie frowned. “No Carpenter has ever been Director. Admiral Seward told me.”
“My father barely was,” replied Morris. “He was removed from office almost before he got started. Too aggressive, too reckless, or so they told him. Yet Quincey Harker, whose bust stands in the middle of this gallery, who was named after my great-great-grandfather, turned the Department into an army, and was deified for doing so.”
Fire had risen briefly in Tom’s eyes as he spoke, but now it faded again. His hand fluttered to the bowie knife on his belt and touched the handle.
“Was that his?” asked Jamie softly, gesturing towards the weapon.
Morris looked down at his belt, then back at Jamie, surprise on his face.
He didn’t know he was touching it.
“It was my great-great-grandfather’s,” Morris replied. “It’s the knife that he pierced Dracula’s heart with, the last thing he ever did. The rest of the founders brought it home with them, and it was given to my grandfather when he joined Blacklight. He passed it on to my father, and it was left to me when he died.”
Jamie was speechless.
The knife that killed Dracula. My God.
He forced himself to speak.
“What happened to him?” he asked.
Morris laughed bitterly. “My father? I think he just had the wrong name. Our name. Not one of the four that matter around here.”
“Why are you telling me this, Tom?”
Morris sighed. “Because I like you, Jamie. And I want you to understand what you’ve got yourself into. You can believe in this place too much, buy into it too completely. It’ll take everything from you that you’re prepared to give, and more. But you’ll only ever be the descendant of a valet and the son of a traitor, just like I’ll always be the son of the only Director to be removed from office. I’m telling you this because you need to stay focused on the two things that matter; finding your mother, and bringing her home.”
Chapter 18
IN THE MOUTH OF MADNESS
“Wake up.”
The voice was low and smooth, but there was kindness in it, as well as the hint of an eastern European accent, and Marie Carpenter rose slowly from unconsciousness.
She opened