New York, USA
December 31, 1928
John Carpenter was roused from sleep by a loud knocking on the door of his room. He awoke instantly, his hand reaching for the wooden stake he had placed on his bedside table. He slipped from beneath his bedding and padded softly across the carpeted floor to the door.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“Henry Victor,” a low voice boomed from the other side of the wooden panels.
Carpenter put the hand containing the stake behind his back and opened the door six inches, the length of the sturdy chain he had left fastened. Henry Victor stood in the hallway, his vast frame reaching to within an inch or two of the ceiling. He looked down at Carpenter with a look of anger on his face.
“You know who I am,” he said. It was a statement rather than a question. “I believe I do,” answered Carpenter.
“Who did you tell?”
“I told nobody.”
“Your partner. Willis. Not even him?”
“Not even him.”
Victor reached into the pocket of his overcoat and withdrew a thick white envelope.
“Then perhaps you will be able to explain this to me,” he said, handing the envelope to Carpenter.
Carpenter took it, noting as he did so the enormous size of the man’s hand, and slipped the chain off its latch. He opened the door wide.
“Come in,” he said, walking over to the small desk beneath his window and placing the envelope on the wooden top. Victor did so, shutting the door behind him. Carpenter pulled three sheets of stiff card from the envelope. The first two were invitations, gold-edged rectangles of board with three lines of ornate printing on them.
CENTRAL PARK WEST AND WEST EIGHTY-FIFTH STREET DECEMBER 31, 1928 11 P.M.
He set these aside and looked at the third card. It was a note, handwritten in beautiful copperplate script. Dear Mr. Frankenstein: Please do me the honor of gracing me with your presence evening. And do with your presence this evening. And do bring your new British friend-he has taken a room at the Hotel Chelsea on West Twenty-Third Street, in case you need to find him. Masks are mandatory, black tie is preferred. Yours, V
“I haven’t used that name since I arrived in America,” Frankenstein’s voice said from above Carpenter’s head. “More than a year ago.”
“Do you know anyone whose name starts with a V?” Carpenter asked.
“No.”
V for Valentin, thought Carpenter and a shiver ran up his spine. The youngest of the three brothers turned by Dracula himself. Could it be him?
“What about Haslett? Jeremiah Haslett?” he asked.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
Frankenstein took a deep breath that sounded very much to Carpenter like an attempt at keeping his temper. “Mr. Carpenter, I keep myself to myself. Especially where vampires are concerned.”
Carpenter snapped his head round. “What did you say?”
Frankenstein laughed. “I’m sorry. Did you assume that you and your friends were the only ones who knew?” He laughed again, this time at the look of surprise on John’s face. “I am a creature of the night, Mr. Carpenter, for reasons that should be obvious to you. I have traveled widely and seen and heard a great many things. I knew the sorry tale of Dracula before the Irishman wrote it down. I heard the rumors about Crowley and others like him. I have heard about your little organization. I have even heard of you, Mr. Carpenter. Or your father, at least.”
Carpenter stared at the monster, stunned. “Then you know why I am here,” he said, trying to regain his composure.
“I presume you are here to make sure that Mr. Haslett does not return to England’s green and pleasant land?”
Carpenter nodded.
“And I would imagine that this evening’s gathering strikes you as your best opportunity to carry out your task?”
“I am certainly hoping so. Will you let me have both invitations?”
Frankenstein laughed and shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Carpenter. I want to ask this V certain questions of my own. But I will accompany you, and if the opportunity to assist you in your mission presents itself, then I will certainly consider doing so. How does that sound?”
“That sounds fine.” Carpenter hesitated for a moment. “One of the oldest vampires in the world is believed to live in this city. His name is Valentin Rusmanov. Have you heard of him?”
“The youngest of the three brothers.”
“Indeed. I wonder if he could be the V who sent the invitations.”
“If that turns out to be the case,” said Frankenstein, “we will be well-advised to be extremely careful.”
Carpenter showered and dressed quickly after Frankenstein had left but was still ten minutes late meeting Willis in the diner on Broadway that the American had selected as they said their farewells the previous evening. He slid into a red leather booth opposite Willis, ordered coffee and eggs, and quickly filled his partner in on the morning’s developments. Willis listened intently, then asked the question Carpenter had been waiting for.
“Surely you realize that this invitation is a trap of some kind?”
“Of course I do,” replied Carpenter. “But it still represents the best opportunity for me to carry out my mission. Surely you realize that?”
Willis sipped his coffee.
“I do, John,” he said. “I just felt it necessary to draw your attention to the fact that this V’s motives for inviting you and the monster are unlikely to be honorable. I meant no offense.”
Carpenter felt his anger dissipate.
Control yourself. This man is not your enemy.
“Needless to say, I will take up position outside the building and will be ready to assist in any way that is required,” Willis continued. “Unless that does not sit well with you?”
“That sits fine,” replied Carpenter. “I will be grateful for your presence.”
“That settles it then,” said Willis, and he forced a smile. “Now, let us turn our attention to breakfast. It promises to be a long day.”
John Carpenter stood at the corner of Central Park West and West Eighty-Third Street, waiting for Frankenstein. The sun had long since disappeared below the horizon, and the night was cold and dark.
He had left Willis in the diner and caught a carriage uptown to take care of some errands. He purchased a dinner suit from a tailor that Willis had recommended on Madison Avenue, continued north into Harlem to pay a short visit to a builder’s merchant before returning to his hotel to prepare himself for the ball, eating a light dinner in a restaurant on Sixth Avenue and making his way toward the wide expanse of Central Park.
“Cold night,” said a deep voice from behind him.
Carpenter started and spun around. Frankenstein towered above him, a beautiful dinner suit covering his huge frame. He was looking down at Carpenter with a faint smile on his face.
“Sorry if I startled you,” he said, and the smile widened a fraction.
“Apology accepted,” Carpenter managed in reply.
You bloody fool. Concentrate on the matter in hand, for God’s sake. To be so easily surprised is unacceptable.
Frankenstein nodded. “Glad to hear it,” he said. “Shall we?” He gestured along Central Park West, to the corner of the Upper West Side that was their destination.
The two men walked quickly to the address the invitations had specified. On the corner before them was a vast Gothic town house, dominated by a tall circular tower that rose high above the slanted roof. The many windows of the building blazed with light, and even from their position across the road, the sounds of laughter and
