Do I need to draw you a diagram to show the relationship between Old George, the fang fucker who is not called Marianne, and our mysterious adversary inside the Laundry (not to mention inside a crypt not far from the tomb of Karl Marx)? Yes? Well, it gets complex, like one of those optical-illusion 3D triangles that tries to turn your eyeballs inside out if you stare at it for too long. Let’s just say that right now they are all using each other for their own ends. George created Marianne as a proxy to kill rivals for him. The Rival has gaslighted him into loaning her to him. Marianne is happy because the Rival is feeding her play dates. The Rival, for his part, is using Marianne and George for his own ends in turn . . . and if any of them ever slip up in one another’s presence, they will die.

Which brings us back to the scenario I am describing. Not-Marianne is working for a new employer, who has asked her to guard a warehouse door. She has just herded a newbie vampire (and a vicar, by way of innocent bystanders) through it, into the presence of our internal adversary, who has secured her cooperation by promising them to her when he’s finished. Which is to say, he’s neatly detached her from Old George, who will now have to run his own bloody-handed errands. And he’s maneuvered Old George into a position where the only way to safety lies through the New Annex.

Things are about to get very messy indeed, for blood-on-the-walls values of messy.

17.

CODE RED

“GOOD EVENING, VICAR! AND YOU MUST BE ALEX, WHAT-WHAT? It’s a little cold in here: I’m afraid I couldn’t get the heaters to work. Would you like a cup of tea? I’ve made a pot.”

Alex looks around the darkened warehouse. It’s not totally pitch-black: a couple of underpowered bulbs glimmer in the twilight, dangling on wires from the cross-beams. There’s enough light to see rows of shelving receding into the distance, rising to just below the ceiling, stacked with boxes and tubes and piles of paper on pallets. There are some work tables at the front of the space, and behind them stacks of enormous billboard-sized posters—

The old man gestures at a teapot, surrounded by a neat cluster of mugs and an open half-pint carton of milk. His loose-skinned hand shakes quite noticeably as he picks up the teapot and begins to pour. “I come out here quite regularly. I find that creature comforts always make it slightly more bearable. Don’t you agree?”

Alex nods, unable to break the sudden conviction that this is all a horrible dream.

“Yes, that’s certainly true,” says Pete. To Alex’s surprise he seems to have relaxed somewhat. “We’ve met, haven’t we? In, um, Archives? You’re Basil, um, I’m sorry, Bob didn’t introduce us properly—”