The Night Eternal (27 page)

Nora pulled Fet’s hand back from his shoulder, quickly examining the wound. Not too much blood, no bone fragments.

Fet eased her back. “Let’s keep moving. Too vulnerable here.”

They cut down Fifty-sixth Street, heading for the F-line subway stop. No more gunfire, no one following them. They entered without encountering anyone, and the underground platform was empty. The F line ran north here, the track curving underneath the park as it headed east to Queens. They jumped down onto the rails, waiting again to make sure they were not followed.

It is only a little farther. Can you make it? It will be a better place to provide you with some medical attention.

Vasiliy nodded to Mr. Quinlan. “I’ve had it much worse.” And he had. In the last two years he had been shot three times, twice in Europe and once while in the Upper East Side after curfew.

They walked the rails by night vision. The cars generally stopped running during the meridiem, the vampires shutting down, though the underground protection from the sun allowed them to move trains if necessary. So Eph remained alert and aware.

The tunnel ceiling was angled, rising to the right, the high cement wall serving as a mural for graffiti artists, the shorter wall to their left supporting pipes and a narrow ledge. A form awaited them at the curve ahead. Mr. Quinlan had gone ahead of them, getting underground well in advance of the sunrise.

Wait here,
he told them, then jogged quickly back in the direction from which they came, checking for tails. He returned, apparently satisfied, and, without ceremony or prelude, opened a panel inside the frame of a locked access door. A lever inside released the door, which opened inward.

The short corridor inside was notable for its dryness. It led, through one left turn, to another door. But rather than open that door, Mr. Quinlan instead pried open a perfectly invisible hatch in the floor, revealing an angled flight of stairs.

Gus went down first. Eph was the second to last, Mr. Quinlan securing the hatch behind him. The stairs bottomed out into a narrow walkway constructed by different hands than any of the many subway tunnels Eph had seen over the past year of his fugitive existence.

You are safe accessing this complex in my company, but I strongly recommend that you do not attempt to return here on your own. Various safeguards have been in place for centuries, meant to keep anyone from the curious homeless to a vampire hit squad from entering. I have now deactivated the traps, but for the future, consider yourselves warned.

Eph looked around for evidence of booby traps but saw none. Then again, he had not seen the hatch door that led them here.

At the end of the walkway, the wall slid aside under Mr. Quinlan’s pale hand. The room revealed was round and vast, at first glance resembling a circular train garage. But it was apparently a cross between a museum and a house of Congress. The sort of forum Socrates might have thrived in, had he been a vampire condemned to the underworld. Soupy green in Eph’s night vision, the walls were in reality alabaster-white and preternaturally smooth, spaced by generous columns and rising to a high ceiling. The walls were empty, conspicuously so, as though the masterpieces that once hung there had long ago been taken down and stored away. Eph could not see all the way to the opposite end, so large was the room, the range of his night-vision goggles terminating in a cloud of darkness.

They rapidly tended to Fet’s wound. In his backpack he always carried a small emergency kit. The bleeding had almost stopped, consistent with the bullet having missed any major arteries. Both Nora and Eph were able to clean the wound with Betadine and applied antibiotic cream, Telfa pads, and an absorbent layer on top. Fet moved his fingers and arm and, even in great pain, proved himself still able.

He took a look around. “What is this place?”

The Ancients constructed this chamber soon after their arrival in the New World, after they determined that New York City, and not Boston, would be the port city serving as the headquarters for the human economy. This was a safe, secure, and sanctified retreat in which they could meditate for long periods of time. Many great and lasting decisions about how best to shepherd your race were made in this room.

“So this was all a ruse,” said Eph. “The illusion of freedom. They shaped the planet through us, pushing us toward developing fossil fuels, toward nuclear energy. The whole greenhouse gas thing. Whatever suited them. Preparing for the eventuality of their takeover, their move to the surface. This was going to happen regardless.”

But not like this. You must understand, there are good shepherds, who care for their flock, and there are bad shepherds. There are ways in which the dignity of the livestock can be preserved.

“Even if it’s all a lie.”

All belief systems are elaborate fabrications, if logic is followed out to the end.

“Good Christ,” muttered Eph under his breath—but the room was like a whispering chamber. Everyone heard him and looked his way. “A dictator is a dictator, benign or not. Whether it pets you or bleeds you.”

Did you honestly believe you were absolutely free to begin with?

“I did,” said Eph. “And even if it was all a fraud, I still prefer an economy based on metal-backed currency than one based on human blood.”

Make no mistake, all currency is blood.

“I would rather live in a dream world of light than a real world of darkness.”

Your perspective continues to be that of one who has lost something. But this has always been their world.

“
Was
always their world,” said Fet, correcting the Born. “Turned out they were even bigger suckers than we were.”

Mr. Quinlan was patient with Fet under the circumstances.

They were subverted from within. They were aware of the threat but believed they could contain it. It is easier to overlook dissension within your own ranks.

Mr. Quinlan briefly looked at Eph before moving on.

For the Master, it is best to consider the whole of recorded human history as a series of test runs. A set of experiments carried out over time, in preparation for the final masterstroke. The Master was there during the rise and fall of the Roman Empire. He learned from the French Revolution, the Napoleonic wars. He nested in the concentration camps. He lived among you like a deviant sociologist, learning everything he could from and about you, in order to engineer your collapse. Patterns over time. The Master learned to align himself with influential power brokers, such as Eldritch Palmer, and corrupt them. He devised a formula for the mathematics of power. The perfect balance of vampires, cattle, and wardens.

The others digested this. Fet said, “So your kind, the Ancients, has fallen. Our kind has also. The question is, what can we do about it?”

Mr. Quinlan crossed to an altar of sorts, a granite table upon which were set six circular wooden receptacles, each one not much bigger than a can of soda. Each receptacle glowed faintly in the lens of Eph’s night-vision device, as though containing a source of light or heat.

These. We must carry these back with us. I have spent most of the past two years arranging passage and traveling to and from the Old World in order to collect the remains of all the Ancients. Here I have preserved them in white oak, in accordance with the lore.

Nora said, “You have been around the world? To Europe, the Far East?”

Mr. Quinlan nodded.

“Is it … is it the same there? All over?”

Essentially. The more developed the region, the better the existing infrastructure, the more efficient the transition.

Eph moved closer to the six wooden crematory urns. He said, “What are you preserving them for?”

The lore told me what to do. It did not tell me to what end.

Eph looked around to see if anyone else questioned this. “So you traveled all around the world sweeping up their ashes at great danger to yourself, and you had no interest in why or what for?”

Mr. Quinlan looked at Eph with those red eyes.

Until now.

Eph wanted to press him more on the explanation of the ashes but held his tongue. He did not know the extent of the vampire’s psychic reach, and he was worried about being read and found to be questioning the entire endeavor. For he was still wrestling with the temptation of the Master’s offer. Eph felt like a spy there, allowing Mr. Quinlan to reveal this secret location to him. Eph did not want to know any more than he already did. He was afraid that he was capable of betraying them all. Of trading them and the world for his boy and paying for the transaction with his soul. He grew sweaty and fidgety just thinking about it.

He looked at the others standing there inside the vast underground chamber. Had one among them been corrupted already, as the Master had claimed? Or was this another of the Master’s lies, meant to soften Eph’s own resistance? Eph studied each one in turn, as though his night-vision scope could reveal some identifiable trace of their treachery, like a malignant black stain spreading out from their chest.

Fet spoke up, addressing Mr. Quinlan. “So why did you bring us here?”

Now that I have retrieved the ashes and read the
Lumen
I am ready to proceed. We have little time left to destroy the Master, but this lair allows us to keep an eye on him. Be close to his own hideout.

“Wait a minute … ,” said Fet, a curious tone in his voice. “Won’t destroying the Master also destroy you?”

It is the only way.

“You want to die? Why?”

The simple and honest answer is that I am tired. Immortality lost its luster for me many centuries ago. In fact, it removes the luster from everything. Eternity is tedium. Time is an ocean, and I want to come ashore. The one bright spot I have left in this world—the one hope—is the potential destruction of my creator. It is revenge.

M
r. Quinlan spoke of what he knew. What he had learned in the
Lumen.
He spoke in plain terms and with as much clarity as was possible. He explained the origin of the Ancients and the myth of the sites of origin and the emphasis on finding the Black Site, the birth site of the Master.

The part that Gus clicked with most was the three archangels—Gabriel, Michael, and the forgotten third angel, Ozryel—dispatched to fulfill God’s will in destroying the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah.

“God’s hardasses,” said Gus, identifying with the avenging angels. “But what do you think. Angels? Really? Gimme a fucking break,
hermano.
”

Fet shrugged. “I believe what Setrakian believed. And he believed in the book.”

Gus agreed with him but couldn’t let it go just yet. “If there is a God, or some something who can send angel assassins—then what the hell’s He waiting for? What if it is all just stories?”

“Backed up by actions,” said Fet. “The Master located each of the six buried segments of Ozryel’s body—the origin sites of the Ancients—and destroyed them with the only force that could accomplish the task. A nuclear meltdown. The only Godlike energy on Earth, powerful enough to obliterate sacred ground.”

With that, the Master not only wiped out its competition but made itself six times more powerful. We know it is still searching for its own site of origin, not to destroy it but to protect it.

“Great. So we just have to find the burial site,” said Nora, “before the Master does, and build an itty-bitty nuclear reactor on it, then sabotage the thing. Is that it?”

Fet said, “Or detonate a nuclear bomb.”

Nora laughed harshly. “That actually sounds like fun.”

Nobody else laughed.

“Shit,” Nora said. “You have a nuclear bomb.”

“But no detonator,” Fet said sheepishly, and looked to Gus. “We are trying to get a line on some sort of solution to that, right?”

Gus answered, lacking Fet’s enthusiasm. “My man Creem, you remember him? Silver-blinged-up banger, built like a big, fat truck? I put him on it, and he says he’s ready to deal. He’s hooked into everything black market in Jersey. Thing is, he’s still a drug dealer at heart. Can’t trust a man with no code.”

Fet said, “All of this is moot if we don’t have a target to shoot at.” He looked at Mr. Quinlan. “Right? And that’s why you wanted to see the
Lumen.
You think you can learn something from it we couldn’t?”

I trust you all saw the sky mark.

Mr. Quinlan paused and then locked eyes with Eph. And Eph felt as if the Born could read every secret in his soul.

Beyond the limits of circumstance and organization, there exists design. What it was that fell from the sky does not matter. It was an omen, prophesied ages ago and meant to signal the birth site. We are close. Think of it—the Master came here for that very reason. This is the right place and the right time. We will find it.

Gus said, “No disrespect, but I don’t get it. I mean, if you all want to go read a book and think it has little clues for you on how to slay a fucking vampire, then go to it. Pull up a comfortable chair. But me? I think we figure out how to confront this king bloodsucker and blow its ass up. The old man showed us the way, but at the same time, this mystical mumbo jumbo has gotten us where we are—starving, hunted, living like rats.” Gus was pacing, going a little stir-crazy in this ancient chamber. “I got the Master on video. Belvedere Castle. I say we get this bomb together and take care of business directly.”

“My son is there,” said Eph. “It’s not just the Master.”

“Do I look like I give a fuck about your brat?” said Gus. “I don’t want you to get the wrong impression—’cause I don’t give a fuck.”