The Strain, the Fall, the Night Eternal (121 page)

You have proven yourself quite resourceful, Goodweather. I am confident you can find the
Lumen
.

“I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”

Haven’t you? I can tell you now that you will have some assistance in this endeavor. An ally. One among your inner circle. Not physically turned—no. Only sympathetically. A traitor.

Eph did not believe this. “Now I know that you are lying.”

Do you? Tell me this. How would this lie profit me?

“. . . By stirring up discontent.”

There is already plenty of that.

Eph thought about it. It seemed true: he could find no advantage for the Master in lying.

There is one among you who will betray you all.

A turncoat? Had another one of them been co-opted? And then Eph realized that, in expressing it that way, he was already counting himself as having been co-opted as well.

“Who?”

This person will reveal themselves to you, in time.

If another had been compromised and chose to deal with the Master without Eph—then Eph could lose his last, best chance at saving his son.

Eph felt himself swaying. He felt this enormous tension in his mind. Fighting to keep the Master out, and fighting to keep his doubts in.

“I . . . would need a little time with Zack beforehand. Time to explain my actions. To justify them, and to know that he is fine, to tell him—”

No.

Eph waited for more. “What do you mean, no? The answer is yes. Make it part of the deal.”

It is not part of any deal.

“Not part of any . . . ?” Eph saw his dismay in the faceplate reflection. “You don’t understand. I can barely even consider doing what you have proposed here. But there is no way—no way in hell—that I go through with this unless I get a guaranteed opportunity to see my boy and know that he is fine.”

And what you don’t understand is that I have neither patience nor sympathy for your superfluous human emotions.

“No patience . . . ?” Eph pointed the tip of his silver sword at the helmet visor in angry disbelief. “Have you forgotten that I have something you want? Something you apparently very desperately need?”

Have you forgotten that I have your son?

Eph stepped backward as though shoved. “I can’t believe what I am hearing. Look—this is simple. I’m inches away from saying yes. All I’m asking for is ten goddamned minutes . . .”

It is even simpler than that. The book for your boy.

Eph shook his head. “No. Five minutes—”

You forget your place, human. I have no respect for your emotional needs and will not make them part of the terms. You will give yourself to me, Goodweather. And you will thank me for the privilege. And every time I look at you for the rest of eternity here on this planet, I will regard your capitulation as representative of the character of your entire race of civilized animals.

Eph smiled, his crooked mouth like a weird gash across his face, so stunned was he by the creature’s abject heartlessness. It reminded him of what he was up against—what they were all up against—in this cruel and unforgiving new world. And it astounded him how tone-deaf the Master was when it came to human beings.

In fact, it was this lack of comprehension—this utter inability to feel sympathy—that had caused the Master to underestimate them time and time again. A desperate human is a dangerous human, and this was one truth the Master could not divine.

“You would like my answer?” asked Eph.

I have your answer, Goodweather. All I require is your capitulation.

“Here is my answer.”

Eph reared back and swung at the proxy vampire standing before him. The silver blade sliced low through the neck, lifting the helmeted head from the shoulders, and Eph no longer had to stare at the reflection of his traitorous self.

Minimal spray as the body sagged, the caustic white blood pooling on the ancient floor. The helmet clunked and clattered into the corner, rolling around wobblingly before settling on its side.

Eph had not struck at the Master so much as he had struck at his own shame and his anguish at this no-win situation. He had slain the mouthpiece of temptation in lieu of striking down the temptation itself—an act he knew to be utterly symbolic.

The temptation remained.

Footsteps approached from the hallway, and Eph backed away from the decapitated body, at once realizing the consequence of his actions.

Fet was first inside. Nora followed, stopping short. “Eph! What have you done . . . ?”

In isolation, his impetuous attack seemed just. Now the consequences came rushing at him, with new footsteps from the hall: Gus.

He did not see Eph at first. He was focused on the interior of the cell in which he kept his mother the vampire. He roared and pushed past the other two and saw the headless body collapsed on the floor, its hands still manacled behind its back, the helmet in the corner.

Gus let out a cry. He drew a knife from his backpack, then rushed at Eph faster than Fet could react. Eph raised his sword at the last moment, to parry Gus’s attack—as a dark blur filled the space between them.

A starkly white hand gripped Gus’s collar, holding him off. Another hand thrust against Eph’s chest as the hooded being separated them with powerful strength.

Mr. Quinlan. Dressed in his black hoodie, radiating vampire heat.

Gus swore and kicked, fighting to get free, his boots a few inches from the ground. Tears of rage flowing freely from his eyes. “Quinlan, let me at this fuck!”

Slow.

Mr. Quinlan’s rich baritone invaded Eph’s head.

“Let me
go
!” Gus slashed with his knife, but it was little more than a bluff. As furious as Gus was, he still had the presence of mind to respect Mr. Quinlan.

Your mother is destroyed. It is done. And it is for the best. She was gone a long time ago and what was left—it was no good for you here.

“But that choice was mine—! What I did or not—my choice!”

Settle your differences as you wish. But—later. After the final battle.

Quinlan turned his piercing red eyes toward Gus, glowing hot within the dark shadow of his cotton hood. A royal red, richer than the hue of any natural object Gus had ever seen—even the freshest human blood. More red than the reddest autumn leaf and brighter and deeper than any plumage.

And yet, even as Quinlan was one-handedly lifting a man from the floor, these eyes were in repose. Gus would not like to see them turned on him in anger. At least for the moment, he held back his attack.

We can take the Master. But our time is short. We must do it—together.

Gus pointed past Mr. Quinlan, at Eph. “This junkie is worthless to us. He got the lady doctor caught, he cost me one of my men, and he is a fucking hazard and—worse than that—he’s a curse. This shit is bad luck. The Master has his son and has adopted him and leashed him like a fucking pet.”

It was Eph’s turn to go after Gus. Mr. Quinlan’s hand quickly came up against Eph’s chest with the restraining force of a steel pole.

“So tell us,” said Gus, not letting up. “Tell us what that motherfucker was whispering to you in here, just now. You and the Master having a heart-to-heart? I think the rest of us have a right to know.”

Quinlan’s hand rose and fell with Eph’s deep breaths. Eph stared at Gus, feeling Nora’s and Fet’s eyes on him.

“Well?” said Gus. “Let’s hear it!”

“It was Kelly,” said Eph. “Her voice. Taunting me.”

Gus sneered, spitting into Eph’s face. “Weak-minded piece of shit.”

Again a scuffle started. Fet and Mr. Quinlan were needed to keep the two men from tearing each other apart.

“He’s so desperate for the past, he came here to be talked down to,” said Gus. “Some dysfunctional family shit you got going.” To Mr. Quinlan, Gus said, “I tell you, he brings nothing. Let me fucking kill him. Let me get rid of this dead weight.”

As I said, you may settle this any way you desire. But, after.

It was apparent to all, even to Eph, that Mr. Quinlan was protecting him for some reason. That he was treating Eph differently than he might have treated the others—which meant that there was something different about Eph.

I need your help, gathering one final piece. All of us. Together. Now.

Mr. Quinlan released Gus, who surged toward Eph one last time, but with his knife down. “I have nothing left,” he said, up in Eph’s face like a snarling dog. “Nothing. I will kill you when this is all over.”

The Cloisters

T
HE
HELICOPTER
’
S
ROTORS
fought off wave after wave of stinging black rain. The dark clouds had unleashed a torrent of polluted precipitation, and yet, despite the darkness, the Stoneheart pilot wore aviator sunglasses. Barnes feared the man was flying blind and could only hope that they remained at a sufficient altitude over the Manhattan skyline.

Barnes swayed in the passenger compartment, hanging on to the seat belt straps crossing over his shoulders. The helicopter, chosen from among a number of models at the Bridgeport, Connecticut, Sikorsky plant, shook laterally as well as vertically. The rain seemed to be getting in under the rotor, slapping sideways against the windows as though Barnes were aboard a small boat in a storm at sea. Accordingly, his stomach lurched and its contents began to rise. He unclipped his helmet just in time to vomit into it.

The pilot pushed his joystick forward, and they began to descend. Into what, Barnes had no clue. Distant buildings were blurred through the wavy windshield, then treetops. Barnes assumed they were setting down in Central Park, near Belvedere Castle. But then a hostile gust of wind spun the helicopter’s tail like a weather vane arrow, the pilot fighting the joystick for control, and Barnes glimpsed the turbulent Hudson River to his near right, just beyond the trees. It couldn’t be the park.

They touched down roughly, first one skid, then the other. Barnes was just grateful to be back on solid ground, but now he had to walk out into a maelstrom. He pushed open the door, exiting into a blast of wet wind. Ducking under the still-spinning rotors and shielding his eyes, he saw, on a hilltop above, another Manhattan castle.

Barnes gripped his overcoat collar and hurried through the rain, up slick stone steps. He was out of breath by the time he reached the door. Two vampires stood there, sentries, unbowed by the pelting rain, yet half obscured by the steam emanating from their heated flesh. They did not acknowledge him, nor did they open the door.

The sign read,
THE
CLOISTERS
, and Barnes recognized the name of a museum near the northern tip of Manhattan, administered by the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He pulled on the door and entered, waiting for it to close, listening for movement. If there was any, the pounding rain obscured it.

The Cloisters was constructed from the remnants of five medieval French abbeys and one Romanesque chapel. It was an ancient piece of southern France transported to the modern era, which in turn now resembled the Dark Ages. Barnes called out, “Hello?” but heard nothing in response.

He wandered through the Main Hall, still short of breath, his shoes soaked, his throat raw. He looked out at the garden cloisters, once planted to represent the horticulture of medieval times, which now, due to negligence and the oppressive vampiric climate, had degenerated into a muddy swamp. Barnes continued ahead, turning twice at the sound of his own dripping but apparently alone within the monastery walls.

He wandered past hanging tapestries, stained-glass windows begging for sunlight, and medieval frescoes. He passed the twelve Stations of the Cross, set in the ancient stone, stopping briefly at the strange crucifixion scene. Christ, nailed to the center cross, was flanked by the two thieves, their arms and legs broken, tied to smaller crosses. The carved inscription read
PER
SIGNU
SANCTECRUCIS
DEINIMICIS
NOSTRIS
LIBERA
NOS
DEUS
NOSTER
. Barnes’s rudimentary Latin translated this as “Through the sign of the Holy Cross, from our enemies, deliver us, our God.”

Barnes had many years ago turned his back on his given faith, but there was something about this ancient carving that spoke to an authenticity he believed was missing in modern organized religion. These devotional pieces were remnants of an age when religion was life and art.

He moved on to a smashed display case. Inside were two illuminated books, their vellum pages ruffled, the gold leaf flaking, the hand-detailed artwork filling the pages’ lavish borders smudged with dirty fingerprints. He noticed one oversized oval that could only have been left by a vampire’s large talonlike middle finger. The vampire had no need for or appreciation for hoary, human-illustrated books. The vampire had no need for or appreciation for anything produced by a human.

Barnes passed through open double doors underneath a giant Romanesque archway, into a large chapel with an immense barrel-vault ceiling and heavily fortified walls. A fresco dominated the apse over the altar at the northern end of the chamber: the Virgin and Child together, with winged figures poised at either side. Written over their heads were the archangel names Michael and Gabriel. The human kings below them were depicted as the smallest figures.

As he stood before the empty altar, Barnes felt the pressure change inside the cavernous room. A breath of air warmed the back of his neck like the sigh of a great furnace, and Barnes turned slowly.

At first glance, the cloaked figure standing behind him resembled a time-traveling monk arrived from a twelfth-century abbey. But only at first glance. This monk gripped a long, wolf-headed staff in its left hand, and the hand contained the telltale vampire-talon middle finger.

The Master’s new face was just visible inside the dark folds of the cloak’s hood. Behind the Master, near one of the side benches, was a female vampire in tatters. Barnes stared, recognizing her vaguely, trying to match the bald, red-eyed fiend to a younger, attractive, blue-eyed woman he once knew . . .