The Strain, the Fall, the Night Eternal (64 page)

The only curious feature was a deep stack of
Real Estate
magazines lying around a gnarly La-Z-Boy recliner. Where others might keep a stash of porn tucked away in their workshop, Fet had these. “I like the pictures,” he said. “The houses with their warm lights on, against the blue dusk. So beautiful. I like to try to imagine the lives of people who might live inside such a place. Happy people.”

Nora entered, taking a break from unloading, drinking from a bottle of water, one hand on her hip. Fet handed Eph a heavy key ring.

“Three locks for the front door, three for the back.” He demonstrated,
showing the order of the keys as they were organized along the ring. “These open the cabinets—left to right.”

“Where are you off to?” asked Eph, as Fet headed for the door.

“Old man’s got something for me to do.”

Nora said, “Pick us up some takeout on your way back.”

“Those were the days,” said Fet, moving out to the second van.

Setrakian brought Fet the item he had carried in his lap from Manhattan. A small bundle of rags, with something wrapped inside. He handed it to Fet.

“You will return underground,” said Setrakian. “Find those ducts that connect to the mainland, and close them.”

Fet nodded, the old man’s request as good as an order. “Why alone?”

“You know those tunnels better than anyone else. And Zachary needs time with his father.”

Fet nodded. “How is the kid?”

Setrakian sighed. “For him, there is first the abject horror of the circumstances, the terror of this new reality. And then there is the
Unheimlich.
The uncanny. I speak here of the mother. The familiar and the foreign together, and the feeling of anxiety it inspires. Drawing him, and yet repulsing him.”

“You might as well be talking about the doc, too.”

“Indeed. Now, about this task—you must be swift.” He pointed to the package. “The timer will give you three minutes. Only three.”

Fet peeked inside the oil-stained rags: three sticks of dynamite and a small mechanical timer. “Jesus—it looks like an egg timer.”

“So it is. 1950s analog. Analog avoids mistakes, you see. Crank it all the way to the right, and then run. The small box underneath will generate the necessary spark to detonate the sticks. Three minutes. A soft-boiled egg. Do you think you can find a place to hide that fast down there?”

Fet nodded. “I don’t see why not. How long ago did you assemble this?”

“Some time ago,” said Setrakian. “It will still work.”

“You had this around—in your basement?”

“Volatile weapons I kept in the back of the cellar. A small vault,
sealed, concrete wall and asbestos. Hidden from city inspectors. Or nosy exterminators.”

Fet nodded, carefully wrapping up the explosive and tucking the package underneath his arm. He moved closer to Setrakian, speaking privately. “Level with me here, professor. I mean, what are we doing? Unless I’m missing something—I don’t see any way to stop this. Slow it down, sure. But destroying them one by one—that’s like trying to kill every rat in the city by hand. It’s spreading too fast.”

“That much is true,” said Setrakian. “We need a way to destroy more efficiently. But, by that same token, I do not believe the Master to be satisfied with exponential exposure.”

Fet digested the big words, then nodded. “Because hot diseases burn out. That’s what the doc said. They run out of hosts.”

“Indeed,” Setrakian said, with a tired expression. “There is a greater plan at work. What it is—I hope we never have to find out.”

“Whatever it is,” said Fet, patting the rags beneath his arm, “count on me to be right at your side.”

Setrakian watched Fet climb into the van and drive off. He liked the Russian, even if he suspected that the exterminator enjoyed the killing only too much. There are men who bloom in chaos. You call them heroes or villains, depending on which side wins the war, but until the battle call they are but normal men who long for action, who lust for the opportunity to throw off the routine of their normal lives like a cocoon and come into their own. They sense a destiny larger than themselves, but only when structures collapse around them do these men become warriors.

Fet was one of them. Unlike Ephraim, Fet had no question about his calling or his deeds. Not that he was stupid or uncaring—quite the contrary. He had a sharp, instinctive intelligence and was a natural tactician. And once set on a course, he never faltered, never stopped.

A great ally to have at one’s side for the Master’s final call.

S
etrakian returned inside, pulling open a small crate full of yellowing newspaper. From inside he delicately retrieved some chemistry glassware—more alchemist’s kitchen than science lab. Zack was nearby, chewing on the last of their granola bars. He found a silver sword and hefted it, handling the weapon with appropriate care, finding it surprisingly heavy. Then he touched the crumbling hem of a chest plate made of thick animal hide, horsehair, and sap.

“Fourteenth century,” Setrakian told him. “Dating from the beginning of the Ottoman Empire, and the era of the Black Plague. You see the neckpiece?” He pointed out the high front shield rising to the wearer’s chin. “From a hunter in the fourteenth century, his name lost to history. A museum piece, of no modern use to us. But I couldn’t leave it behind.”

“Seven centuries ago?” said Zack, his fingertips running along the brittle shell. “That old? If they’ve been around for so long, and if they have so much power, then why did they stay hidden?”

“Power revealed is power sacrificed,” said Setrakian. “The truly powerful exert their influence in ways unseen, unfelt. Some would say that a thing visible is a thing vulnerable.”

Zack examined the side of the chest plate, where a cross had been tanned into the hide. “Are they devils?”

Setrakian did not know how to answer that. “What do you think?”

“I guess it depends.”

“On what?”

“On if you believe in God.”

Setrakian nodded. “I think that is quite correct.”

“Well?” said Zack. “Do you? Believe in God?”

Setrakian winced, then hoped the boy had not seen it. “An old man’s beliefs matter little. I am the past. You, the future. What are your beliefs?”

Zack moved on to a handheld mirror backed in true silver. “My mom said God made us in His image. And He created everything.”

Setrakian nodded, understanding the question implicit in the boy’s response. “It is called a paradox. When two valid premises appear contradictory. Usually it means that one premise is faulty.”

“But why would He make us so that … that we could turn into them?”

“You should ask Him.”

The boy said quietly, “I have.”

Setrakian nodded, patting the boy on the shoulder. “He never answered me either. Sometimes it is up to us to discover the answers for ourselves. And sometimes we never do.”

An awkward situation, and yet Zack appealed to Setrakian. The boy had a bright curiosity and an earnestness that reflected well upon his generation.

“I am told boys your age like knives,” Setrakian said, locating one and presenting it to the boy. A four-inch, folding silver blade with a brown bone grip.

“Wow.” Zack worked the locking mechanism to close it, then opened it again. “I should probably check with my dad, make sure it’s okay.”

“I believe it fits perfectly in your pocket. Why don’t you see?” He watched Zack collapse the blade and slide the grip into his pants pocket. “Good. Every boy should have a knife. Give it a name and it is yours forever.”

“A name?” said Zack.

“One must always name a weapon. You cannot trust that which you cannot call by name.”

Zack patted his pocket, his gaze faraway. “That’s going to take some thinking.”

Eph came over, noticing Zack and Setrakian together and sensing that something personal had passed between them.

Zack’s hand went deep into his knife pocket, but he said nothing.

“There is a paper bag in the front seat of the van,” said Setrakian. “It contains a sandwich. You must keep strong.”

Zack said, “Not bologna again.”

“My apologies,” said Setrakian, “but it was on special the last time I went to market. This is the last of it. I put on some nice mustard. Also there are two good Drake’s Cakes in the bag. You might enjoy one and then bring the other back for me.”

Zack nodded, his father tousling his hair as he went to the rear exit. “Lock the van doors when you get in there, okay?”

“I know …”

Eph watched him go, seeing him climb inside the passenger door of the van parked right outside. To Setrakian, Eph said, “You okay?”

“I am well enough. Here. I have something for you.”

Eph received a lacquered wooden case. He opened the top, revealing a Glock in clean condition save for where the serial number had been filed off. Around it were five magazines of ammunition wedged into gray foam.

Eph said, “This would appear to be highly illegal.”

“And highly useful. Those are silver bullets, mind you. Specially made.”

Eph lifted the weapon out of the box, turning so that there was no chance of Zack seeing him. “I feel like the Lone Ranger.”

“He had the right idea, didn’t he? But what he didn’t have was expanding tips. These bullets will fragment inside the body, burst. One shot anywhere in the trunk of a
strigoi
should do the trick.”

The presentation had about it a hint of ceremony. Eph said, “Maybe Fet should have one.”

“Vasiliy likes the nail gun. He is more manually inclined.”

“And you like the sword.”

“It is best to stay with what one is accustomed to, in times of trouble such as these.” Nora came over, drawn by the strange sight of the gun. “I have another, medium-length silver dagger I think would suit you perfectly, Dr. Martinez.”

She nodded, both hands in her pockets. “It’s the only kind of jewelry I want just now.”

Eph returned his weapon to the case, closing the top. This question was easier with Nora here. “What do you think happened up on that rooftop?” he asked Setrakian. “With the Master surviving the sun? Does it mean it is different from the rest?”

“Without doubt, it is different. It is their progenitor.”

Nora said, “Right. Okay. And so we know—painfully well—how subsequent generations of vampires are created. Through stinger infection and such. But who created the first? And how?”

“Right,” said Eph. “How can the chicken come before the egg?”

“Indeed,” said Setrakian, pulling his wolf’s-head-handled
walking stick from the wall, leaning on it for support. “I believe the secret to all of this lies in the Master’s making.”

Nora said, “What secret?”

“The key to his undoing.”

They were silent for a moment, absorbing this. Eph said, “Then—you know something.”

Setrakian said, “I have a theory, which has been substantiated, at least in part, by what we witnessed on that rooftop. But I do not wish to be wrong, for it would sidetrack us, and as we all know, time is sand now and the hourglass is no longer being turned by human hands.”

Nora said, “If sunlight didn’t destroy it, then silver probably won’t either.”

“Its host body can be maimed and even killed,” said Setrakian. “Ephraim succeeded in cutting it. But no, you are correct. We cannot assume that silver alone will be enough.”

Eph said, “You’ve spoken of others. Seven Original Ancients, you said. The Master and six others, three Old World, three New World. Where are they in all this?”

“That is something I have been wondering about myself.”

“Do we know, are they with him in this? I assume they are.”

“On the contrary,” said Setrakian. “Against him, whole-heartedly. Of that I am certain.”

“And their creation? These beings came about at the same time, or in the same manner?”

“I can’t imagine some other answer, yes.”

Nora asked, “What does the lore say about the first vampires?”

“Very little, in fact. Some have tried to tie it to Judas, or the story of Lilith, but that is popular revisionist fiction. However … there is one book. One source.”

Eph looked around. “Point me to the box. I’ll get it.”

“This is a book I do not yet possess. One book I have spent a fair portion of my life trying to acquire.”

“Let me guess,” said Eph. “
The Vampire Hunter’s Guide to Saving the World
.”

“Close. It is called the
Occido Lumen
. Strictly translated, it means
I Kill the Light
, or, by extension,
The Fallen Light
.” Setrakian
produced the auction catalog from Sotheby’s, opening it to a folded page.

The book was listed, although in the area where a picture should have run was a graphic reading
NO IMAGE AVAILABLE.

“What is it about?” asked Eph.

“It is hard to explain. And even harder to accept. During my tenure in Vienna, I became, by necessity, fluent with many occult systems: Tarot, Qabbalah, Enochian Magick … everything and anything that helped me understand the fundamental questions I faced. They were all difficult subjects to fit in a curriculum but, for reasons I shall not divulge now, the university found abundant patronage for my research. It was during those years that I first heard of the
Lumen.
A bookseller from Leipzig came to me with a set of black-and-white photographs. Grainy stills of a few of the book’s pages. His demands were outrageous. I had acquired quite a few
grimoires
from this seller—and for some of them he had commanded a handsome sum—but this … this was ridiculous. I did my research and found that, even among scholars, the book was considered a myth, a scam, a hoax. The literary equivalent of an urban legend. The volume was said to contain the exact nature and origin of all
strigoi
but, more important, it names all of the Seven Original Ancients … Three weeks later I traveled to the man’s bookshop—a modest store in Nalewski Street. It was closed. I never heard from him again.”

Nora said, “The seven names—they would include Sardu’s?”

“Precisely,” said Setrakian. “And to learn his name—his true name—would give us a hold on him.”