The Night Eternal
Date: 2011-10-25 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Vampires; Fiction; Fantasy; Science Fiction; Thriller; Paranormal; Post Apocalyptic; Supernatural
Description: It’s been two years since the vampiric virus was unleashed in The Strain and the entire world now lies on the brink of annihilation. There has been a mass extermination of humans orchestrated by the Master—an ancient vampire possessed of unparalleled powers. The future of humankind lies in the hands of a ragtag band of freedom fighters—Dr. Eph Goodweather, Dr. Nora Martinez, Vasiliy Fet, and Mr. Quinlan, the half-breed offspring of the Master who is bent on revenge. It’s their job to overturn this devastating new world order. But good and evil are malleable terms now, and the Master is most sk
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers

The Strain, the Fall, the Night Eternal

Guillermo Del Toro

HarperCollins Publishers (2013)

High-concept thrillers with a supernatural edge from world-famous director, whose films include Pan's Labyrinth and Hellboy.

THE STRAIN: A plane lands at JFK and mysteriously 'goes dark', stopping in the middle of the runway for no apparent reason, all lights off, all doors sealed. The pilots cannot be raised.

When the hatch above the wing finally clicks open, it soon becomes clear that everyone on board is dead -- although there is no sign of any trauma or struggle. Ephraim Goodweather and his team from the Center for Disease Control must work quickly to establish the cause of this strange occurrence before panic spreads.

THE FALL: Humans have been displaced at the top of the food chain, and now understand -- to their outright horror -- what it is to be not the consumer, but the consumed.

Ephraim Goodweather, director of the New York office of the Centers for Disease control, is one of the few humans who...

The Strain Trilogy

GUILLERMO DEL TORO and CHUCK HOGAN

Contents

Title Page

The Strain

The Fall

The Night Eternal

About the Authors

Also by the Authors

Copyright

About the Publisher

The Strain

BOOK I
OF
The Strain Trilogy

GUILLERMO DEL TORO and CHUCK HOGAN

Dedication

To Lorenza, Mariana, and Marisa …

and
to all the monsters in my nursery:

May you never leave me alone

—GDT

For Lila

—CH

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

The Legend of Jusef Sardu

The Beginning

N323RG Cockpit Voice Recorder

The Landing

JFK International Control Tower

Now Boarding

Worth Street, Chinatown

Interlude I: Abraham Setrakian

Arrival

Regis Air Maintenance Hangar

Occultation

Approaching Totality

Awakening

Regis Air Maintenance Hangar

Interlude II: The Burning Hole

Movement

Coach

The First Night

Interlude III: Revolt, 1943

Dawn

17th Precinct Headquarters, East Fifty-first Street, Manhattan

The Old Professor

Knickerbocker Loans and Curios, East 118th Street, Spanish Harlem

The Second Night

Exposure

Canary Headquarters, Eleventh Avenue and Twenty-seventh Street

Final Interlude: The Ruins

Replication

Jamaica Hospital Medical Center

Daylight

Bushwick, Brooklyn

Lair

Worth Street, Chinatown

The Clan

Nazareth, Pennsylvania

Epilogue: Kelton Street, Woodside, Queens

Copyright

The Legend of Jusef Sardu

“Once upon a time,” said Abraham Setrakian’s grandmother, “there was a giant.”

Young Abraham’s eyes brightened, and immediately the cabbage borscht in the wooden bowl got tastier, or at least less garlicky. He was a pale boy, underweight and sickly. His grandmother, intent on fattening him, sat across from him while he ate his soup, entertaining him by spinning a yarn.

A bubbeh meiseh, a “grandmother’s story.” A fairy tale. A legend.

“He was the son of a Polish nobleman. And his name was Jusef Sardu. Master Sardu stood taller than any other man. Taller than any roof in the village. He had to bow deeply to enter any door. But his great height, it was a burden. A disease of birth, not a blessing. The young man suffered. His muscles lacked the strength to support his long, heavy bones. At times it was a struggle for him just to walk. He used a cane, a tall stick—taller than you—with a silver handle carved into the shape of a wolf’s head, which was the family crest.”

“Yes, Bubbeh?” said Abraham, between spoonfuls.

“This was his lot in life, and it taught him humility, which is a rare thing indeed for a nobleman to possess. He had so much compassion—for the poor, for the hardworking, for the sick. He was especially dear to the children of the village, and his great, deep pockets—the size of turnip sacks—bulged with trinkets and sweets. He had not much of a childhood himself, matching his father’s height at the age of eight, and surpassing him by a head at age nine. His frailty and his great size were a secret source of shame to his father. But Master Sardu truly was a gentle giant, and much beloved by his people. It was said of him that Master Sardu looked down on everyone, yet looked down on no one.”

She nodded at him, reminding him to take another spoonful. He chewed a boiled red beet, known as a “baby heart” because of its color, its shape, its capillary-like strings. “Yes, Bubbeh?”

“He was also a lover of nature, and had no interest in the brutality of the hunt—but, as a nobleman and a man of rank, at the age of fifteen his father and his uncles prevailed upon him to accompany them on a six-week expedition to Romania.”

“To here, Bubbeh?” said Abraham. “The giant, he came here?”

“To the north country, kaddishel. The dark forests. The Sardu men, they did not come to hunt wild pig or bear or elk. They came to hunt wolf, the family symbol, the arms of the house of Sardu. They were hunting a hunting animal. Sardu family lore said that eating wolf meat gave Sardu men courage and strength, and the young master’s father believed that this might cure his son’s weak muscles.”

“Yes, Bubbeh?”

“Their trek was long and arduous, as well as violently opposed by the weather, and Jusef struggled mightily. He had never before traveled anywhere outside his family’s village, and the looks he received from strangers along the journey shamed him. When they arrived in the dark forest, the woodlands felt alive around him. Packs of animals roamed the woods at night, almost like refugees displaced from their shelters, their dens, nests, and lairs. So many animals that the hunters were unable to sleep at night in their camp. Some wanted to leave, but the elder Sardu’s obsession came before all else. They could hear the wolves, crying in the night, and he wanted one badly for his son, his only son, whose gigantism was a pox upon the Sardu line. He wanted to cleanse the house of Sardu of this curse, to marry off his son, and produce many healthy heirs.

“And so it was that his father, off tracking a wolf, was the first to become separated from the others, just before nightfall on the second evening. The rest waited for him all night, and spread out to search for him after sunrise. And so it was that one of Jusef’s cousins failed to return that evening. And so on, you see.”

“Yes, Bubbeh?”

“Until the only one left was Jusef, the boy giant. That next day he set out, and in an area previously searched, discovered the body of his father, and of all his cousins and uncles, laid out at the entrance to an underground cave. Their skulls had been crushed with great force, but their bodies remained uneaten—killed by a beast of tremendous strength, yet not out of hunger or fear. For what reason, he could not guess—though he did feel himself being watched, perhaps even studied, by some being lurking within that dark cave.

“Master Sardu carried each body away from the cave and buried them deep. Of course, this exertion severely weakened him, taking most of his strength. He was spent, he was farmutshet. And yet, alone and scared and exhausted, he returned to the cave that night, to face what evil revealed itself after dark, to avenge his forebears or die trying. This is known from a diary he kept, discovered in the woods many years later. This was his last entry.”

Abraham’s mouth hung empty and open. “But what happened, Bubbeh?”

“No one truly knows. Back at home, when six weeks stretched to eight, and ten, with no word, the entire hunting party was feared lost. A search party was formed and found nothing. Then, in the eleventh week, one night a carriage with curtained windows arrived at the Sardu estate. It was the young master. He secluded himself inside the castle, inside a wing of empty bedrooms, and was rarely, if ever, seen again. At that time, only rumors followed him back, about what had happened in the Romanian forest. A few who did claim to see Sardu—if indeed any of these accounts could be believed—insisted that he had been cured of his infirmities. Some even whispered that he had returned possessed of great strength, matching his superhuman size. Yet so deep was Sardu’s mourning for his father and his uncles and cousins, that he was never again seen about during work hours, and discharged most of his servants. There was movement about the castle at night—hearth fires could be seen glowing in windows—but over time, the Sardu estate fell into disrepair.

“But at night … some claimed to hear the giant walking about the village. Children, especially, passed the tale of hearing the pick-pick-pick of his walking stick, which Sardu no longer relied upon but used to call them out of their night beds for trinkets and treats. Disbelievers were directed to holes in the soil, some outside bedroom windows, little poke marks as from his wolf-handled stick.”

His bubbeh’s eyes darkened. She glanced at his bowl, seeing that most of the soup was gone.

“Then, Abraham, some peasant children began to disappear. Stories went around of children vanishing from surrounding villages as well. Even from my own village. Yes, Abraham, as a girl your bubbeh grew up just a half-day’s walk from Sardu’s castle. I remember two sisters. Their bodies were found in a clearing of the woods, as white as the snow surrounding them, their open eyes glazed with frost. I myself, one night, heard not too distantly the pick-pick-pick—such a powerful, rhythmic noise—and pulled my blanket fast over my head to block it out, and didn’t sleep again for many days.”

Abraham gulped down the end of the story with the remains of his soup.

“Much of Sardu’s village was eventually abandoned and became an accursed place. The Gypsies, when their carriage train passed through our town, told of strange happenings, of hauntings and apparitions near the castle. Of a giant who prowled the moonlit land like a god of the night. It was they who warned us, ‘Eat and grow strong—or else Sardu will get you.’ Why it is important, Abraham. Ess gezunterhait! Eat and be strong. Scrape that bowl now. Or else—he will come.” She had come back from those few moments of darkness, of remembering. Her eyes came back to their lively selves. “Sardu will come. Pick-pick-pick.”

And finish he did, every last remaining beet string. The bowl was empty and the story was over, but his belly and his mind were full. His eating pleased his bubbeh, and her face was, for him, as clear an expression of love that existed. In these private moments at the rickety family table, they communed, the two of them, sharing food of the heart and the soul.

A decade later, the Setrakian family would be driven from their woodwork shop and their village, though not by Sardu. A German officer was billeted in their home, and the man, softened by his hosts’ utter humanity, having broken bread with them over that same wobbly table, one evening warned them not to follow the next day’s order to assemble at the train station, but to leave their home and their village that very night.

Which they did, the entire extended family together—all eight of them—journeying into the countryside with as much as they could carry. Bubbeh slowed them down. Worse—she knew that she was slowing them down, knew that her presence placed the entire family at risk, and cursed herself and her old, tired legs. The rest of the family eventually went on ahead, all except for Abraham—now a strong young man and full of promise, a master carver at such a young age, a scholar of the Talmud, with a special interest in the Zohar, the secrets of Jewish mysticism—who stayed behind, at her side. When word reached them that the others had been arrested at the next town, and had to board a train for Poland, his bubbeh, wracked with guilt, insisted that, for Abraham’s sake, she be allowed to turn herself in.

“Run, Abraham. Run from the Nazi. As from Sardu. Escape.”

But he would not have it. He would not be separated from her.

In the morning he found her on the floor of the room they had shared—in the house of a sympathetic farmer—having fallen off in the night, her lips charcoal black and peeling and her throat black through her neck, dead from the animal poison she had ingested. With his host family’s gracious permission, Abraham Setrakian buried her beneath a flowering silver birch. Patiently, he carved her a beautiful wooden marker, full of flowers and birds and all the things that had made her happiest. And he cried and cried for her—and then run he did.

He ran hard from the Nazis, hearing a pick-pick-pick all the time at his back …

And evil followed closely behind.

THE BEGINNING

N323RG Cockpit Voice Recorder

Excerpts, NTSB transcription, Flight 753, Berlin (TXL) to New York (JFK), 9/24/10:

2049:31 [Public-address microphone is switched ON.]

CAPT. PETER J. MOLDES: “Ah, folks, this is Captain Moldes up in the flight deck. We should be touching down on the ground in a few minutes for an on-time arrival. Just wanted to take a moment and let you know we certainly ’preciate you choosing Regis Airlines, and that, on behalf of First Officer Nash and myself and your cabin crew, hope you come back and travel with us again real soon …”

2049:44 [Public-address microphone is switched OFF.]

CAPT. PETER J. MOLDES: “… so we can all keep our jobs.” [cockpit laughter]

2050:01 Air-traffic control New York (JFK): “Regis 7-5-3 heavy, approaching left, heading 1-0-0. Clear to land on 13R.”

CAPT. PETER J. MOLDES: “Regis 7-5-3 heavy, approaching left, 1-0-0, landing on runway 13R, we have it.”

2050:15 [Public-address microphone is switched ON.]

CAPT. PETER J. MOLDES: “Flight attendants, prepare for landing.”

2050:18 [Public-address microphone is switched OFF.]

FIRST OFFICER RONALD W. NASH IV: “Landing gear clear.”

CAPT. PETER J. MOLDES: “Always nice coming home …”

2050:41 [Banging noise. Static. High-pitched noise.]

END OF TRANSMISSION

THE LANDING

JFK International Control Tower

The dish, they called it. Glowing green monochrome (JFK had been waiting for new color screens for more than two years now), like a bowl of pea soup supplemented with clusters of alphabet letters tagged to coded blips. Each blip represented hundreds of human lives, or, in the old nautical parlance that endured in air travel to this day, souls.

Hundreds of souls.

Perhaps that was why all the other air-traffic controllers called Jimmy Mendes “Jimmy the Bishop.” The Bishop was the only ATC who spent his entire eight-hour shift standing rather than sitting, wielding a number 2 pencil in his hand and pacing back and forth, talking commercial jets into New York from the busy tower cab 321 feet above John F. Kennedy International Airport like a shepherd tending his flock. He used the pink pencil eraser to visualize the aircraft under his command, their positions relative to one another, rather than relying exclusively upon his two-dimensional radar screen.

Where hundreds of souls beeped every second.

“United 6-4-2, turn right heading 1-0-0, climb to five thousand.”

But you couldn’t think like that when you were on the dish. You couldn’t dwell on all those souls whose fates rested under your command: human beings packed inside winged missiles rocketing miles above the earth. You couldn’t big-picture it: all the planes on your dish, and then all the other controllers muttering coded headset conversations around you, and then all of the planes on their dishes, and then the ATC tower over at neighboring LaGuardia … and then all the ATC towers of every airport in every city in the United States … and then all across the world …

Calvin Buss, the air-traffic-control area manager and Jimmy the Bishop’s immediate supervisor, appeared at his shoulder. He was back early from a break, in fact, still chewing his food. “Where are you with Regis 7-5-3?”

“Regis 7-5-3 is home.” Jimmy the Bishop took a quick, hot look at his dish to confirm. “Proceeding to gate.” He scrolled back his gate-assignment roster, looking for 7-5-3. “Why?”

“Ground radar says we have an aircraft stalled on Foxtrot.”

“The taxiway?” Jimmy checked his dish again, making sure all his bugs were good, then reopened his channel to DL753. “Regis 7-5-3, this is JFK tower, over.”

Nothing. He tried again.

“Regis 7-5-3, this is JFK tower, come in, over.”

He waited. Nothing, not even a radio click.

“Regis 7-5-3, this is JFK tower, are you reading me, over.”

A traffic assistant materialized behind Calvin Buss’s shoulder. “Comm problem?” he suggested.

Calvin Buss said, “Gross mechanical failure, more likely. Somebody said the plane’s gone dark.”

“Dark?” said Jimmy the Bishop, marveling at what a near miss that would be, the aircraft’s gross mechanicals shitting the bed just minutes after landing. He made a mental note to stop off on the way home and play 753 for tomorrow’s numbers.

Calvin plugged his own earphone into Jimmy’s b-comm audio jack. “Regis 7-5-3, this is JFK tower, please respond. Regis 7-5-3, this is the tower, over.”

Waiting, listening.

Nothing.

Jimmy the Bishop eyed his pending blips on the dish—no conflict alerts, all his aircraft okay. “Better advise on a reroute around Foxtrot,” he said.

Calvin unplugged and stepped back. He got a middle-distance look in his eyes, staring past Jimmy’s console to the windows of the tower cab, out in the general direction of the taxiway. His look showed as much confusion as concern. “We need to get Foxtrot cleared.” He turned to the traffic assistant. “Dispatch somebody for a visual.”

Jimmy the Bishop clutched his belly, wishing he could reach inside and somehow massage the sickness roiling at its pit. His profession, essentially, was midwifery. He assisted pilots in delivering planes full of souls safely out of the womb of the void and unto the earth. What he felt now were pangs of fear, like those of a young doctor having delivered his very first stillborn.

Terminal 3 Tarmac

LORENZA RUIZ was on her way out to the gate, driving a baggage conveyor, basically a hydraulic ramp on wheels. When 753 didn’t show around the corner as expected, Lo rolled out farther for a little peek, as she was due her break soon. She wore protective headphones, a Mets hoodie underneath her reflective vest, goggles—that runway grit was a bitch—with her orange marshaling batons lying next to her hip, on the seat.

What in the hell?

She pulled off her goggles as though needing to see it with her bare eyes. There it was, a Regis 777, a big boy, one of the new ones on the fleet, sitting out on Foxtrot in darkness. Total darkness, even the nav lights on the wings. All she saw was the smooth, tubular surface of the fuselage and wings glowing faintly under the landing lights of approaching planes. One of them, Lufthansa 1567, missing a collision with its landing gear by a mere foot.

“Jesus Santisimo!”

She called it in.

“We’re already on our way,” said her supervisor. “Crow’s nest wants you to roll out and take a look.”

“Me?” Lo said.

She frowned. That’s what you get for curiosity. So she went, following the service lane out from the passenger terminal, crossing the taxiway lines painted onto the apron. She was a little nervous, and very watchful, having never driven out this far before. The FAA had strict rules about how far out the conveyors and baggage trailers were supposed to go.

She turned past the blue guide lamps edging the taxiway. The plane appeared to have been shut down completely, stem to stern. No beacon light, no anticollision light, no lights in the cabin windows. Usually, even from the ground, thirty feet below, through the tiny windshield like eyes slanting over the characteristic Boeing nose, you could see up and inside the cockpit, the overhead switch panel and the instrument lights glowing darkroom red. But there were no lights at all.

Lo idled ten yards back from the tip of the long left wing. You work the tarmac long enough—Lo had eight years in now, longer than both of her marriages put together—you pick up a few things. The trailing edge flaps and the ailerons—the spoiler panels on the back sides of the wings—were all straight up like Paula Abdul, which is how pilots set them after runway touchdown. The turbojets were quiet and still, and they usually took a while to stop chewing air even after switch off, sucking in grit and bugs like great ravenous vacuums. So this big baby had come in clean and set down all nice and easy and gotten this far before—lights out.

Even more alarmingly, if it had been cleared for landing, whatever had gone wrong happened in the space of two, maybe three minutes. What can go wrong that fast?

Lo pulled a little bit closer, rolling in behind the wing. If those turbofans were to start up all of a sudden, she didn’t want to get sucked in and shredded like some Canadian goose. She drove near the freight hold, the area of the plane she was best acquainted with, down toward the tail, stopping beneath the rear exit door. She set the locking brake and worked the stick that raised her ramp, which at its height topped out at about a thirty-degree incline. Not enough, but still. She got out, reached back in for her batons, and walked up the ramp toward the dead airplane.

Dead? Why did she think that? The thing had never been alive—

But for a moment, Lorenza thought of the image of a large, rotting corpse, a beached whale. That was what the plane looked like to her: a festering carcass; a dying leviathan.

The wind stopped as she neared the top, and you have to understand one thing about the climate out on the apron at JFK: the wind never stops. As in never ever. It is always windy out on the tarmac, with the planes coming in and the salt marsh and the friggin’ Atlantic Ocean just on the other side of Rockaway. But all of a sudden it got real silent—so silent that Lo pulled down her big-muff headphones, just to be certain. She thought she heard pounding coming from inside the plane, but realized it was just the beating of her own heart. She turned on her flashlight and trained it on the right flank of the plane.

Following the circular splash of her beam, she could see that the fuselage was still slick and pearly from its descent, smelling like spring rain. She shined her light on the long row of windows. Every interior shade was pulled down.

That was strange. She was spooked now. Majorly spooked. Dwarfed by a massive, $250-million, 383-ton flying machine, she had a fleeting yet palpable and cold sensation of standing in the presence of a dragonlike beast. A sleeping demon only pretending to be asleep, yet capable, at any moment, of opening its eyes and its terrible mouth. An electrically psychic moment, a chill running through her with the force of a reverse orgasm, everything tightening, knotting up.

Then she noticed that one of the shades was up now. The fine hairs went so prickly on the back of her neck, she put her hand there to console them, like soothing a jumpy pet. She had missed seeing that shade before. It had always been up—always.

Maybe …

Inside the plane, the darkness stirred. And Lo felt as if something were observing her from within it.

She whimpered, just like a child, but couldn’t help it. She was paralyzed. A throbbing rush of blood, rising as though commanded, tightened her throat …

And she understood it then, unequivocally: something in there was going to eat her …

The gusting wind started up again, as though it had never paused, and Lo didn’t need any more prompting. She backed down the ramp and jumped inside her conveyor, putting it in reverse with the alert beeping and her ramp still up. The crunching noise was one of the blue taxiway lights beneath her treads as she sped away, half on and half off the grass, toward the approaching lights of half a dozen emergency vehicles.

JFK International Control Tower

CALVIN BUSS had switched to a different headset, and was giving orders as set forth in the FAA national playbook for taxiway incursions. All arrivals and departures were halted in a five-mile airspace around JFK. This meant that volume was stacking up fast. Calvin canceled breaks and ordered every on-shift controller to try to raise Flight 753 on every available frequency. It was as close to chaos in the JFK tower as Jimmy the Bishop had ever seen.

Port Authority officials—guys in suits muttering into Nextels—gathered at his back. Never a good sign. Funny how people naturally assemble when faced with the unexplained.

Jimmy the Bishop tried his call again, to no avail.

One suit asked him, “Hijack signal?”

“No,” said Jimmy the Bishop. “Nothing.”

“No fire alarm?”

“Of course not.”

“No cockpit door alarm?” said another.

Jimmy the Bishop saw that they had entered the “stupid questions” phase of the investigation. He summoned the patience and good judgment that made him a successful air-traffic controller. “She came in smooth and set down soft. Regis 7-5-3 confirmed the gate assignment and turned off the runway. I terminated radar and transitioned it over to ASDE.”

Calvin said, one hand over his earphone mic, “Maybe the pilot had to shut down?”

“Maybe,” said Jimmy the Bishop. “Or maybe it shut down on him.”

A suit said, “Then why haven’t they opened a door?”

Jimmy the Bishop’s mind was already spinning on that. Passengers, as a rule, won’t sit still for a minute longer than they had to. The previous week, a jetBlue arriving from Florida had very nearly undergone a mutiny, and that was over stale bagels. Here, these people had been sitting tight for, what—maybe fifteen minutes. Completely in the dark.

Jimmy the Bishop said, “It’s got to be starting to get hot in there. If the electrical is shut down, there’s no air circulating inside. No ventilation.”

“So what the hell are they waiting for?” said another suit.

Jimmy the Bishop felt everyone’s anxiety going up. That hole in your gut when you realize that something is about to happen, something really, really wrong.

“What if they can’t move?” he muttered before he could stop himself from speaking.

“A hostage situation? Is that what you mean?” asked the suit.

The Bishop nodded quietly … but he wasn’t thinking that. For whatever reason, all he could think was … souls.

Taxiway Foxtrot

THE PORT AUTHORITY’S aircraft rescue firefighters went out on a standard airliner distress deployment, six vehicles including the fuel spill foamer, pumper, and aerial ladder truck. They pulled up at the stuck baggage conveyor before the blue lamps edging Foxtrot. Captain Sean Navarro hopped off the back step of the ladder truck, standing there in his helmet and fire suit before the dead plane. The rescue vehicles’ lights flashing against the fuselage imbued the aircraft with a fake red pulse. It looked like an empty plane set out for a nighttime training drill.

Captain Navarro went up to the front of the truck and climbed in with the driver, Benny Chufer. “Call in to maintenance and get those staging lights out here. Then pull up behind the wing.”

Benny said, “Our orders are to hang back.”

Captain Navarro said, “That’s a plane full of people there. We’re not paid to be glorified road flares. We’re paid to save lives.”

Benny shrugged and did as the cap told him. Captain Navarro climbed back out of the rig and up onto the roof, and Benny raised the boom just enough to get him up on the wing. Captain Navarro switched on his flashlight and stepped over the trailing edge between the two raised flaps, his boot landing right where it said, in bold black lettering, DON’T STEP HERE.

He walked along the broadening wing, twenty feet above the tarmac. He went to the over-wing exit, the only door on the aircraft installed with an exterior emergency release. There was a small, unshaded window set in the door, and he tried to peer through, past the beads of condensation inside the double-thick glass, seeing nothing inside except more darkness. It had to be as stifling as an iron lung in there.

Why weren’t they calling out for help? Why wasn’t he hearing any movement inside? If still pressurized, then the plane was airtight. Those passengers were running out of oxygen.

With his fire gloves on, he pushed in the twin red flaps and pulled the door handle out from its recess. He rotated it in the direction of the arrows, nearly 180 degrees, and tugged. The door should have popped outward then, but it would not open. He pulled again, but knew immediately that his effort was useless—no give whatsoever. There was no way it could have been stuck from the inside. The handle must have jammed. Or else something was holding it from the inside.

He went back down wing to the ladder top. He saw an orange utility light spinning, an airport cart on its way out from the international terminal. Closer, he saw it was driven by blue-jacketed agents of the Transportation Security Administration.

“Here we go,” muttered Captain Navarro, starting down the ladder.

There were five of them, each one introducing himself in turn, but Captain Navarro didn’t waste any effort trying to remember names. He had come to the plane with fire engines and foaming equipment; they came with laptops and mobile handhelds. For a while he just stood and listened while they talked into their devices and over each other:

“We need to think long and hard before we push the Homeland Security button here. Nobody wants a shit storm for nothing.”

“We don’t even know what we have. You ring that bell and scramble fighters up here from Otis Air Force Base, you’re talking about panicking the entire eastern seaboard.”

“If it is a bomb, they waited until the last possible moment.”

“Explode it on U.S. soil, maybe.”

“Maybe they’re playing dead for a while. Staying radio dark. Luring us closer. Waiting for the media.”

One guy was reading from his phone. “I have the flight originating from Tegel, in Berlin.”

Another spoke into his. “I want someone on the ground in Germany who sprechen ze English. We need to know if they’ve seen any suspicious activity there, any breaches. Also, we need a primer on their baggage-handling procedures.”

Another ordered: “Check the flight plan and reclear the passenger manifest. Yes—every name, run them again. This time accounting for spelling variations.”

“Okay,” said another, reading from his handheld. “Full specs. Plane reg is N323RG. Boeing 777–200LR. Most recent transit check was four days ago, at Atlanta Hartsfield. Replaced a worn duct slider on the left engine’s thrust reverser, and a worn mount bushing on the right. Deferred repair of a dent in the left-aft inboard flap assembly due to flight schedule. Bottom line—she got a clean bill of health.”

“Triple sevens are new orders, aren’t they? A year or two out?”

“Three hundred and one max capacity. This flight boarded two ten. A hundred and ninety-nine passengers, two pilots, nine cabin crew.”

“Any unticketed?” That meant infants.

“I’m showing no.”

“Classic tactic,” said the one focused on terror. “Create a disturbance, draw first responders, gain an audience—then detonate for max impact.”

“If so, then we’re already dead.”

They looked at each other uncomfortably.

“We need to pull these rescue vehicles back. Who was that fool up there stomping on the wing?”

Captain Navarro edged forward, surprising them with a response. “That was me.”

“Ah. Well.” The guy coughed once into his fist. “That’s maintenance personnel only up there, Captain. FAA regs.”

“I know it.”

“Well? What’d you see? Anything?”

Navarro said, “Nothing. Saw nothing, heard nothing. All the window shades are drawn down.”

“Drawn down, you say? All of them?”

“All of them.”

“Did you try the over-wing exit?”

“I did indeed.”

“And?”

“It was stuck.”

“Stuck? That’s impossible.”

“It’s stuck,” said Captain Navarro, showing more patience with these five than he did with his own kids.

The senior man stepped away to make a call. Captain Navarro looked at the others. “So what are we going to do here, then?”

“That’s what we’re waiting to find out.”

“Waiting to find out? You have how many passengers on this plane? How many 911 calls have they made?”

One man shook his head. “No mobile 911 calls from the plane yet.”

“Yet?” said Captain Navarro.

The guy next to him said, “Zero for one-ninety-nine. Not good.”

“Not good at all.”

Captain Navarro looked at them in amazement. “We have to do something, and now. I don’t need permission to grab a fire ax and start smashing in windows when people are dead or dying in there. There is no air inside that plane.”

The senior man came back from his phone call. “They’re bringing out the torch now. We’re cutting her open.”

Dark Harbor, Virginia

CHESAPEAKE BAY, black and churning at that late hour.

Inside the glassed-in patio of the main house, on a scenic bluff overlooking the bay, a man reclined in a specially made medical chair. The lights were dimmed for his comfort as well as for modesty. The industrial thermostats, of which there were three for this room alone, maintained a temperature of sixty-two degrees Fahrenheit. Stravinsky played quietly, The Rite of Spring, piped in through discreet speakers to obscure the relentless shushing pump of the dialysis machine.

A faint plume of breath emerged from his mouth. An onlooker might have believed the man near death. Might have thought they were witnessing the last days or weeks of what was, judging by the sprawling seventeen-acre estate, a dramatically successful life. Might even have remarked on the irony of a man of such obvious wealth and position meeting the same end as a pauper.

Only, Eldritch Palmer was not at the end. He was in his seventy-sixth year, and he had no intention of giving up on anything. Nothing at all.

The esteemed investor, businessman, theologian, and high-powered confidant had been undergoing the same procedure for three to four hours every evening for the past seven years of his life. His health was frail and yet manageable, overseen by round-the-clock physicians and aided by hospital-grade medical equipment purchased for his private, in-home use.

Wealthy people can afford excellent health care, and they can also afford to be eccentric. Eldritch Palmer kept his peculiarities hidden from public view, even from his inner circle. The man had never married. He had never sired an heir. And so a major topic of speculation about Palmer was what plans he might have for his vast fortune after his death. He had no second-in-command at his primary investment entity, the Stoneheart Group. He had no public affiliation with any foundations or charities, unlike the two men jockeying for number one with him on the annual Forbes list of the world’s richest Americans, Microsoft founder Bill Gates and Berkshire Hathaway investor Warren Buffett. (If certain gold reserves in South America and other holdings by shadow corporations in Africa were factored into Forbes’s accounting, Palmer alone would hold the top spot on the list.) Palmer had never even drafted a will, an estate-planning lapse unthinkable for a man with even one one-thousandth of his wealth and treasure.

But Eldritch Palmer was, quite simply, not planning to die.

Hemodialysis is a procedure in which blood is removed from the body through a system of tubing, ultrafiltered through a dialyzer, or artificial kidney, and then returned to the body cleansed of waste products and impurities. Ingoing and outgoing needles are inserted into a synthetic arteriovenous graft semipermanently installed in the forearm. The machine for this procedure was a state-of-the-art Fresenius model, continuously monitoring Palmer’s critical parameters and alerting Mr. Fitzwilliam, never more than two rooms away, of any readings outside the normal range.

Loyal investors were accustomed to Palmer’s perpetually gaunt appearance. It had essentially become his trademark, an ironic symbol of his monetary strength, that such a delicate, ashen-looking man should wield such power and influence in both international finance and politics. His legion of faithful investors numbered thirty thousand strong, a financially elite bloc of people: the buy-in was two million dollars, and many who had invested with Palmer for decades were worth mid-nine figures. The buying power of his Stoneheart Group gave him enormous economic leverage, which he put to effective and occasionally ruthless use.

The west doors opened from the wide hallway, and Mr. Fitzwilliam, who doubled as the head of Palmer’s personal security detail, entered with a portable, secure telephone on a sterling-silver serving tray. Mr. Fitzwilliam was a former U.S. Marine with forty-two confirmed combat kills and a quick mind, whose postmilitary medical schooling Palmer had financed. “The undersecretary for Homeland Security, sir,” he said, with a plume of breath steaming in the cold room.

Normally Palmer allowed no intrusions during his nightly replenishment, preferring instead to use the time contemplatively. But this was a call he had been expecting. He accepted the telephone from Mr. Fitzwilliam, and waited for him to dutifully withdraw.

Palmer answered, and was informed about the dormant airplane. He learned that there was considerable uncertainty as to how to proceed by officials at JFK. The caller spoke anxiously, with self-conscious formality, like a proud child reporting a good deed. “This is a highly unusual event, and I thought you’d want to be apprised immediately, sir.”

“Yes,” Palmer told the man. “I do appreciate such courtesy.”

“Ha-have a good night, sir.”

Palmer hung up and set the phone down in his small lap. A good night indeed. He felt a pang of anticipation. He had been expecting this. And now that the plane had landed, he knew it had begun—and in what spectacular fashion.

Excitedly, he turned to the large-screen television on the side wall and used the remote control on the arm of his chair to activate the sound. Nothing about the airplane yet. But soon …

He pressed the button on an intercom. Mr. Fitzwilliam’s voice said, “Yes, sir?”

“Have them ready the helicopter, Mr. Fitzwilliam. I have some business to attend to in Manhattan.”

Eldritch Palmer rang off, then looked through the wall of windows out over the great Chesapeake Bay, roiling and black, just south of where the steely Potomac emptied into her dark depths.

Taxiway Foxtrot

THE MAINTENANCE CREW wheeled oxygen tanks underneath the fuselage. Cutting in was an emergency procedure of last resort. All commercial aircraft were constructed with specified “chop-out” areas. The triple seven’s chop out was in the rear fuselage, beneath the tail, between the aft cargo doors on the right side. The LR in Boeing 777–200LR stood for long range, and as a C-market model with a top range exceeding 9,000 nautical miles (nearly 11,000 U.S.) and a fuel capacity of up to 200,000 liters (more than 50,000 gallons), the aircraft had, in addition to the traditional fuel tanks inside the wing bodies, three auxiliary tanks in the rear cargo hold—thus the need for a safe chop-out area.

The maintenance crew was using an Arcair slice pack, an exothermic torch favored for disaster work not only because it was highly portable, but because it was also oxygen powered, using no hazardous secondary gases such as acetylene. The work of cutting through the thick fuselage shell would take about one hour.

No one on the tarmac at this point was anticipating a happy outcome. There had been no 911 calls from passengers inside the aircraft. No light, noise, or signal of any kind emanating from inside Regis 753. The situation was mystifying.

A Port Authority emergency services unit mobile-command vehicle was cleared through to the terminal apron, set up behind powerful construction lights trained on the jet. Their SWAT team was trained for evacuations, hostage rescue, and antiterrorism assaults on the bridges, tunnels, bus terminals, airports, PATH rail lines, and seaports of New York and New Jersey. Tactical officers were outfitted with light body armor and Heckler-Koch submachine guns. A pair of German shepherds were out sniffing around the main landing gear—two sets of six enormous tires—trotting around with their noses in the air as if they could smell the trouble here too.

Captain Navarro wondered for a moment if anyone was actually still on board. Hadn’t there been a Twilight Zone where a plane landed empty?

The maintenance crew sparked up the torches and was just starting in on the underside of the hull when one of the canines started howling. The dog was baying, actually, and spinning around and around on his leash in tight circles.

Captain Navarro saw his ladder man, Benny Chufer, pointing up at the midsection of the aircraft. A thin, black shadow appeared before his eyes. A vertical slash of darkest black, disrupting the perfectly smooth breast of the fuselage.

The exit door over the wing. The one Captain Navarro hadn’t been able to budge.

It was open now.

It made no sense to him, but Navarro kept quiet, struck dumb by the sight. Maybe a latch failure, a malfunction in the handle … maybe he had not tried hard enough … or maybe—just maybe—someone had finally opened the door.

JFK International Control Tower

THE PORT AUTHORITY had pulled Jimmy the Bishop’s audio. He was standing, as always, waiting to review it with the suits, when their phones started ringing like crazy.

“It’s open,” one guy reported. “Somebody opened up 3L.”

Everybody was standing now, trying to see. Jimmy the Bishop looked out from the tower cab at the lit-up plane. The door did not look open from up here.

Calvin Buss said, “From the inside? Who’s coming out?”

The guy shook his head, still on his phone. “No one. Not yet.”

Jimmy the Bishop grabbed a small pair of birders off the ledge and checked out Regis 753 for himself.

There it was. A sliver of black over the wing. A seam of shadow, like a tear in the hull of the aircraft.

Jimmy’s mouth went dry at the sight. Those doors pull out slightly when first unlocked, then swivel back and fold against the interior wall. So, technically, all that had happened was that the airlock had been disengaged. The door wasn’t quite open yet.

He set the field glasses back on the ledge and backed away. For some reason, his mind was telling him that this would be a good time to run.

Taxiway Foxtrot

THE GAS AND RADIATION SENSORS lifted to the door crack both read clear. An emergency service unit officer lying on the wing managed to pull out the door a few extra inches with a long, hooked pole, two other armed tactical officers covering him from the tarmac below. A parabolic microphone was inserted, returning all manner of chirps, beeps, and ring tones: the passengers’ mobile phones going unanswered. Eerie and plaintive sounding, like tiny little personal distress alarms.

They then inserted a mirror attached at the end of a pole, a large-size version of the sort of dental instrument used to examine back teeth. All they could see were the two jump seats inside the between-classes area, both unoccupied.

Bullhorn commands got them nowhere. No response from inside the aircraft: no lights, no movement, no nothing.

Two ESU officers in light body armor stood back from the taxiway lights for a briefing. They viewed a cross-section schematic, showing passengers seated ten abreast inside the coach cabin they would be entering: three each on the row sides and four across the middle. Airplane interior was tight, and they traded their H-K submachine guns for more manageable Glock 17s, preparing for close combat.

They strapped on radio-enabled gas masks fitted with flip-down night-vision specs, and snapped mace, zip cuffs, and extra magazine pouches to their belts. Q-tip – size cameras, also with passive infrared lenses, were mounted onto the tops of their ESU helmets.

They went up the fire rescue ladder onto the wing, and advanced to the door. They pulled up flat against the fuselage on either side of it, one man folding the door back against the interior wall with his boot, then curling inside, low and straight ahead to a near partition, staying down on his haunches. His partner followed him aboard.

The bullhorn spoke for them:

“Occupants of Regis 753. This is the New York – New Jersey Port Authority. We are entering the aircraft. For your own safety, please remain seated and lace your fingers on top of your heads.”

The lead man waited with his back to the partition, listening. His mask dulled sound into a jarlike roar, but he could discern no movement inside. He flipped down his NVD and the interior of the plane went pea-soup green. He nodded to his partner, readied his Glock, and on a three count swept into the wide cabin.

NOW BOARDING

Worth Street, Chinatown

Ephraim Goodweather couldn’t tell if the siren he heard was blaring out in the street—which is to say, real—or part of the sound track of the video game he was playing with his son, Zack.

“Why do you keep killing me?” asked Eph.

The sandy-haired boy shrugged, as though offended by the question. “That’s the whole point, Dad.”

The television stood next to the broad west-facing window, far and away the best feature of this tiny, second-story walk-up on the southern edge of Chinatown. The coffee table before them was cluttered with open cartons of Chinese food, a bag of comics from Forbidden Planet, Eph’s mobile phone, Zack’s mobile phone, and Zack’s smelly feet. The game system was new, another toy purchased with Zack in mind. Just as his grandmother used to juice the inside of an orange half, so did Eph try to squeeze every last bit of fun and goodness out of their limited time together. His only son was his life, was his air and water and food, and he had to load up on him when he could, because sometimes a week could pass with only a phone call or two, and it was like going a week without seeing the sun.

“What the …” Eph thumbed his controller, this foreign feeling wireless gadget in his hand, still hitting all the wrong buttons. His soldier was punching the ground. “At least let me get up.”

“Too late. Dead again.”

For a lot of other guys Eph knew, men in a situation similar to his own, their divorce seemed to have been as much from their children as from their wives. Sure, they would talk the talk, how they missed their kids, and how their ex-wives kept subverting their relationship, blah, blah, but the effort never really seemed to be there. A weekend with their kids became a weekend out of their new life of freedom. For Eph, these weekends with Zack were his life. Eph had never wanted the divorce. Still didn’t. He acknowledged that his married life with Kelly was over—she had made her position perfectly clear to him—but he refused to relinquish his claim on Zack. The boy’s custody was the only unresolved issue, the sole reason they still remained wed in the eyes of the state.

This was the last of Eph’s trial weekends, as stipulated by their court-appointed family counselor. Zack would be interviewed sometime next week, and soon afterward a final determination would be made. Eph didn’t care that it was a long shot, his getting custody; this was the fight of his life. Do the right thing for Zack formed the crux of Kelly’s guilt trip, pushing Eph to settle for generous visitation rights. But the right thing for Eph was to hang on to Zack. Eph had twisted the arm of the U.S. government, his employer, in order to set up his team here in New York instead of Atlanta, where the CDC was located, just so that Zack’s life would not be disrupted any more than it had been already.

He could have fought harder. Dirtier. As his lawyer had advised him to, many times. That man knew the tricks of the divorce trade. One reason Eph could not bring himself to do so was his lingering melancholy over the failure of the marriage. The other was that Eph had too much mercy in him—that what indeed made him a terrific doctor was the very same thing that made him a pitiful divorce-case client. He had conceded to Kelly almost every demand and financial claim her lawyer requested. All he wanted was time alone with his only son.

Who right now was lobbing grenades at him.

Eph said, “How can I shoot back when you’ve blown off my arms?”

“I don’t know. Maybe try kicking?”

“Now I know why your mother doesn’t let you own a game system.”

“Because it makes me hyper and antisocial and … OH, FRAGGED YOU!”

Eph’s life-capacity bar diminished to zero.

That was when his mobile phone started vibrating, skittering up against the take-out cartons like a hungry silver beetle. Probably Kelly, reminding him to make sure Zack used his asthma inhaler. Or just checking up on him, making sure he hadn’t whisked Zack away to Morocco or something.

Eph caught it, checked the screen. A 718 number, local. Caller ID read JFK QUARANTINE.

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention maintained a quarantine station inside the international terminal at JFK. Not a detainment or even a treatment facility, just a few small offices and an examining room: a way station, a firebreak to identify and perhaps stall an outbreak from threatening the general population of the United States. Most of their work involved isolating and evaluating passengers taken ill in flight, occasionally turning up a diagnosis of meningococcal meningitis or severe acute respiratory syndrome (SARS).

The office was closed evenings, and Eph was not to be on call tonight, or anywhere on the depth chart through Monday morning. He had cleared his work schedule weeks ago, in advance of his weekend with Zack.

He clicked off the vibrate button and set the mobile back down next to the carton of scallion pancakes. Somebody else’s problem. “It’s the kid who sold me this thing,” he told Zack. “Calling to heckle me.”

Zack was eating another steamed dumpling. “I cannot believe you got Yankees – Red Sox tickets for tomorrow.”

“I know. Good seats too. Third-base side. Tapped into your college fund to get them, but hey, don’t worry—with your skills, you’ll go far on just a high school degree.”

“Dad.”

“Anyway, you know how it pains me to put even one green dollar in Steinbrenner’s pocket. This is essentially treason.”

Zack said, “Boo, Red Sox. Go, Yanks.”

“First you kill me, then you taunt me?”

“I figured, as a Red Sox fan, you’d be used to it.”

“That’s it—!” Eph wrapped up his son, working his hands in along his ticklish rib cage, the boy bucking as he convulsed with laughter. Zack was getting stronger, his squirming possessed of real force: this boy who he used to fly around the room on one shoulder. Zachary had his mother’s hair, both in its sandy color (her original color, the way it was when he first met her in college) and fine texture. And yet, to Eph’s amazement and joy, he recognized his own eleven-year-old hands dangling uncannily from the boy’s wrists. The very same broad—knuckled hands that used to want to do nothing more than rub up baseball cowhide, hands that hated piano lessons, that could not wait to get a grip on this world of adults. Uncanny, seeing those young hands again. It was true: our children do come to replace us. Zachary was like a perfect human package, his DNA written with everything Eph and Kelly once were to each other—their hopes, dreams, potential. This was probably why each of them worked so hard, in his and her own contradictory ways, to bring out his very best. So much so that the thought of Zack being brought up under the influence of Kelly’s live-in boyfriend, Matt—a “nice” guy, a “good” guy, but so middle of the road as to be practically invisible—kept Eph up at night. He wanted challenge for his son, he wanted inspiration, greatness! The battle for the custody of Zack’s person was settled, but not the battle for the custody of Zack’s spirit—for his very soul.

Eph’s mobile started vibrating again, crabbing across the tabletop like the chattering gag teeth his uncles used to give him for Christmas. The awakened device interrupted their roughhousing, Eph releasing Zack, fighting the impulse to check the display. Something was happening. The calls wouldn’t have come through to him otherwise. An outbreak. An infected traveler.

Eph made himself not pick up the phone. Someone else had to handle it. This was his weekend with Zack. Who was looking at him now.

“Don’t worry,” said Eph, putting the mobile back down on the table, the call going to his voice mail. “Everything’s taken care of. No work this weekend.”

Zack nodded, perking up, finding his controller. “Want some more?”

“I don’t know. When do we get to the part where the little Mario guy starts rolling barrels down at the monkey?”

“Dad.”

“I’m just more comfortable with little Italian stereotypes running around gobbling up mushrooms for points.”

“Right. And how many miles of snow was it you had to trudge through to get to school each day?”

“That’s it—!”

Eph fell on him again, the boy ready for him this time, clamping his elbows tight, foiling his rib attack. So Eph changed strategy, going instead for the ultrasensitive Achilles tendon, wrestling with Zack’s heels while trying hard not to get kicked in the face. The boy was begging for mercy when Eph realized his mobile was vibrating yet again.

Eph jumped up this time, angry, knowing now that his job, his vocation, was going to pull him away from his son tonight. He glanced at the caller ID, and this time the number bore an Atlanta prefix. Very bad news. Eph closed his eyes and pressed the humming phone to his forehead, clearing his mind. “Sorry, Z,” he told Zack. “Just let me see what’s up.”

He took the phone into the adjoining kitchen, where he answered it.

“Ephraim? It’s Everett Barnes.”

Dr. Everett Barnes. The director of the CDC.

Eph’s back was to Zack. He knew Zack was watching and couldn’t bear to look at him. “Yes, Everett, what is it?”

“I just got the call from Washington. Your team is en route to the airport now?”

“Ah, sir, actually—”

“You saw it on TV?”

“TV?”

He went back to the sofa, showing Zack his open hand, a plea for patience. Eph found the remote and searched it for the correct button or combination of buttons, tried a few, and the screen went blank. Zack took the remote from his hand and sullenly switched to cable.

The news channel showed an airplane parked on the tarmac. Support vehicles formed a wide, perhaps fearful, perimeter. JFK International Airport. “I think I see it, Everett.”

“Jim Kent just reached me, he’s pulling the equipment your Canary team needs. You are the front line on this, Ephraim. They’re not to make another move until you get there.”

“They who, sir?”

“The Port Authority of New York, the Transportation Security Administration. The National Transportation Safety Board and Homeland Security are winging there now.”

The Canary project was a rapid-response team of field epidemiologists organized to detect and identify incipient biological threats. Its purview included both naturally occurring threats, such as viral and rickettsial diseases found in nature, and man-made outbreaks—although most of their funding came thanks to Canary’s obvious bioterrorism applications. New York City was the nerve center, with smaller, university-hospital-based satellite Canaries up and running in Miami, Los Angeles, Denver, and Chicago.

The program drew its name from the old coal miner’s trick of bringing a caged canary underground as a crude yet efficient biological early warning system. The bright yellow bird’s highly sensitive metabolism detected methane and carbon monoxide gas traces before they reached toxic or even explosive levels, causing the normally chirpy creature to fall silent and sway on its perch.

In this modern age, every human being had the potential to be that sentinel canary. Eph’s team’s job was to isolate them once they stopped singing, treat the infected, and contain the spread.

Eph said, “What is it, Everett? Did somebody die on the plane?”

The director said, “They’re all dead, Ephraim. Every last one.”

Kelton Street, Woodside, Queens

KELLY GOODWEATHER sat at the small table across from Matt Sayles, her live-in partner (“boyfriend” sounded too young; “significant other” sounded too old). They were sharing a homemade pizza made with pesto sauce, sun-dried tomatoes, and goat cheese, with a few curls of prosciutto thrown in for flair, as well as an eleven-dollar bottle of year-old merlot. The kitchen television was tuned to NY1 because Matt wanted the news. As far as Kelly was concerned, twenty-four-hour news channels were her enemy.

“I am sorry,” she told him again.

Matt smiled, making a lazy circle in the air with his wineglass.

“It’s not my fault, of course. But I know we had this weekend set up all to ourselves …”

Matt wiped his lips on the napkin tucked into his shirt collar. “He usually finds a way to get in between the two of us. And I am not referring to Zack.”

Kelly looked over at the empty third chair. Matt had no doubt been looking forward to her son’s weekend away. Pending resolution of their drawn-out, court-mediated custody battle, Zack was spending a few weekends with Eph at his flat in Lower Manhattan. That meant, for her, an intimate dinner at home, with the usual sexual expectations on Matt’s part—which Kelly had no qualms about fulfilling, and was inevitably worth the extra glass of wine she would allow herself.

But now, not tonight. As sorry as she was for Matt, for herself she was actually quite pleased.

“I’ll make it up to you,” she told him, with a wink.

Matt smiled in defeat. “Deal.”

This was why Matt was such a comfort. After Eph’s moodiness, his outbursts, his hard-driving personality, the mercury that ran through his veins, she needed a slower boat like Matt. She had married Eph much too young, and deferred too much of herself—her own needs, ambitions, desires—helping him advance his medical career. If she could impart one bit of life advice to the fourth-grade girls in her class at PS 69 in Jackson Heights, it would be: never marry a genius. Especially a good-looking one. With Matt, Kelly felt at ease, and, in fact, enjoyed the upper hand in the relationship. It was her turn to be tended to.

On the small white kitchen television, they were hyping the next day’s eclipse. The reporter was trying on various glasses, rating them for eye safety, while reporting from a T-shirt stand in Central Park. KISS ME ON THE ECLIPSE! was the big seller. The anchors promoted their “Live Team Coverage” coming tomorrow afternoon.

“It’s gonna be a big show,” said Matt, his comment letting her know he wasn’t going to let disappointment ruin the evening.

“It’s a major celestial event,” said Kelly, “and they’re treating it like just another winter snowstorm.”

The “Breaking News” screen came on. This was usually Kelly’s cue to change the channel, but the strangeness of the story drew her in. The TV showed a distant shot of an airplane sitting on the tarmac at JFK, encircled by work lights. The plane was lit so dramatically, and surrounded by so many vehicles and small men, you would have thought a UFO had touched down in Queens.

“Terrorists,” said Matt.

JFK Airport was only ten miles away. The reporter said that the airplane in question had completely shut down after an otherwise unremarkable landing, and that there had as yet been no contact either from the flight crew or the passengers still aboard. All landings at JFK had been suspended as a precaution, and air traffic was being diverted to Newark and LaGuardia.

She knew then that this airplane was the reason Eph was bringing Zack back home. All she wanted now was to get Zack back under her roof. Kelly was one of the great worriers, and home meant safety. It was the one place in this world that she could control.

Kelly rose and went to the window over her kitchen sink, dimming the light, looking out at the sky beyond the roof of their backyard neighbor. She saw airplane lights circling LaGuardia, swirling like bits of glittering debris pulled into a storm funnel. She had never been out in the middle part of the country, where you can see tornadoes coming at you from miles away. But this felt like that. Like there was something coming her way that she could do nothing about.

Eph pulled up his CDC-issued Ford Explorer at the curb. Kelly owned a small house on a tidy square of land surrounded by neat, low hedges in a sloping block of two-story houses. She met him outside on the concrete walk, as though wary of admitting him into her domicile, generally treating him like a decade-long flu she had finally fought off.

Blonder and slender and still very pretty, though she was a different person to him now. So much had changed. Somewhere, in a dusty shoe box probably, buried in the back of a closet, there were wedding photos of an untroubled young woman with her veil thrown back, smiling winningly at her tuxedoed groom, two young people very happily in love.

“I had the entire weekend cleared,” he said, exiting the car ahead of Zack, pushing through the low iron gate in order to get in the first word. “It’s an emergency.”

Matt Sayles stepped out through the lighted doorway behind her, stopping on the front stoop. His napkin was tucked into his shirt, obscuring the Sears logo over the pocket from the store he managed at the mall in Rego Park.

Eph didn’t acknowledge his presence, keeping his focus on Kelly and Zack as the boy entered the yard. Kelly had a smile for him, and Eph couldn’t help but wonder if she preferred this—Eph striking out with Zack—to a weekend alone with Matt. Kelly took him protectively under her arm. “You okay, Z?”

Zack nodded.

“Disappointed, I bet.”

He nodded again.

She saw the box and wires in his hand. “What is this?”

Eph said, “Zack’s new game system. He’s borrowing it for the weekend.” Eph looked at Zack, the boy’s head against his mother’s chest, staring into the middle distance. “Bud, if there’s any way I can get free, maybe tomorrow—hopefully tomorrow … but if there’s any way at all, I’ll be back for you, and we’ll salvage what we can out of this weekend. Okay? I’ll make it up to you, you know that, right?”

Zack nodded, his eyes still distant.

Matt called down from the top step. “Come on in, Zack. Let’s see if we can get that thing hooked up.”

Dependable, reliable Matt. Kelly sure had him trained well. Eph watched his son go inside under Matt’s arm, Zack glancing back one last time at Eph.

Alone now, he and Kelly stood facing each other on the little patch of grass. Behind her, over the roof of her house, the lights of the waiting airplanes circled. An entire network of transportation, never mind various government and law enforcement agencies, was waiting for this man facing a woman who said she didn’t love him anymore.

“It’s that airplane, isn’t it.”

Eph nodded. “They’re all dead. Everybody on board.”

“All dead?” Kelly’s eyes flared with concern. “How? What could it be?”

“That’s what I have to go find out.”

Eph felt the urgency of his job settling over him now. He had blown it with Zack—but that was done, and now he had to go. He reached into his pocket and handed her an envelope with the pin-striped logo. “For tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “In case I don’t make it back before then.”

Kelly peeked at the tickets, her eyebrows lifting at the price, then tucked them back inside the envelope. She looked at him with an expression approaching sympathy. “Just be sure not to forget our meeting with Dr. Kempner.”

The family therapist—the one who would decide Zack’s final custody. “Kempner, right,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

“And—be careful,” she said.

Eph nodded and started away.

JFK International Airport

A CROWD HAD GATHERED outside the airport, people drawn to the unexplained, the weird, the potentially tragic, the event. The radio, on Eph’s drive over, treated the dormant airplane as a potential hijacking, speculating about a link to the conflicts overseas.

Inside the terminal, two airport carts passed Eph, one carrying a teary mother holding the hands of two frightened-looking children, another with an older black gentleman riding with a bouquet of red roses across his lap. He realized that somebody else’s Zack was out there on that plane. Somebody else’s Kelly. He focused on that.

Eph’s team was waiting for him outside a locked door just below gate 6. Jim Kent was working the phone, as usual, speaking into the wire microphone dangling from his ear. Jim handled the bureaucratic and political side of disease control for Eph. He closed his hand around the mic part of his phone wire and said, by way of greeting, “No other reports of planes down anywhere else in the country.”

Eph climbed in next to Nora Martinez in the back of the airline cart. Nora, a biochemist by training, was his number two in New York. Her hands were already gloved, the nylon barrier as pale and smooth and mournful as lilies. She shifted over a little for him as he sat down. He regretted the awkwardness between them.

They started to move, Eph smelling marsh salt in the wind. “How long was the plane on the ground before it went dark?”

Nora said, “Six minutes.”

“No radio contact? Pilot’s out too?”

Jim turned and said, “Presumed, but unconfirmed. Port Authority cops went into the passenger compartment, found it full of corpses, and got right out again.”

“They were masked and gloved, I hope.”

“Affirmative.”

The cart turned a corner, revealing the airplane waiting in the distance. A massive aircraft, work lights trained on it from multiple angles, shining as bright as day. Mist off the nearby bay created a glowing aura around the fuselage.

“Christ,” said Eph.

Jim said, “A ‘triple seven,’ they call it. The 777, the world’s largest twin jet. Recent design, new aircraft. Why they’re flipped out about the equipment going down. They think it’s something more like sabotage.”

The landing-gear tires alone were enormous. Eph looked up at the black hole that was the open door over the broad left wing.

Jim said, “They already tested for gas. They tested for everything man-made. They don’t know what else to do but start from scratch.”

Eph said, “Us being the scratch.”

This dormant aircraft mysteriously full of dead people was the HAZMAT equivalent of waking up one day and finding a lump on your back. Eph’s team was the biopsy lab charged with telling the Federal Aviation Administration whether or not it had cancer.

Blue-blazer-wearing TSA officials pounced on Eph as soon as the cart stopped, trying to give him the same briefing Jim had just had. Asking him questions and talking over each other like reporters.

“This has gone on too long,” said Eph. “Next time something unexplained like this happens, you call us second. HAZMAT first, us second. Got it?”

“Yes, sir, Dr. Goodweather.”

“Is HAZMAT ready?”

“Standing by.”

Eph slowed before the CDC van. “I will say that this doesn’t read like a spontaneous contagious event. Six minutes on the ground? The time element is too short.”

“It has to be a deliberate act,” said one of the TSA officials.

“Perhaps,” said Eph. “As it stands now, in terms of whatever might be awaiting us in there—we have containment.” He opened the rear door of the van for Nora. “We’ll suit up and see what we’ve got.”

A voice stopped him. “We have one of our own on this plane.”

Eph turned back. “One of whose?”

“A federal air marshal. Standard on international flights involving U.S. carriers.”

“Armed?” Eph said.

“That’s the general idea.”

“No phone call, no warning from him?”

“No nothing.”

“It must have overpowered them immediately.” Eph nodded, looking into these men’s worried faces. “Get me his seat assignment. We’ll start there.”

Eph and Nora ducked inside the CDC van, closing the rear double doors, shutting out the anxiety of the tarmac behind them.

They pulled Level A HAZMAT gear down off the rack. Eph stripped down to his T-shirt and shorts, Nora to a black sports bra and lavender panties, each accommodating the other’s elbows and knees inside the cramped Chevy van. Nora’s hair was thick and dark and defiantly long for a field epidemiologist, and she swept it up into a tight elastic, arms working purposefully and fast. Her body was gracefully curved, her flesh the warm tone of lightly browned toast.

After Eph’s separation from Kelly became permanent and she initiated divorce proceedings, Eph and Nora had a brief fling. It was just one night, followed by a very awkward and uncomfortable morning after, which dragged on for months and months … right up until their second fling, just a few weeks ago—which, while even more passionate than the first, and full of intention to avoid the pitfalls that had overwhelmed them the first time, had led again to another protracted and awkward détente.

In a way, he and Nora worked too closely: if they had anything resembling normal jobs, a traditional workplace, the result might have been different, might have been easier, more casual, but this was “love in the trenches,” and with each of them giving so much to Canary, they had little left for each other, or the rest of the world. A partnership so voracious that nobody asked, “How was your day?” in the downtime—mainly because there was no downtime at all.

Such as here. Getting practically naked in front of each other in the least sexual way possible. Because donning a bio-suit is the antithesis of sensuality. It is the converse of allure, it is a withdrawal into prophylaxis, into sterility.

The first layer was a white Nomex jumpsuit, emblazoned on the back with the initials CDC. It zipped from knee to chin, the collar and cuffs sealing it in snug Velcro, black jump boots lacing up to the shins.

The second layer was a disposable white suit made of papery Tyvek. Then booties pulled on over boots, and Silver Shield chemical protective gloves over nylon barriers, taped at the wrists and ankles. Then lifted on self-contained breathing apparatus gear: a SCBA harness, lightweight titanium pressure-demand tank, full-face respirator mask, and personal alert safety system (PASS) device with a firefighter’s distress alarm.

Each hesitated before pulling the mask over his or her face. Nora formed a half smile and cupped Eph’s cheek in her hand. She kissed him. “You okay?”

“Yup.”

“You sure don’t look it. How was Zack?”

“Sulky. Pissed. As he should be.”

“Not your fault.”

“So what? Bottom line is, this weekend with my son is gone, and I’ll never get it back.” He readied his mask. “You know, there came a point in my life where things came down to either my family or my job. I thought I chose family. Apparently, not enough.”

There are moments like these, which usually come at the most inconvenient of times, such as a crisis, when you look at someone and realize that it will hurt you to be without them. Eph saw how unfair he had been to Nora by clinging to Kelly—not even to Kelly, but to the past, to his dead marriage, to what once was, all for Zack’s sake. Nora liked Zack. And Zack liked her, that was obvious.

But now, right now, was not the time to get into this. Eph pulled on his respirator, checking his breathing tank. The outer layer consisted of a yellow—canary yellow—full encapsulation “space” suit, featuring a sealed hood, a 210-degree viewport, and attached gloves. This was the actual level A containment suit, the “contact suit,” twelve layers of fabric which, once sealed, absolutely insulated the wearer from the outside atmosphere.

Nora checked his seal, and he did hers. Biohazard investigators operate on a buddy system much the same as that of scuba divers. Their suits puffed a bit from the circulated air. Sealing out pathogens meant trapping sweat and body heat, and the temperature inside their suits could rise up to thirty degrees higher than room temperature.

“Looks tight,” said Eph, over the voice-actuated microphones inside his mask.

Nora nodded, catching his eye through their respective masks. The glance went on a moment too long, as if she was going to say something else, then changed her mind. “You ready?” she said.

Eph nodded. “Let’s do this.”

Outside on the tarmac, Jim switched on his wheeled command console and picked up both their mask-mounted cameras, on separate monitor feeds. He attached small, switched-on flashlights on lanyards from their pull-away shoulder straps: the thickness of the multilayered suit gloves limited the wearer’s fine-motor skills.

The TSA guys came up and tried to talk to them some more, but Eph feigned deafness, shaking his head and touching his hood.

As they approached the airplane, Jim showed Eph and Nora a laminated printout containing an overhead view of the interior seat assignments, numbers corresponding to passenger and crew manifests listed on the back. He pointed to a red dot at 18A.

“The federal air marshal,” Jim said into his microphone. “Last name Charpentier. Exit row, window seat.”

“Got it,” Eph said.

A second red dot. “TSA pointed out this other passenger of interest. A German diplomat on the flight, Rolph Hubermann, business class, second row, seat F. In town for UN Council talks on the Korean situation. Might have been carrying one of those diplomatic pouches that get a free pass at customs. Could be nothing, but there is a contingent of Germans on their way here right now, from the UN, just to retrieve it.”

“Okay.”

Jim left them at the edge of the lights, turning back to his monitors. Inside the perimeter, it was brighter than day. They moved nearly without shadow. Eph led the way up the fire engine ladder onto the wing, then along its broadening surface to the opened door.

Eph entered first. The stillness was palpable. Nora followed, standing with him shoulder to shoulder at the head of the middle cabin.

Seated corpses faced them, in row after row. Eph’s and Nora’s flashlight beams registered dully in the dead jewels of their open eyes.

No nosebleeds. No bulging eyes or bloated, mottled skin. No foaming or bloody discharge about the mouth. Everyone in his or her seat, no sign of panic or struggle. Arms hanging loose into the aisle or else sagged in laps. No evident trauma.

Mobile phones—in laps, pockets, and muffled inside carry-on bags—emitted waiting message beeps or else rang anew, the peppy tones overlapping. These were the only sounds.

They located the air marshal in the window seat just inside the open door. A man in his forties with black, receding hair, dressed in a baseball-style button-up shirt with blue and orange piping, New York Mets colors, the baseball-headed mascot Mr. Met depicted on the front, and blue jeans. His chin rested on his chest, as though he were napping with his eyes open.

Eph dropped to one knee, the wider exit row giving him room to maneuver. He touched the air marshal’s forehead, pushing back the man’s head, which moved freely on his neck. Nora, next to him, teased her flashlight beam in and out of his eyes, Charpentier’s pupils showing no response. Eph pulled down on his chin, opening his jaw and illuminating the inside of his mouth, his tongue and the top of his throat looking pink and unpoisoned.

Eph needed more light. He reached over and slid open the window shade, and construction light blasted inside like a bright white scream.

No vomit, as from gas inhalation. Victims of carbon monoxide poisoning evinced distinct skin blistering and discoloration, leaving them with a bloated, leathered appearance. No discomfort in his posture, no sign of agonal struggle. Next to him sat a middle-aged woman in resort-style travel wear, half-glasses perched on her nose before her unseeing eyes. They were seated as any normal passengers would be, chairs in the full and upright position, still waiting for the FASTEN SEAT BELTS sign to be turned off at the airport gate.

Front-exit-row passengers stow their personal belongings in mesh containers bolted to the facing cabin wall. Eph pulled a soft Virgin Atlantic bag out of the pocket before Charpentier, running the zipper back along the top. He pulled out a Notre Dame sweatshirt, a handful of well-thumbed puzzle books, an audio-book thriller, then a nylon pouch that was kidney shaped and heavy. He unzipped it just far enough to see the all-black, rubber-coated handgun inside.

“You seeing this?” said Eph.

“We see it,” said Jim over the radio. Jim, TSA, and anyone else with enough rank to get near the monitors were watching this whole thing on Eph’s shoulder-mounted camera.

Eph said, “Whatever it was, it took everyone completely unaware. Including the air cop.”

Eph zipped the bag closed and left it on the floor, straightening, then proceeding down the aisle. Eph reached across the dead passengers in order to raise every second or third window shade, the harsh light casting weird shadows and throwing their faces into sharp relief, like travelers who had perished by flying too close to the sun.

The phones kept singing, the dissonance becoming shrill, like dozens of personal distress alarms overlapping. Eph tried not to think about the concerned callers on the other end.

Nora moved close to a body. “No trauma at all,” she noted.

“I know,” said Eph. “Goddamn spooky.” He faced the gallery of corpses, thinking. “Jim,” he said, “get an alert out to WHO Europe. Bring in Germany’s Federal Ministry of Health on this, contacting hospitals. On the off chance this thing is transmissible, they should be seeing it there too.”

“I’m on it,” said Jim.

In the forward galley between business and first, four flight attendants—three female, one male—sat buckled into their jump seats, bodies pitched forward against their shoulder belts. Moving past them, Eph had the sensation of floating through a shipwreck underwater.

Nora’s voice came through. “I’m at the rear of the plane, Eph. No surprises. Coming back now.”

“Okay,” said Eph as he walked back through the window-lit cabin, opening the segregating curtain to the wider-aisle seats of business class. There, Eph located the German diplomat, Hubermann, sitting on the aisle, near the front. His chubby hands were still folded in his lap, his head slumped, a forelock of sandy silver hair drooped over his open eyes.

The diplomatic pouch Jim mentioned was in the briefcase beneath his seat. It was blue and vinyl with a zipper along the top.

Nora approached him. “Eph, you’re not authorized to open that—”

Eph unzipped it, removing a half-eaten Toblerone bar and a clear plastic bottle full of blue pills.

“What is it?” Nora asked.

“My guess is Viagra,” said Eph, returning the contents to the pouch and the pouch to the briefcase.

He paused next to a mother and young daughter traveling together. The young girl’s hand was still nestled inside her mother’s. Both appeared relaxed.

Eph said, “No panic, no nothing.”

Nora said, “Doesn’t make sense.”

Viruses require transmission, and transmission takes time. Passengers becoming sick or falling unconscious would have caused an uproar, no matter what the FASTEN SEAT BELTS sign said. If this was a virus, it was unlike any pathogen Eph had ever encountered in his years as an epidemiologist with the CDC. All signs instead pointed to a lethal poisoning agent introduced into the sealed environment of the airplane cabin.

Eph said, “Jim, I want to retest for gas.”

Jim’s voice said, “They took air samples, measured in parts per million. There was nothing.”

“I know but … it’s as if these people were overcome by something without any warning whatsoever. Maybe the substance dissipated once that door opened. I want to test the carpeting and any other porous surfaces. We’ll test lung tissue once we get these people in post.”

“Okay, Eph—you got it.”

Eph moved quickly past the widely spaced, leather-appointed seats of first class to the closed cockpit door. The door was grated and framed in steel along each edge, with an overhead camera in the ceiling. He reached for the handle.

Jim’s voice in his suit hood said, “Eph, they’re telling me it works on a keypad lock, you won’t be able to get—”

The door pushed open under his gloved hand.

Eph stood very still at the open doorway. The lights from the taxiway shone through the tinted cockpit windshield, illuminating the flight deck. The system displays were all dark.

Jim said, “Eph, they’re saying to be very careful.”

“Tell them thanks for the expert technical advice,” said Eph before moving inside.

The system displays around the switches and throttles were all dark. One man wearing a pilot’s uniform sat slumped in a jump seat to Eph’s immediate right as he entered. Two more, the captain and his first officer, were seated in the twin chairs before the controls. The first officer’s hands lay curled and empty in his lap, his head drooped to the left with his hat still on. The captain’s left hand remained on a control lever, his right arm hanging off the armrest, knuckles brushing the carpeted floor. His head was forward, his hat resting in his lap.

Eph leaned over the control console between the two seats in order to push up the captain’s head. He checked the captain’s open eyes with his flashlight, the pupils fixed and dilated. He eased the man’s head back down gently onto his chest, and then stiffened.

He felt something. He sensed something. A presence.

He stepped back from the console and scanned the flight deck, turning in one complete circle.

Jim said, “What is it, Eph?”

Eph had spent enough time around corpses not to be jumpy. But there was something here … somewhere. Here or nearby.

The strange sensation passed, like a dizzy spell, leaving him blinking. He shook it off. “Nothing. Claustrophobia, probably.”

Eph turned to the third man inside the cockpit. His head hung low, his right shoulder propped up against the side wall. His jump seat harness straps hung down.

Eph said aloud, “Why isn’t he belted in?”

Nora said, “Eph, are you in the cockpit? I’m coming to you.”

Eph looked at the dead man’s silver tie pin with the Regis Air logo. The nameplate over his pocket read REDFERN. Eph dropped to one knee before him, pressing his thickly gloved fingers against the man’s temples to raise his face. His eyes were open and down turned. Eph checked his pupils, and thought he saw something. A glimmer. He looked again, and suddenly Captain Redfern shuddered and emitted a groan.

Eph jerked backward, falling between the two captains’ chairs and against the control console with a clatter. The first officer slumped against him, and Eph pushed back at him, trapped for a moment by the man’s limp, dead weight.

Jim’s voice called to him sharply, “Eph?”

Nora’s voice held a note of panic. “Eph, what is it?”

With a surge of energy, Eph propelled the first officer’s body back into its chair and got to his feet.

Nora said, “Eph, are you all right?”

Eph looked at Captain Redfern, spilled onto the floor now, eyes open and staring. His throat, though, was working, bucking, his open mouth seeming to gag on the air.

Eph said, wide-eyed, “We have a survivor here.”

Nora said, “What?”

“We have a man alive here. Jim, we need a Kurt isolation pod for this man. Brought directly to the wing. Nora?” Eph was talking fast, looking at the pilot twitching on the floor. “We have to go through this entire airplane, passenger by passenger.”

INTERLUDE I

Abraham Setrakian

THE OLD MAN STOOD ALONE ON THE CRAMPED SALES floor of his pawnshop on East 118th Street, in Spanish Harlem. An hour after closing and his stomach was rumbling, yet he was reluctant to go upstairs. The gates were all pulled down over the doors and windows, like steel eyelids, the night people having claimed the streets outside. At night, you don’t go out.

He went to the bank of dimmers behind the loan desk, and darkened the store lamp by lamp. He was in an elegiac mood. He looked at his shop, the display cases of chrome and streaked glass. The wristwatches showcased on felt instead of velvet, the polished silver he couldn’t get rid of, the bits of diamond and gold. The full tea sets under glass. The leather coats and now-controversial furs. The new music players that went fast, and the radios and televisions he didn’t bother taking in anymore. And there were, here and there, treasures: a pair of beautiful antique safes (lined with asbestos, but just don’t eat it); a suitcase-size wood-and-steel Quasar VCR from the 1970s; an antique 16mm film projector.

But, on balance, lots of low-turnover junk. A pawnshop is part bazaar, part museum, part neighborhood reliquary. The pawnbroker provides a service no one else can. He is the poor man’s banker, someone people can come to and borrow twenty-five dollars with no concern as to credit history, employment, references. And, in the grip of an economic recession, twenty-five dollars is real money to many people. Twenty-five dollars can mean the difference between shelter or homelessness. Twenty-five dollars can put life-prolonging medicine within reach. So long as a man or woman has collateral, something of value to borrow against, he or she can walk out of his door with cash in hand. Beautiful.

He trudged on upstairs, turning out more lights as he went. He was fortunate to own his building, bought in the early 1970s for seven dollars and change. Okay, maybe not for so little, but not for so much either. They were burning down buildings for heat back then. Knickerbocker Loans and Curios (the name came with the shop) was never a means to wealth for Setrakian, but rather a conduit, a point of entry into the pre-Internet underground marketplace of the crossroads city of the world, for a man interested in Old World tools, artifacts, curios, and other arcana.

Thirty-five years of haggling over cheap jewelry by day, while amassing tools and armaments by night. Thirty-five years of biding his time, of preparation and waiting. Now his time was running out.

At the door, he touched the mezuzah and kissed his crooked, wrinkled fingertips before entering. The ancient mirror in the hallway was so scratched and faded that he had to crane his neck in order to find a reflective patch in which to view himself. His alabaster white hair, starting high up on his creased forehead and sweeping back below his ears and neck, was long overdue for a trim. His face continued to fall, his chin and earlobes and eyes succumbing to that bully named gravity. His hands, so broken and badly mended so many decades before, had curved into arthritic talons that he kept permanently hidden behind wool gloves with cut-off fingertips. Yet, beneath and within this crumbling facade of a man: strength. Fire. Grit.

The secret of his interior wellspring of youth? One simple element.

Revenge.

Many years before, in Warsaw and later in Budapest, there was a man named Abraham Setrakian who had been an esteemed professor of Eastern European literature and folklore. A Holocaust survivor who survived the scandal of marrying a student, and whose field of study took him to some of the darkest corners of the world.

Now, an aged pawnbroker in America, still haunted by unfinished business.

He had good soup left over, delicious chicken soup with kreplach and egg noodles, that a regular had brought him all the way from Liebman’s, in the Bronx. He put the bowl in the microwave and worked at his loose necktie knot with his gnarled fingers. After the beeping, he carried the hot bowl over to the table, pulling a linen napkin—never paper!—from the holder and tucking it snugly into his collar.

Blowing on soup. A ritual of comfort, of reassurance. He remembered his grandmother, his bubbeh—but this was more than mere memory; it was sense, a feeling—blowing on it for him when he was a boy, sitting next to him at the rickety wooden table in the cold kitchen of their house in Romania. Before the troubles. Her old breath stirring the rising steam into his young face, the quiet magic of that simple act. Like blowing life into the child. And now, as he blew, an old man himself, he watched his breath given shape by the steam, and wondered just how many of these respirations he had left.

He took the spoon, one of a drawer full of fancy, mismatched implements, into the crooked fingers of his left hand. Blowing onto the spoon now, rippling the tiny pool of broth there, before taking it into his mouth. Taste came and went, the buds on his tongue dying like old soldiers: the victims of many decades of pipe smoking, a professor’s vice.

He found the thin remote for the outdated Sony TV—a kitchen model finished in white—and the thirteen-inch screen warmed up, further illuminating the room. He rose and walked to the pantry, leaning his hands on the stacks of books squeezing the hallway into a narrow tread of worn rug—books were everywhere, piled high against the walls, many of them read, all of them impossible to part with—and lifting the cover off the cake tin to retrieve the last of the good rye bread he had been saving. He carried the paper-wrapped loaf back to his cushioned kitchen chair, settling heavily, and went about picking off the little bits of mold as he enjoyed another tender sip of the delicious broth.

Slowly, the image on the screen claimed his attention: a jumbo jet parked on a tarmac somewhere, lit up like an ivory piece upon jeweler’s black felt. He pulled on the black-rimmed glasses that hung at his chest, squinting in order to make out the bottom graphic. Today’s crisis was taking place across the river, at JFK Airport.

The old professor watched and listened, focused on the pristine-looking airplane. One minute became two, then three, the room fading around him. He was transfixed—nearly transported—by the news report, the soup spoon still in his no-longer-tremulous hand.

The television image of the dormant airplane played across the lenses of his eyeglasses like a future foretold. The broth in the bowl cooled, its steam fading, dying, the picked-apart slice of rye bread remaining uneaten.

He knew.

Pick-pick-pick.

The old man knew—

Pick-pick-pick.

His malformed hands began to ache. What he saw before him was not an omen—it was an incursion. It was the act itself. The thing he had been waiting for. That he had been preparing for. All his life until now.

Any relief he had felt initially—at not having been outlived by this horror; at getting one last-minute chance at vengeance—was replaced immediately by sharp, painlike fear. The words left his mouth on a gust of steam.

He is here … He is here…

ARRIVAL

Regis Air Maintenance Hangar

Because JFK needed the taxiway cleared, the entire aircraft was towed as is into the Regis Air long-span maintenance hangar in the hour before dawn. No one spoke as the lame 777 full of dead passengers rolled past like an enormous white casket.

Once the wheel chocks were put down and the airplane was secured, black tarpaulins were laid out to cover the stained cement floor. Borrowed hospital screens were erected to curtain off a wide containment zone between the left wing and the nose. The plane was isolated in the hangar, like a corpse inside a massive morgue.

At Eph’s request, the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner of New York dispatched several senior medicolegal investigators from Manhattan and Queens, bringing with them several cartons of rubber crash bags. The OCME, the world’s largest medical examiner’s office, was experienced in multiple-casualty disaster management, and helped devise an orderly process of cadaver retrieval.

Port Authority HAZMAT officers in full contact suits brought out the air marshal first—solemnly, officers saluting the bagged corpse as it appeared at the wing door—and then, laboriously, everyone else in the first row of coach. They then removed those emptied seats, using the added space to bag the corpses before evacuating them. Each body, one at a time, was strapped to a stretcher and lowered from the wing to the tarp-covered floor.

The process was deliberate and, at times, gruesome. At one point, about thirty bodies in, one of the Port Authority officers suddenly stumbled away from the retrieval line moaning and gripping his hood. Two fellow HAZMAT officers converged on him, and he lashed out, shoving them into the hospital screens, in effect breaching the containment border. Panic erupted, people clearing the way for this possibly poisoned or infected officer clawing at his containment suit on his way out of the cavernous hangar. Eph caught up with him out on the apron, where, in the light of the morning sun, the officer succeeded in throwing off his hood and peeling off his suit, like a constricting skin. Eph grabbed the man, who then sank down onto the tarmac, sitting there with sweaty tears in his eyes.

“This city,” sobbed the officer. “This damn city.”

Later, word went around that this Port Authority officer had worked those hellish first few weeks on the pile at Ground Zero, first as part of the rescue mission, and then the recovery effort. The specter of 9/11 still hung over many of these Port Authority officers, and the current bewildering mass-casualty situation had brought it crashing down again.

A “go team” of analysts and investigators from the National Transportation Safety Board in Washington, D.C., arrived aboard an FAA Gulfstream. They were there to interview all involved with the “incident” aboard Regis Air Flight 753, to document the aircraft’s final moments of navigability, and to retrieve the flight-data recorder and the cockpit voice recorder. Investigators from the New York City Department of Health, having been leapfrogged by the CDC in the crisis response, were briefed on the matter, though Eph rejected their jurisdiction claim. He knew he had to keep control of the containment response if he wanted it done right.

Boeing representatives en route from Washington State had already disclaimed the 777’s complete shutdown as “mechanically impossible.” A Regis Air vice president, roused from his bed in Scarsdale, was insisting that a team of Regis’s own mechanics be the first to board the aircraft for inspection, once the medical quarantine was lifted. (Corruption of the air-circulation system was the current prevailing cause-of-death theory.) The German ambassador to the United States and his staff were still awaiting their diplomat’s pouch, Eph leaving them cooling their heels in Lufthansa’s Senator Lounge inside terminal 1. The mayor’s press secretary made plans for an afternoon news conference, and the police commissioner arrived with the head of his counter-terrorism bureau inside the rolling headquarters of the NYPD’s critical response vehicle.

By midmorning, all but eighty corpses had been unloaded. The identification process was proceeding speedily, thanks to passport scans and the detailed passenger manifest.

During a suit break, Eph and Nora conferred with Jim outside the containment zone, the bulk of the aircraft fuselage visible over the curtain screens. Airplanes were taking off and landing again outside; they could hear the thrusters gaining and decelerating overhead, and feel the stir in the atmosphere, the agitation of air.

Eph asked Jim, between gulps of bottled water, “How many bodies can the M.E. in Manhattan handle?”

Jim said, “Queens has jurisdiction here, but you’re right, the Manhattan headquarters is the best equipped. Logistically, we’re going to be spreading the victims out among those two and Brooklyn and the Bronx. So, about fifty each.”

“How are we going to transport them?”

“Refrigerated trucks. Medical examiner said that’s how they did the World Trade Center remains. Fulton Fish Market in Lower Manhattan, they’ve been contacted.”

Eph often thought of disease control as a wartime resistance effort, he and his team fighting the good fight while the rest of the world tried to get on with their daily lives under the cloud of occupation, the viruses and bacteria that plagued them. In this scenario, Jim was the underground radio broadcaster, conversant in three languages, who could procure anything from butter to arms to safe passage out of Marseilles.

Eph said, “Nothing from Germany?”

“Not yet. They shut down the airport for two hours, a full security check. No employees sick at the airport, no sudden illnesses being reported to hospitals.”

Nora was anxious to speak. “Nothing here adds up.”

Eph nodded in agreement. “Go ahead.”

“We have a plane full of corpses. Were this caused by a gas, or some aerosol in the ventilation system—accidental or not—they would not have all gone so … I have to say, so peacefully. There would have been choking, flailing. Vomiting. Turning blue. People with different body types going down at different times. And attendant panic. Now—if instead this was an infectious event, then we have some kind of crazy-sudden, totally new emerging pathogen, something none of us have ever seen. Indicating something man-made, created in a lab. And at the same time, remember, it’s not just the passengers who died—the plane itself died too. Almost as though some thing, some incapacitating thing, hit the airplane itself, and wiped out everything inside it, including the passengers. But that’s not exactly accurate, is it? Because, and I think this is the most important question of all right now, who opened the door?” She looked back and forth between Eph and Jim. “I mean—it could have been the pressure change. Maybe the door had already been unlocked, and the aircraft’s decompression forced it open. We can come up with cute explanations for just about anything, because we’re medical scientists, that’s what we do.”

“And those window shades,” said Jim. “People always look out the windows during landing. Who closed them all?”

Eph nodded. He had been so focused on the details all morning, it was good to step back and see strange events from a distance. “This is why the four survivors are going to be key. If they witnessed anything.”

Nora said, “Or were otherwise involved.”

Jim said, “All four are in critical but stable condition in the isolation wing at Jamaica Hospital Medical Center. Captain Redfern, the third pilot, male, thirty-two. A lawyer from Westchester County, female, forty-one. A computer programmer from Brooklyn, male, forty-four. And a musician, a celebrity from Manhattan and Miami Beach, male, thirty-six. His name is Dwight Moorshein.”

Eph shrugged. “Never heard of him.”

“He performs under the name Gabriel Bolivar.”

Eph said, “Oh.”

Nora said, “Ew.”

Jim said, “He was traveling incognito in first class. No fright makeup, no crazy contact lenses. So there will be even more media heat.”

Eph said, “Any connection between the survivors?”

“None we see yet. Maybe their med workup will find something. They were scattered throughout the plane, the programmer was flying coach, the lawyer in business, the singer first class. And Captain Redfern, of course, up in the flight deck.”

“Baffling,” said Eph. “But it’s something anyway. If they regain consciousness, that is. Long enough for us to get some answers out of them.”

One of the Port Authority officers came around for Eph. “Dr. Goodweather, you better get back in there,” he said. “The cargo hold. They found something.”

Through the side cargo hatch, inside the underbelly of the 777, they had already begun off-loading the rolling steel luggage cabinets, to be opened and inspected by the Port Authority HAZMAT team. Eph and Nora sidestepped the remaining train-linked containers, wheels locked into floor tracks.

At the far end of the hold lay a long, rectangular box, black, wooden, and heavy looking, like a grand cabinet laid out on its back. Unvarnished ebony, eight or so feet long by four feet wide by three high. Taller than a refrigerator. The top side was edged all around with intricate carving, labyrinthine flourishes accompanied by lettering in an ancient or perhaps made-to-look-ancient language. Many of the swirls resembled figures, flowing human figures—and perhaps, with a little imagination, faces screaming.

“No one’s opened it yet?” asked Eph.

The HAZMAT officers all shook their heads. “We haven’t touched the thing,” one said.

Eph checked the back of it. Three orange restraining straps, their steel hooks still in the floor eyelets, lay on the floor next to the cabinet. “These straps?”

“Undone when we came in,” said another.

Eph looked around the hold. “That’s impossible,” he said. “If this thing was left unrestrained during transit, it would have done major damage to the luggage containers, if not the interior walls of the cargo hold itself.” He looked it over again. “Where’s its tag? What does the cargo manifest say?”

One of the officers had a sheaf of laminated pages in his gloved hand, bound by a single ring clasp. “It’s not here.”

Eph went over to see for himself. “That can’t be.”

“The only irregular cargo listed here, other than three sets of golf clubs, is a kayak.” The guy pointed to the side wall where, bound by the same type of orange ratchet straps, a plastic-wrapped kayak lay plastered with airline luggage stickers.

“Call Berlin,” said Eph. “They must have a record. Somebody there remembers this thing. It must weigh four hundred pounds, easy.”

“We did that already. No record. They’re going to call in the baggage crew and question them one by one.”

Eph turned back to the black cabinet. He ignored the grotesque carvings, bending to examine the sides, locating three hinges along either top edge. The lid was a door, split down the middle the long way, two half doors that opened out. Eph touched the carved lid with his gloved hand, then he reached under the lid, trying to open the heavy doors. “Anybody want to give me a hand?”

One officer stepped forward, wrapping his gloved fingers underneath the lip of the lid opposite Eph. Eph counted to three, and they opened both heavy doors at once.

The doors stood open on sturdy, broad-winged hinges. The odor that wafted out of the box was corpselike, as though the cabinet had been sealed for a hundred years. It looked empty, until one of the officers switched on a flashlight and played the beam inside.

Eph reached in, his fingers sinking into a rich, black loam. The soil was as welcoming and soft as cake mix and filled up the bottom two-thirds of the box.

Nora took a step back from the open cabinet. “It looks like a coffin,” said Nora.

Eph withdrew his fingers, shaking off the excess, and turned to her, waiting for a smile that never came. “A little big for that, isn’t it?”

“Why would someone ship a box of dirt?” she asked.

“They wouldn’t,” Eph said. “There had to be something inside.”

“But how?” said Nora. “This plane is under total quarantine.”

Eph shrugged. “How do we explain anything here? All I know for sure is, we have an unlocked, unstrapped container here without a bill of lading.” He turned to the others. “We need to sample the soil. Dirt retains trace evidence well. Radiation, for example.”

One of the officers said, “You think whatever agent was used to overcome the passengers …?”

“Was shipped over in here? That’s the best theory I’ve heard all day.”

Jim’s voice called from below them, outside the plane. “Eph? Nora?”

Eph called back, “What is it, Jim?”

“I just got a call from the isolation ward at Jamaica Hospital. You’re going to want to get over there right away.”

Jamaica Hospital Medical Center

THE HOSPITAL FACILITY was just ten minutes north of JFK, along the Van Wyck Expressway. Jamaica was one of the four designated Centers for Bioterrorism Preparedness Planning in New York City. It was a full participant in the Syndromic Surveillance System, and Eph had run a Canary workshop there just a few months before. So he knew his way to the airborne infection isolation ward on the fifth floor.

The metal double doors featured a prominent blaze-orange, tri-petaled biohazard symbol, indicating a real or potential threat to cellular materials or living organisms. Printed warnings read:

ISOLATION AREA:
CONTACT PRECAUTION MANDATORY, AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

Eph displayed his CDC credentials at the desk, and the administrator recognized him from previous biocontainment drills. She walked him inside. “What is it?” he asked.

“I really don’t mean to be melodramatic,” she said, waving her hospital ID over the reader, opening the doors to the ward, “but you need to see it for yourself.”

The interior walkway was narrow, this being the outer ring of the isolation ward, occupied mainly by the nurses’ station. Eph followed the administrator behind blue curtains into a wide vestibule containing trays of contact supplies—gowns, goggles, gloves, booties, and respirators—and a large, rolling garbage barrel lined with a red biohazard trash bag. The respirator was an N95 half mask, efficiency rated to filter out 95 percent of particles 0.3 microns in size or larger. That meant it offered protection from most airborne viral and bacteriological pathogens, but not against chemical or gas contaminants.

After his full contact suiting at the airport, Eph felt positively exposed in a hospital mask, surgical cap, barrier goggles, gown, and shoe covers. The similarly attired administrator then pressed a plunger button, opening an interior set of doors, and Eph felt the vacuumlike pull upon entering, the result of the negative-pressure system, air flowing into the isolation area so that no particles could blow out.

Inside, a hallway ran left to right off the central supply station. The station consisted of a crash cart packed with drugs and ER supplies, a plastic-sheathed laptop and intercom system for communicating with the outside, and extra barrier supplies.

The patient area was a suite of eight small rooms. Eight total isolation rooms for a borough with a population of more than two and a quarter million. “Surge capacity” is the disaster preparedness term for a health care system’s ability to rapidly expand beyond normal operating services, to satisfy public health demands in the event of a large-scale public health emergency. The number of hospital beds in New York State was about 60,000 and falling. The population of New York City alone was 8.1 million and rising. Canary was funded in the hopes of mending this statistical shortfall, as a sort of disaster preparedness stopgap. The CDC termed that political expedience “optimistic.” Eph preferred the term “magical thinking.”

He followed the administrator into the first room. This was not a full biological isolation tank; there were no air locks or steel doors. This was routine hospital care in a segregated setting. The room was tile floored and fluorescently lit. The first thing Eph saw was the discarded Kurt pod against the side wall. A Kurt pod is a disposable, plastic-boxed stretcher, like a transparent box coffin, with a pair of round glove ports on each long side, and fitted with removable exterior oxygen tanks. A jacket, shirt, and pants were piled next to it, cut away from the patient with surgical scissors, the Regis Air winged-crown logo visible on the overturned pilot’s hat.

The hospital bed in the center of the room was tented with transparent plastic curtains, outside which stood monitoring equipment and an electronic IV drip tree laden with bags. The railed bed bore green sheets and large white pillows, and was set in the upright position.

Captain Doyle Redfern sat in the middle of the bed, his hands in his lap. He was bare-legged, clad only in a hospital johnny, and appeared alert. But for the IV pick in his hand and arm, and the drawn expression on his face—he looked as though he had dropped ten pounds since Eph had found him inside the cockpit—he looked for all the world like a patient awaiting a checkup.

He looked up hopefully as Eph approached. “Are you from the airline?” he asked.

Eph shook his head, dumbfounded. Last night, this man had gasped and tumbled to the floor inside the cockpit of Flight 753, eyes rolling back into his skull, seemingly near death.

The thin mattress creaked as the pilot shifted his weight. He winced as though from stiffness, and then asked, “What happened on the plane?”

Eph couldn’t hide his disappointment. “That’s what I came here hoping to ask you.”

Eph stood facing the rock star Gabriel Bolivar, who sat perched on the edge of the bed like a black-haired gargoyle draped in a hospital johnny. Without the fright makeup, he was surprisingly handsome, in a stringy-haired, hard-living way.

“The mother of all hangovers,” Bolivar said.

“Any other discomfort?” asked Eph.

“Plenty. Man.” He ran his hand through his long, black hair. “Never fly commercial. That’s the moral of this story.”

“Mr. Bolivar, can you tell me, what is the last thing you remember about the landing?”

“What landing? I’m serious. I was hitting the vodka tonics pretty hard most of the flight—I’m sure I slept right through it.” He looked up, squinting into the light. “How about some Demerol, huh? Maybe when the refreshment cart swings by?”

Eph saw the scars crisscrossing Bolivar’s bare arms, and remembered that one of his signature concert moves was cutting himself onstage. “We’re trying to match passengers with their possessions.”

“That’s easy. I had nothing. No luggage, just my phone. Charter plane broke down, I boarded this flight with about one minute to spare. Didn’t my manager tell you?”

“I haven’t spoken to him yet. I’m asking specifically about a large cabinet.”

Bolivar stared at him. “This some kind of mental test?”

“In the cargo area. An old box, partially filled with soil.”

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

“You weren’t transporting it back from Germany? It seems like the kind of thing someone like you might collect.”

Bolivar frowned. “It’s an act, dude. A fucking show, a spectacle. Goth greasepaint and hard-core lyrics. Google me up—my father was a Methodist preacher and the only thing I collect is pussy. Speaking of which, when the hell am I getting out of here?”

Eph said, “We have a few more tests to run. We want to give you a clean bill of health before we let you go.”

“When do I get my phone back?”

“Soon,” said Eph, making his way out.

The administrator was having trouble with three men outside the entrance to the isolation ward. Two of the men towered over Eph, and had to be Bolivar’s bodyguards. The third was smaller and carried a briefcase, and smelled distinctly of lawyer.

Eph said, “Gentlemen, this is a restricted area.”

The lawyer said, “I’m here to discharge my client Gabriel Bolivar.”

“Mr. Bolivar is undergoing tests and will be released at the earliest possible convenience.”

“And when will that be?”

Eph shrugged. “Two, maybe three days, if all goes well.”

“Mr. Bolivar has petitioned for his release into the care of his personal physician. I have not only power of attorney, but I can function as his health care proxy if he is in any way disabled.”

“No one gets in to see him but me,” said Eph. To the administrator, he said, “Let’s post a guard here immediately.”

The attorney stepped up. “Listen, Doctor. I don’t know much about quarantine law, but I’m pretty sure it takes an executive order from the president to hold someone in medical isolation. May I, in fact, see said order?”

Eph smiled. “Mr. Bolivar is now a patient of mine, as well as the survivor of a mass casualty. If you leave your number at the nurses’ desk, I will do my best to keep you abreast of his recovery—with Mr. Bolivar’s consent, of course.”

“Look, Doc.” The attorney put his hand on Eph’s shoulder in a manner Eph did not like. “I can get quicker results than a court injunction simply by mobilizing my client’s rabid fan base.” He included the administrator in this threat. “You want a mob of Goth chicks and assorted freaks protesting outside this hospital, running wild through these halls, trying to get in to see him?”

Eph looked at the attorney’s hand until the attorney removed it from his shoulder. He had two more survivors to see. “Look, I really don’t have time for this. So let me just ask you some questions straight out. Does your client have any sexually transmitted diseases I should know about? Does he have any history of narcotics use? I’m only asking because, if I have to go look up his entire medical record, well, those things have a way of getting into the wrong hands. You wouldn’t want his full medical history leaked out to the press—right?”

The attorney stared at him. “That is privileged information. Releasing it would be a felony violation.”

“And a real potential embarrassment,” said Eph, holding the attorney’s eye another second for maximum impact. “I mean, imagine if somebody put your complete medical history out there on the Internet for everyone to see.”

The attorney was speechless as Eph started away past the two bodyguards.

Joan Luss, law-firm partner, mother of two, Swarthmore grad, Bronxville resident, Junior League member, was sitting on a foam mattress in her isolation-ward hospital bed, still tied up in that ridiculous johnny, scribbling notes on the back of a mattress-pad wrapper. Scribbling and waiting and wiggling her bare toes. They wouldn’t give her back her phone; she’d had to cajole and threaten just to get a lead pencil.

She was about to buzz again when finally her nurse walked in the door. Joan turned on her get-me-results smile. “Hi, yes, there you are. I was wondering. What was the doctor’s name who was in here?”

“He’s not a doctor from the hospital.”

“I realize that. I was asking his name.”

“His name is Dr. Goodweather.”

“Goodweather.” She scribbled that down. “First name?”

“Doctor.” Her flat smile. “They all have the same first name to me—Doctor.”

Joan squinted as if she wasn’t sure she’d heard that right, and shifted a bit on the stiff sheets. “And he was dispatched here from the Centers for Disease Control?”

“I guess so, yes. He left orders for a number of tests—”

“How many others survived the crash?”

“Well, there was no crash.”

Joan smiled. Sometimes you had to pretend that English was their second language in order to make yourself understood. “What I am asking you is, how many others did not perish on Flight 753 from Berlin to New York?”

“There are three others in this wing with you. Now, Dr. Goodweather wants to take blood and …”

Joan tuned her out right there. The only reason she was still sitting in this sickroom was because she knew she could find out more by playing along. But that ploy was nearing its end. Joan Luss was a tort attorney, “tort” being a legal term meaning “a civil wrong,” recognized as grounds for a lawsuit. A plane full of passengers all die, except for four survivors—one of whom is a tort attorney.

Poor Regis Air. As far as they would be concerned, the wrong passenger had lived.

Joan said, talking right over the nurse’s instructions, “I would like a copy of my medical report to date, along with a complete list of lab tests already performed, and their results …”

“Mrs. Luss? Are you certain you feel all right?”

Joan had swooned for a moment, but it was just a remnant of whatever had overcome them at the end of that horrible flight. She smiled and shook her head fiercely, asserting herself anew. This anger she was feeling would power her through the next one thousand or so billable hours spent sorting through this catastrophe and bringing this dangerously negligent airline to trial.

She said, “Soon I will feel very well indeed.”

Regis Air Maintenance Hangar

“NO FLIES,” SAID EPH.

Nora said, “What?”

They were standing before rows of crash bags laid out before the airplane. The four refrigerated trucks had pulled inside the hangar, sides respectfully canvassed in black to obscure the fish market signage. Each body had already been identified and assigned a bar-coded toe tag by the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner of New York. This tragedy was a “closed universe” mass disaster, in their parlance, with a fixed and knowable number of casualties—the opposite of the collapse of the Twin Towers. Thanks to passport scans, passenger manifests, and the intact condition of the remains, identification of the decedents was a simple, straightforward task. Determining the cause of their deaths was to be the real challenge.

The tarp crinkled under the HAZMAT team’s boots as the blue vinyl bags were hoisted by straps at either end and loaded aboard their appointed truck with all solemnity.

Eph said, “There should be flies.” The work lights set up around the hangar showed that the air above the corpses was clear but for a lazy moth or two. “Why aren’t there any flies?”

After death, the bacteria along the digestive tract that, in life, cohabitated symbiotically with the healthy human host, begins to fend for itself. It starts feeding on the intestines, eventually eating its way through the abdominal cavity and consuming the organs. Flies can detect the putrid off-gassing from a decomposing carcass as far as one mile away.

Two hundred and six meals were set out here. The hangar should have been buzzing with pests.

Eph started across the tarp toward where a pair of HAZMAT officers was sealing another crash bag. “Hold on,” he said to them. They straightened and stepped back as Eph knelt and unzipped the seam, exposing the corpse inside.

It was the young girl who had died holding her mother’s hand. Eph had memorized her body’s location on the floor without realizing it. You always remember the children.

Her blonde hair lay flat, a smiling sun pendant hanging from a black cord rested against the pit of her throat. Her white dress made her look almost bridelike.

The officers moved on to seal and take the next bag. Nora came up behind Eph, watching him. With his gloved hands, he grasped the girl gently by the sides of her head, rotating it on her neck.

Rigor mortis fully sets in about twelve hours after death, holding for twelve to twenty-four more hours—they were in that middle range now—until the fixed calcium bonds inside the muscles break down again and the body returns to flexibility.

“Still flexible,” said Eph. “No rigor.”

He grasped her shoulder and hip and rolled the girl over onto her front. He unbuttoned the back of her dress, revealing the flesh of her lower back, the small bulbous nodes of her spine. Her skin was pallid and lightly freckled.

After the heart stops, blood pools inside the circulatory system. The capillary walls, being just one cell thick, soon succumb to the pressure, bursting and spilling blood into the surrounding tissues. This blood settles in the lowest, “dependent” side of the body, and coagulates quickly. Lividity is said to become fixed after about sixteen hours.

They were beyond that time limit now.

From expiring in a seated position, and then being laid out flat, the pooled, thickened blood should have rendered the skin along her lower back a deep, dark purple.

Eph looked out over the rows of bags. “Why aren’t these bodies decomposing as they should?”

Eph eased the girl back flat again, then thumbed open her right eye with a practiced hand. Her cornea was clouded, as it should have been, and the sclera, the opaque white protective layer, was suitably dry. He examined the fingertips of her right hand—the one that had been tucked into her mother’s—and found them slightly wrinkled, due to evaporation, as they should have been.

He sat back, annoyed by the mixed signals he was receiving, then inserted his two gloved thumbs between her dry lips. The gasplike noise that escaped from her parted jaw was the simple venting of gas. The immediate interior of the mouth was unremarkable, but he wriggled one gloved finger inside to depress her tongue, checking for more dryness.

The soft palate and tongue were completely white, as though carved in ivory. Like anatomical netsuke. The tongue was rigid and oddly erect. Eph manipulated it to the side and revealed the rest of the mouth, equally drained.

Drained? What’s next? he thought. “The bodies have been drained—there’s not a drop of blood left.” If not that line, then one from a Dan Curtis 1970s TV horror show: “Lieutenant—the corpses—they’re … drained of blood!” Cue organ music.

Fatigue was starting to set in. Eph held the firm tongue between his thumb and index finger, using a small flashlight to peer down her white throat. It looked vaguely gynecological to him. Porn netsuke?

Then the tongue moved. He jerked back, pulling out his finger. “Jesus Christ!” The girl’s face remained a placid mask of death, lips still slightly parted.

Nora, next to him, stared. “What was it?”

Eph was wiping his gloved finger on his trousers. “Simple reflex action,” he said, standing. He looked down at the girl’s face until he couldn’t look anymore, then drew the zipper up along the bag, sealing her inside.

Nora said, “What could it be? Something that slows tissue decay somehow? These people are dead …”

“In every way except decomposition.” Eph shook his head uneasily. “We can’t hold up the transport. Bottom line is, we need these bodies at the morgue. Cut them open. Figure out this thing from the inside.”

Nora, he noticed, was gazing off in the direction of the ornate cabinet, laid out on the hangar floor away from the rest of the unloaded luggage. “Nothing’s right about this,” she said.

Eph was looking the other way, at the great aircraft overhead. He wanted to get back aboard. They must have missed something. The answer had to be in there.

But before he could do this, he saw Jim Kent escorting the director of the CDC inside the hangar. Dr. Everett Barnes was sixty-one years old, and still very much the southern country doctor he had started out as. The Public Health Service that the CDC was a part of had been born of the navy, and though the PHS had long since branched off on its own, many top CDC officials still favored military-style uniforms, including Director Barnes. So you had the contradiction of a folksy, down-home, white-goateed gentleman dressing like a retired admiral in a trim khaki field uniform complete with chest candy. Looking very much like a combat-decorated Colonel Sanders.

After the preliminaries, and a cursory examination of one of the airplane dead, Director Barnes asked about the survivors.

Eph told him, “None of them has any memory of what happened. They are no help at all.”

“Symptoms?”

“Headaches, some severe. Muscle pain, ringing in the ears. Disorientation. Dry mouth. Problems with balance.”

Director Barnes said, “Generally, not much worse than anyone else getting off a transatlantic flight.”

“It’s uncanny, Everett,” said Eph. “Nora and I were the first ones on the plane. These passengers—all of them—were flat-lined. Not breathing. Four minutes without oxygen is the threshold for permanent brain damage. These people, they might have been out for more than an hour.”

“Evidently not,” said the director. “And they couldn’t tell you anything?”

“They had more questions for me than I had for them.”

“Any commonality among the four?”

“I’m pursuing that now. I was going to ask for your help in confining them until our work is done.”

“Help?”

“We need these four patients to cooperate.”

“We have their cooperation.”

“For now. I just … we can’t take any chances.”

The director smoothed down his trim white beard as he spoke. “I’m sure that, with a little tactical use of bedside manner, we can leverage their appreciation for having been spared this tragic fate, and keep them compliant.” His smile revealed an upper row of heavily enameled dentures.

“What about enforcing the Health Powers Act—”

“Ephraim, you know there is a world of difference between isolating a few passengers for voluntary preventive treatment, and confining them in quarantine. There are larger issues—media issues, to be frank—to consider.”

“Everett, I’m going to have to respectfully disagree—”

The director’s small hand came down gently on Eph’s shoulder. He exaggerated his drawl a bit, maybe in order to soften the blow. “Let me save us both some time here, Ephraim. Looking at this objectively now, this tragic incident is, thankfully—one might say, blessedly—contained. We’ve had no other deaths or illnesses on any other airplanes or in any other airports around the globe, in what is approaching eighteen hours since that plane landed. These are positives, and we must stress them. Send a message to the public at large, reinforcing their confidence in our system of air travel. I am certain, Ephraim, that engaging these fortunate survivors, appealing to their sense of honor and duty, will be enough to compel them to cooperate.” The director removed his hand, smiling at Eph like a military man humoring his pacifist son. “Besides,” continued Barnes, “this has all the hallmarks of a goddamn gas leak, doesn’t it? So many victims so suddenly incapacitated? The closed environment? And the survivors rallying after being removed from the plane?”

Nora said, “Except that the air circulation quit when the electrical did, right after landing.”

Director Barnes nodded, folding his hands in consideration of this. “Well, it’s a lot to process, no question. But, look here—this was a very good drill for your team. You’ve handled it well. And now that things appear to be settling down, let’s see you get right to the bottom of it. Just as soon as this damn press briefing is done with.”

Eph said, “Hang on. What?”

“The mayor and the governor are holding a press conference, along with airline representatives, Port Authority officials, and so on. You and I will represent the federal health response.”

“Oh—no. Sir, I don’t have the time. Jim can do that—”

“Jim can do it, but today it will be you, Ephraim. As I said, it is time for you to be the point man on this. You are the head of the Canary project, and I want someone up there who has been dealing with victims firsthand. We need to put a face on our efforts.”

That was why all this bluster about no detention or quarantine. Barnes was laying down the party line. “But I really don’t know anything yet,” said Eph. “Why so soon?”

Director Barnes smiled, showing his enamel again. “The doctor’s code is, ‘First—do no harm.’ The politician’s code is, ‘First—go on television.’ Plus, I understand that there is a time element involved. Something about wanting to get the broadcast out before this damn solar event. Sunspots affecting radio waves, or something.”

“Solar …” Eph had forgotten all about it. The rare total solar eclipse that was to occur around three thirty that very afternoon. The first such solar event in the New York City region in more than four hundred years, since the advent of America. “Christ, I forgot.”

“Our message to the people of this country will be simple. A profound loss of life has occurred here, and is being investigated fully by the CDC. It is a human catastrophe, but the incident has been contained, and is apparently unique, and there is absolutely no further cause for alarm.”

Eph hid his scowl from the director. He was being made to stand up in front of cameras and say that everything was just dandy. He walked out of the containment area and through the narrow space between the great doors of the hangar, into the doomed light of the day. He was still trying to figure a way out of this when the mobile inside his pants pocket buzzed against the top of his thigh. He pulled it out, an envelope icon slowly revolving on the LCD screen. A text message from Matt’s mobile. Eph opened it:

Yanks 4 Sux 2. gr8t seats, wish u wre here, Z.

Eph stood staring at this electronic dispatch from his son until his eyes lost focus. He was left staring at his own shadow on the airport tarmac, which, unless he was imagining things, had already begun to vanish.

OCCULTATION

Approaching Totality

Anticipation grew on the ground as the slender nick in the western side of the sun—the lunar “first contact”—became a creeping blackness, a rounded bite gradually consuming the afternoon sun. At first there was no obvious difference in the quality or quantity of light on the ground. Only the black gouge high in the sky, making a crescent of the normally reliable sun, marked this day as being different from any other.

The term “solar eclipse” is in fact a misnomer. An eclipse occurs when one object passes into a shadow cast by another. In a solar eclipse, the moon does not pass into the sun’s shadow, but instead passes between the sun and the earth, obscuring the sun—causing the shadow. The proper term is “occultation.” The moon occults the sun, casting a small shadow onto the surface of the earth. It is not a solar eclipse, but in fact an eclipse of the earth.

The earth’s distance from the sun is approximately four hundred times the moon’s distance from the earth. In a remarkable coincidence, the diameter of the sun happens to be approximately four hundred times the diameter of the moon. This is why the area of the moon and the sun’s photosphere—its bright disk—appear roughly the same size from the perspective of earth.

A total occultation is possible only when the moon is in its new phase, and near its perigee, its closest distance to the earth. The duration of totality depends upon the orbit of the moon, never to exceed seven minutes and forty seconds. This occultation was due to last exactly four minutes and fifty-seven seconds: just under five minutes of uncanny nighttime in the middle of a beautiful early fall afternoon.

Half-covered now by the new (and otherwise invisible) moon, the still bright sky began to take on a dusky cast: like a sunset, only without any warming of the light. At ground level, the sunlight appeared pale, as though filtered or diffused. Shadows lost their certainty. The world, it seemed, had been put on a dimmer.

As the crescent continued to thin, being consumed by the lunar disk, its smothering brightness blazed as though in a panic. The occultation appeared to gain momentum and a kind of desperate speed as the ground landscape went gray, colors bleeding off the normal spectrum. The western sky darkened faster than the east as the shadow of the moon approached.

The eclipse was to be partial in much of the United States and Canada, achieving totality along only a lengthy, narrow trail measuring ten thousand miles long by one hundred miles wide, describing the moon’s dark umbral shadow upon the earth. The west-to-east course, known as the “path of totality,” began at the horn of Africa and curved up the Atlantic Ocean, ending just west of Lake Michigan, moving at more than one thousand miles per hour.

As the crescent sun continued to narrow, the complexion of the sky became a strangled violet. The darkness in the west gathered strength like a silent, windless storm system, spreading throughout the sky and closing in around the weakened sun, like a great organism succumbing to a corrupting force spreading from within.

The sun grew perilously thin, the view—through safety glasses—like that of a manhole lid being slid shut high above, squeezing out the daylight. The crescent blazed white, then turned to silver in its agonal last moments.

Strange, roving bands of shadow began moving over the ground. Oscillations formed by the refraction of light in the earth’s atmosphere—similar to the effect of light moving on the floor of a swimming pool—writhed like shadowy snakes at the corner of one’s vision. These ghostly tricks of light made the hair stand on the back of every viewer’s neck.

The end came quickly. The last throes were chilling, intense, the crescent shrinking to a curved line, a slicing scar in the sky, then fragmenting into individual pearls of fiery white, representing the last of the sun’s rays seeping through the deepest valleys along the lunar surface. These beads winked and vanished in rapid succession, snuffed out like a dying candle flame drowned in its own black wax. The crimson-colored band that was the chromosphere, the thin upper atmosphere of the sun, flared for a precious, final few seconds—and then the sun was gone.

Totality.

Kelton Street, Woodside, Queens

KELLY GOODWEATHER could not believe how quickly the day went dark. She stood out on the sidewalk, as did the rest of her Kelton Street neighbors—on what was normally, at that time of day, the sunny side of the street—staring up at the darkened sky through the cardboard-framed glasses that had come free with two two-liter bottles of Diet Eclipse soda. Kelly was an educated woman. She understood on an intellectual level what was occurring. And still she felt an almost giddy surge of panic. An impulse to run, to hide. This lining up of celestial bodies, the passing into the shadow of the moon: it reached something deep inside her. Touched the night-frightened animal within.

Others surely felt it. The street had grown quiet at the moment of total eclipse. This weird light they were all standing in. And those wormy shadows that had wriggled on the lawn, just out of their vision, against the sides of the house, like swirling spirits. It was as though a cold wind had blown down the street and not ruffled any hair but had only chilled their insides.

That thing people say to you, after you shiver: Someone just walked over your grave. That was what this whole “occultation” seemed like. Someone or something walking over everyone’s grave at once. The dead moon crossing over the living earth.

And then, looking up: the solar corona. An anti-sun, black and faceless, shining madly around the nothingness of the moon, staring down at the earth with glowing, gossamer white hair. A death’s head.

Her neighbors, Bonnie and Donna, the couple renting next door, stood together with their arms around each other, Bonnie with her hand in the back pocket of Donna’s saggy jeans. “Isn’t it amazing?” Bonnie called, smilingly, over her shoulder.

Kelly could not respond. Didn’t they get it? To her, this was no mere curiosity, no afternoon entertainment. How could anyone not see this as some kind of omen? Astronomical explanations and intellectual reasoning be damned: how could this not mean something? So maybe it had no inherent meaning, per se. It was a simple convergence of orbits. But how could any sentient being not imbue it with some significance, positive or negative, religious or psychic or otherwise? Just because we understand how something works doesn’t necessarily mean we understand it …

They called back to Kelly, alone in front of her house, telling her it was safe now to remove her glasses. “You don’t want to miss this!”

Kelly was not going to remove her glasses. No matter what the television said about it being safe to do during the “totality.” The television also told her she wouldn’t age if she bought expensive creams and pills.

Oohhs and aahhs all up and down the street, a real communal event as people got comfortable with the singularity, embracing the moment. Except for Kelly. What is wrong with me? she wondered.

Part of it was just having seen Eph on TV. He didn’t say much at the press conference, but Kelly could tell by his eyes and the way that he spoke that something was wrong. Really wrong. Something beyond the governor’s and the mayor’s rote assurances. Something beyond the sudden and unexplained deaths of 206 transatlantic passengers.

A virus? A terror attack? A mass suicide?

And now this.

She wanted Zack and Matt home. She wanted them here with her right now. She wanted this solar occultation thing to be over with, and to know that she would never have to experience this feeling again. She looked up through the filtered lenses at the murdering moon in all its dark triumph, worried that she might never see the sun again.

Yankee Stadium, the Bronx

ZACK STOOD ON HIS SEAT next to Matt, who stared at the eclipse with his nose scrunched up and his mouth hanging open like a driver squinting into oncoming traffic. Fifty-thousand-plus Yankees fans wearing special collector’s pin-striped eclipse glasses, on their feet now, faces upturned, looking at the moon that darkened the sky on a perfect afternoon for baseball. All except Zack Goodweather. The eclipse was cool and all, but now he had seen it, and so Zack turned his attention to the dugout. He was trying to see Yankees players. There was Jeter, wearing the same exact specs as Zack, perched on the top step on one knee as though waiting to be announced to hit. Pitchers and catchers were all outside the bullpen, gathered on the right-field grass like anyone else, taking it all in.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Bob Sheppard, the public address announcer, “boys and girls, you may now remove your safety glasses.”

And so they did. Fifty thousand people, nearly in unison. An appreciative gasp went up, then some ballpark applause, then full-out cheering, as though the crowd were trying to lure the unfailingly modest Matsui out of the dugout for a cap tip after slugging one into Monument Park.

In school, Zack had learned that the sun was a 6,000-degree Kelvin thermonuclear furnace, but that its corona, the outer edge, consisting of superheated hydrogen gas—visible from earth only during totality—was unexplainably hotter, its temperature reaching as high as 2,000,000 degrees Kelvin.

What he saw when he removed his glasses was a perfect black disk edged by a thin blaze of crimson, surrounded by an aura of wispy white light. Like an eye: the moon a wide, black pupil; the corona the white of the eye; and the vivid reds bursting from the rim of the pupil—loops of superheated gas erupting from the edge of the sun—the bloodshot veins. Kind of like the eye of a zombie.

Cool.

Zombie Sky. No: Zombies of the Eclipse. Zombies of the Occultation. Occult Zombies from the Planet Moon! Wait—the moon isn’t a planet. Zombie Moon. This could be the concept for the movie he and his friends were going to make this winter. Moon rays during a total earth eclipse transform members of the New York Yankees into brain-slurping zombies—yes! And his buddy Ron looked almost just like a young Jorge Posada. “Hey, Jorge Posada, can I have your autograph … wait, what are you … hey, that’s my … what’s wrong with … your eyes … gah … no … NOOO!!!”

The organ was playing now, and a few of the drunks turned into conductors, waving their arms and exhorting their section to sing along with some corny “I’m Being Followed by a Moon Shadow” song. Baseball crowds rarely need an excuse to make noise. These people would have cheered even if this occultation were an asteroid hurtling toward them.

Wow. Zack realized, with a start, that this was exactly the sort of thing his dad would have said if he were here.

Matt, now admiring his free specs next to him, nudged Zack. “Pretty sweet keepsake, huh? I bet eBay’ll be flooded with these suckers by this time tomorrow.”

Then a drunk guy jostled Matt’s shoulder, sloshing beer onto his shoes. Matt froze a moment, then rolled his eyes at Zack, kind of a What-are-you-going-to-do? face. But he didn’t say or do anything. He didn’t even turn around to look. It occurred to Zack now that he’d never seen Matt drink a beer before, only white or red wine on nights at home with Mom. Zack got the sense then that Matt, for all his enthusiasm about the game, was essentially afraid of the fans sitting around them.

Now Zack really wished his dad were there. He dug Matt’s phone out of his jeans pocket and checked again for a text reply.

Searching for signal, it read. Still no service. Solar flares and radiation distortion messing with radio waves and orbiting satellites; they said that would happen. Zack put the phone away and craned his head toward the field, looking for Jeter again.

International Space Station

TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY MILES above earth, astronaut Thalia Charles—the American flight engineer on Expedition 18, along with a Russian commander and a French engineer—floated in zero gravity through the vestibule joining the Unity module to the aft hatch of lab mod Destiny. The ISS research facility orbited earth sixteen times each day, or about once every hour and a half, at a speed of seventeen thousand miles per hour. Occultations were no great feat in low earth orbit: blocking the sun with any round object in a window revealed the spectacular corona. Thalia’s interest therefore was not in the alignment of the moon and the sun—from her fast-moving perspective, there was indeed no occultation—but rather the result of this phenomenon upon the slow-rotating earth.

Destiny, the primary research lab on the ISS, measures twenty-eight by fourteen feet—although the interior working space of this cylindrical module, due to the amount of equipment tied down to the squared-off sides, is tighter than that, measuring roughly five humans long by one human across. Every duct, pipe, and wire connection was directly accessible and therefore visible, such that each of Destiny’s four walls looked like the back of a panel-size motherboard. At times Thalia felt like little more than a tiny microprocessor dutifully carrying out computations inside a great space computer.

Thalia walked her hands along the nadir, the “floor” of Destiny—in space there is no up or down—to a broad, lenslike ring studded with bolts. The portal shutter was designed to protect the integrity of the module from micrometeoroids or collisions with orbital debris. She maneuvered her sock-covered feet against a wall grip and manually opened it, revealing the two-foot-diameter optical-quality window.

The blue-white ball of earth came into view.

Thalia’s duty assignment was to point and shoot some earth photos with a hard-mounted Hasselblad camera via remote trigger. But when she first looked out on the planet from her unusual vantage point, what she saw made her shudder. The great black blot that was the shadow of the moon looked like a dead spot on the earth. A dark and threatening flaw in the otherwise healthy blue orb that was home. Most unnerving was that she could see nothing at all within the umbra, the central, darkest part of the moon’s shadow, that entire region disappearing into a black void. It was something like viewing a postdisaster satellite map showing devastation caused by a mighty fire that had consumed New York City, and was now spreading out over a broad patch of the eastern seaboard.

Manhattan

NEW YORKERS CONGREGATED in Central Park, the fifty-five-acre Great Lawn filling up as though for a summertime concert. Those who had set out blankets and lawn chairs earlier in the morning now stood on their feet with the rest, children perched on their fathers’ shoulders, babies cradled in their mother’s arms. Belvedere Castle loomed purple-gray over the park, an eerie touch of the gothic in this pastoral open space dwarfed by the East and West Side high-rises.

The great island metropolis ground to a halt, the stillness of the city at that hour felt by all. It was a blackout vibe, anxious yet communal. The occultation imposed a sort of equality upon the city and its denizens, a five-minute suspension of social stratification. Everyone the same under the sun—or the lack thereof.

Radios played up and down the lawn, people singing along with Z100’s spinning of the seven-minute Bonnie Tyler karaoke favorite “Total Eclipse of the Heart.”

Along the East Side bridges connecting Manhattan to the rest of the world, people stood next to their stopped vehicles, or sat on the hoods, a few photographers with specially filtered cameras clicking from the walkways.

Many rooftops hosted early cocktail hours, a New Year’s Eve-type celebration dampened, for the moment, by the fearsome spectacle in the sky.

The giant Panasonic Astrovision screen, in night-dim Times Square, simulcast the occultation to the terrestrial masses, the sun’s ghostly corona shimmering over “the crossroads of the world” like a warning from a distant sector of the galaxy, the broadcast interrupted by flickers of distortion.

Emergency 911 and nonemergency 311 systems took a torrent of calls, including a handful from preterm pregnant women reporting early “eclipse-induced” labor. EMTs were dutifully dispatched, even though traffic all over the island was at a virtual standstill.

The twin psychiatric centers on Randall’s Island in the northern East River confined violent patients to their rooms and ordered all blinds drawn. Nonviolent patients were invited to assemble in the blacked-out cafeterias, where they were being shown movies—broad comedies—although, during minutes of the totality, a noticeable few grew restless, anxious to leave the room but unable to articulate why. At Bellevue, the psych ward had already seen an uptick in admittances that morning, in advance of the occultation.

Between Bellevue and the New York University Medical Center, two of the largest hospitals in the world, stood perhaps the ugliest building in all of Manhattan. The headquarters of the chief medical examiner of New York was a misshapen rectangle of sickly turquoise. As the fish truck off-loaded bagged corpses, wheeled on stretchers into the autopsy rooms and walk-in refrigerators in the basement, Gossett Bennett, one of the office’s fourteen medical examiners, stepped outside for a quick break. He could not see the moon-sun from the small park behind the hospital—the building itself was in his way—so he instead watched the watchers. All along FDR Drive, which the park overlooked, people stood between parked cars on the never-idle throughway. The East River beyond was dark, a river of tar reflecting the dead sky. Across the river, a gloom overhung all of Queens, broken only by the glow of the sun’s corona reflected in a few of the highest, west-facing windows, like the white-hot flame of some spectacular chemical-plant blaze.

This is what the beginning of the end of the world will look like, he thought to himself before returning to the M.E.’s office to assist in the cataloging of the dead.

JFK International Airport

THE FAMILIES OF the deceased passengers and crew of Regis Air Flight 753 were encouraged to take a break from paperwork and Red Cross coffee (decaf only for the aggrieved), and walk outside onto the tarmac in the restricted area behind terminal 3. There, with nothing in common but their grief, the hollow-eyed mourners huddled together and faced the eclipse arm in arm—some leaning on others in solidarity, others in need of actual physical support—their faces turned to the dark western sky. They did not know yet that they would be split up soon into four groups and shuttled in school buses to their respective medical examiner’s offices where, one family at a time, they would be invited into a viewing room and shown a postmortem photograph and asked to formally identify their loved one. Only families who demanded to view the actual physical remains would be allowed to do so. They then would be issued hotel room vouchers to the airport Sheraton, where a complimentary dinner buffet would be offered and grief counselors placed at their disposal all night and into the next day.

For now, they stared up at the black disk glowing like a spotlight in reverse, sucking light away from this world and back up to the heavens. This obliterating phenomenon was to them a perfect symbol of their loss at that very moment. To them, the eclipse was the opposite of remarkable. It seemed merely appropriate that the sky and their God would see fit to mark their despair.

Outside the Regis Air maintenance hangar, Nora stood apart from the other investigators, waiting for Eph and Jim to return from the press conference. Her eyes were turned toward the ominous black hole in the sky, but her vision was unfocused. She felt caught up in something she did not understand. As though a strange new foe had arisen. The dead moon eclipsing the living sun. Night occulting day.

A shadow flowed past her then. She detected it as a shimmer from out of the corner of her eye, something like the slithering worm shadows that had undulated over the tarmac just before totality. Something just outside her field of vision, at the very edge of perception. Fleeing the maintenance hangar like a dark spirit. A shadow she felt.

In the split second it took her pupil to move to it, the shadow was gone.

Lorenza Ruiz, the airport baggage-conveyer operator who had been the first to drive out to the dead airplane, found herself haunted by the experience. Standing in the aircraft’s shadow that previous night, Lo couldn’t get it out of her mind. She hadn’t slept at all, tossing and turning, finally rising to pace. A late-night glass of white wine failed to do the trick. It weighed on her like something she could not let go of. When sunrise finally came, she found herself eyeing the clock—in anticipation, she realized, of returning to work. She found she couldn’t wait to get back to JFK. Not out of morbid curiosity. It was the image of that dormant plane, impressed upon her mind like a bright light flashed into her eye. All she knew was that she had to get back to see it again.

Now this eclipse, and for the second time in twenty-four hours, the airport was shut down. This stoppage had been in the planning for months—the FAA had cleared a fifteen-minute window of downtime for airports within the range of the occultation, out of concern for the vision of the pilots, who couldn’t very well wear filtered glasses during takeoff or landing—but still, the math struck her as pretty damning and pretty simple:

Dead Airplane + Solar Eclipse = Not Good.

When the moon snuffed out the sun, like a hand covering up a scream, Lo felt the same electric panic as when she had stood on top of the luggage ramp beneath the belly of the darkened 777. The very same impulse to run, this time coupled with the knowledge that there was absolutely no place to go.

Now she was hearing it again. Same noise she’d been hearing since arriving for her shift, only steadier now, louder. A humming. A droning sound, and the weird thing was, she heard it at the same volume whether she wore her protective headphones or not. Headachelike, in that way. Interior. And yet, like a homing beacon, it strengthened in her mind once she returned to work.

With the fifteen minutes of downtime during the eclipse, she decided to set off on foot in search of the source of the tone, following it. Without any sense of surprise, she now found herself looking at the cordoned-off Regis Air maintenance hangar where the dead 777 was being stored.

The noise sounded like no machine she had ever heard. A churning, almost, a rushing sound, like coursing fluid. Or like the murmur of a dozen voices, a hundred different voices, trying to make sense. Maybe she was picking up radar vibrations in her teeth fillings. There was a group of people out in front, officials gazing up at the blocked sun—but no one else like her, lurking there, bothered by or even cognizant of a hum. So she kept it to herself. And yet, for some weird reason, it felt momentous, being right here, this very moment, hearing the noise and wishing—to salve her curiosity, or was it more than that?—that she could get inside the hangar for another look at the plane. As though seeing the plane would somehow resolve the thrumming in her head.

Then suddenly she felt a charge in the atmosphere, like a breeze changing course, and now—yes—it seemed to her that the source of the noise had moved somewhere off to her right. This sudden change startled her, and she followed it under the negative light of the glowing moon, carrying her headphones and protective glasses in her hand. Dumpsters and storage trailers lay ahead, before a few large box containers, and then some scrub brush and hardy, gray, wind-whipped pine trees, their branches full of snagged trash. Then the hurricane fence, beyond which lay hundreds of acres of scrub wilderness.

Voices. It was more like voices to her now. Trying to rise to one single voice, a word … something.

As Lo neared the trailers, an abrupt rustling in the trees, a lifting, made her leap back. Gray-bellied seagulls, apparently spooked by the eclipse, exploded out of the branches and Dumpsters, like winged shards of glass from a smashed window, scattering in all directions.

The droning voices were sharper now, grown almost painful. Calling on her. Like a chorus of the damned, the cacophony rising from a whisper to a roar and back again, struggling to articulate one word, sounding like, as best she could make out:

“…… hhrrhhrrhhrrhhrrhhrrHERE.”

She set down her headphones on the edge of the tarmac, hanging on to her filtered glasses for when the eclipse ended. She veered away from the Dumpsters and their rank garbage smell, instead going toward the large storage trailers. The sound seemed to be emanating not from inside the trailers, but maybe from behind them.

She walked between two six-foot-tall containers and around an old decaying airplane tire, coming upon another row of older, pale green containers. Now she felt it. Not just heard the thrum but felt it, a nest of voices vibrating in her head and in her chest. Beckoning to her. She placed her hand on the containers but felt no pulsation there, then continued forward, slowing at the corner, leaning out.

Set on top of the blown trash and uncut, sun-bleached grass was a large, ancient-looking, ornately carved black wooden box. She ventured into the small clearing, wondering why someone would throw such an obviously well-maintained antique all the way back here. Theft—organized and otherwise—was a fact of life at the airport; maybe someone had stashed it here, planning to swing by later to pick it up.

Then she noticed the cats. The outer airport was crawling with wild cats. Some of them were pets who had escaped their transport cages. Many had simply been released onto airport property by locals looking to get rid of unwanted pets. Worst of all were the travelers who abandoned their cats at the airport rather than pay high kennel fees. Domestic cats who did not know how to fend for themselves in the wild, and who, if they avoided becoming prey to larger animals and survived, joined the colony of feral cats roaming the hundreds of acres of undeveloped airport property.

The skinny cats all sat on their hindquarters, facing the cabinet. A few dozen of these mangy, dirty felines—until Lo looked at the trash-strewn tree and along the hurricane fence, and saw that there were in fact close to a hundred of these feral cats, sitting and facing the wooden box, paying her no attention.

The box wasn’t vibrating, wasn’t emitting the noise she had been attuned to. She was mystified, after coming all this way, to discover something this strange here on the outskirts of the airport—and that was not, in fact, the source she was seeking. The thrumming chorus went on. Were the cats tuned in to it as well? No. Their focus was on the closed cabinet.

She was starting to back away when the cats stiffened. The fur along their backs prickled—each of them, all at once. Their scabby heads all turned her way, one hundred pairs of wild cat eyes staring at her in the gloaming night-day. Lo froze, fearing an attack—and then a darkness fell over her, like a second eclipse.

The cats turned and ran. They fled the clearing, claws grabbing willy-nilly at the high fence or scrambling through predug holes beneath it.

Lo could not turn. She felt a rush of heat from behind her, as from an oven door when you open it. A presence. As she tried to move, the sounds in her head coalesced into one single horrible voice.

“HERE.”

And then she was lifted off the ground.

When the legion of cats returned, they discovered her body with its head crushed, cast deep into their side of the hurricane fence like so much litter. The gulls had found her first—but the cats quickly scared them off and got right to work, hungrily shredding her clothes to get to the feast within.

Knickerbocker Loans and Curios, East 118th Street, Spanish Harlem

THE OLD MAN SAT BEFORE the three adjacent windows at the western end of his dimmed apartment, gazing up at the occluded sun.

Five minutes of night in the middle of the day. The greatest naturally occurring celestial event in four centuries.

The timing could not be ignored.

But to what purpose?

Urgency seized him like a fevered hand. He had not opened the shop that day, instead spending the hours since daybreak hauling things up from his basement workshop. Items and curiosities he had acquired over the years …

Tools of forgotten function. Rare implements of obscure origin. Weapons of lost provenance.

Why he sat here tired now, his gnarled hands aching. No one else but he could foresee what was coming. What was—by every indication—already here.

No one else who would believe him.

Goodfellow. Or Goodwilling. Whatever was the last name of that man who had spoken at the otherwise ridiculous news conference on the television, standing next to the doctor in the navy uniform. How cautiously optimistic all the others had seemed. Exulting over the four survivors, while claiming not to know the final tally of all the dead. We want to assure the public that this threat is contained. Only an elected official would dare to declare a thing safe and finished when he or she didn’t even know yet what it was.

This man was the only one behind the microphones who seemed to think there might be more to this than a malfunctioning aircraft full of dead passengers.

Goodwater?

From the disease control center, the one in Atlanta. Setrakian didn’t know, but he thought his best chance might be with this man. Maybe his only chance.

Four survivors. If they only knew …

He looked out again at the glowing black disk in the sky. Like staring at an eye blinded by a cataract.

Like staring into the future.

Stoneheart Group, Manhattan

THE HELICOPTER touched down on the helipad of the Stoneheart Group’s Manhattan headquarters, a building of black steel and glass in the heart of Wall Street. Its top three floors were occupied by Eldritch Palmer’s private New York residence, a regal penthouse constructed with onyx floors, its tables laden with Brancusis, its walls papered with Bacons.

Palmer sat alone in the media room with the shades all drawn, the glowing black eyeball rimmed in fierce crimson and ringed with flaming white staring out at him from a seventy-two-inch viewing screen. This room, like his home in Dark Harbor and the cabin of his medical helicopter, was kept regulated at exactly sixty-two degrees.

He could have gone outside. It was, after all, cold enough for him; he could have been taken up to the roof to witness the occultation. But technology brought him closer to the event itself—not the resulting shadow, but the image of the sun subordinated to the moon—that was the prelude to the devastation. His Manhattan sojourn would be brief. New York City would not be a very pleasant place to visit, not for much longer.

He placed a few phone calls, a few discreet consultations over his secure line. His cargo had indeed arrived as expected.

Smiling, he rose from his chair, walking slowly but straight at the giant viewing screen, as though it were not a screen at all but a portal he was about to step through. He reached out and touched the LCD screen over the image of the angry black disk, liquid pixels squirming bacteria-like beneath the wrinkled pads of his fingers. As though he were reaching through it to touch the eye of death itself.

This occultation was a celestial perversion, a violation of the natural order. A cold, dead stone deposing a burning, living star. For Eldritch Palmer, it was proof that anything—anything, even the grossest betrayal of natural law—was indeed possible.

Of all the human beings watching the occultation that day, in person or via broadcast around the globe, he was perhaps the only one rooting for the moon.

JFK International Control Tower

THOSE IN THE VIEWING CAB of the air-traffic-control tower 321 feet above the ground glimpsed the eerie sunsetlike twilight way off to the west, out beyond the reach of the great moon shadow, past the edge of the umbra. The brighter penumbra, illuminated by the sun’s blazing photosphere, had turned the distant sky yellow and orange, not unlike the healing edge of a wound.

This wall of light was advancing on New York City, which had now been dark for exactly four minutes and thirty seconds.

“Glasses on!” came the order, and Jim Kent put his on, anxious for sunlight’s return. He glanced around, looking for Eph—everyone from the press conference, including the governor and the mayor, had been invited up into the tower cab for the viewing—and, not seeing him, assumed that Eph had slipped back to the maintenance hangar.

In fact, Eph had used this enforced time-out in the best way he knew: by grabbing a chair as soon as the sun had disappeared and going through a packet of construction diagrams showing cutaway views and schematics of the Boeing 777, ignoring the occultation altogether.

The End of Totality

THE END WAS MARKED by an extraordinary phenomenon. Dazzling prominences of light appeared along the western edge of the moon, combining to form a single bead of dazzling sunlight, like a rip in the darkness, giving the effect of a blindingly radiant diamond set upon the moon’s silver ring. But the price for such beauty, despite a vigorous public service campaign dedicated to eye safety during the occultation, was that more than 270 people across the city, 93 of them children, suffered permanent blindness by watching the sun’s dramatic reappearance without wearing proper eye protection. There are no pain sensors in the retina, and the afflicted did not realize they were damaging their eyes until it was too late.

The diamond ring expanded slowly, becoming a band of jewels known as “Baily’s beads,” which merged into the reborn crescent of the sun, essentially pushing the interloping moon away.

On earth, the shadow bands returned, shimmering over the ground like inaugural spirits heralding the passing from one form of existence to another.

As natural light began filling back in, the human relief on the ground was epic. Cheers and hugs and spontaneous applause. Automobile horns sounded all across the city, and Kate Smith’s recorded voice sang over the loudspeakers at Yankee Stadium.

Ninety minutes later, the moon had completely departed from the path of the sun, and the occultation was over. In one very real sense, nothing at all had happened: nothing in the sky had been altered or otherwise affected, nothing had changed on earth except for the few minutes of late-afternoon shade across the northeastern United States. Even in New York itself, people packed up afterward as though the fireworks show was over, and those who had traveled away from home transferred the focus of their dread from the occluded afternoon sun to the traffic awaiting them. A compelling astronomic phenomenon had cast a shadow of awe and anxiety across all five boroughs. But this was New York, and when it was over—it was over.

AWAKENING

Regis Air Maintenance Hangar

Eph returned to the hangar by electric cart, leaving Jim behind with Director Barnes, giving Eph and Nora some breathing room.

The hospital screens had all been wheeled away from beneath the 777’s wing, the tarp pulled up. Ladders were now hung from the fore and aft exit doors, and a gang of NTSB officials was working near the aft cargo hatch. The aircraft was being regarded as a crime scene now. Eph found Nora wearing a Tyvek jumper and latex gloves, her hair pulled up under a paper cap. She was dressed not for biological containment but for simple evidence preservation.

“That was pretty amazing, huh?” she said, greeting him.

“Yeah,” said Eph, his sheaf of airplane schematics under his arm. “Once in a lifetime.”

There was coffee set out on a table, but Eph instead plucked a chilling milk carton from its bowl of ice, tore it open, and emptied it down his throat. Ever since giving up liquor, Eph, like a calcium-hungry toddler, craved whole milk.

Nora said, “Still nothing here. The NTSB is pulling out the cockpit voice recorder and the flight data recorder. I’m not sure why they think the black boxes will work when everything else on the airplane failed catastrophically, but I guess I admire their optimism. So far, technology has gotten us exactly nowhere. We’re twenty hours in now, and this thing is still wide open.”

Nora was perhaps the only person he had ever known who worked better and smarter through emotion rather than the other way around. “Anyone been through the inside of the plane since the bodies came out?”

“I don’t think so. Not yet.”

Eph carried his schematics up the wheeled stairs and into the aircraft. The seats were all empty now, and the lighting inside was normal. The only other difference from Eph’s and Nora’s perspective was that they were no longer sealed inside contact suits. All five senses were available to them now.

Eph said, “You smell that?”

Nora did. “What is it?”

“Ammonia. That’s part of it.”

“And … phosphorous?” The odor made her wince. “Is this what knocked them out?”

“No. The plane is clean for gas. But …” He was looking around—looking around for something they could not see. “Nora, go get the Luma wands, would you?”

While she went back out for them, Eph went throughout the cabin closing the window shades, as they had been the night before, darkening the cabin.

Nora returned with two Luma light wands that emitted a black light, similar to the one used on amusement park rides, that made laundered white cotton glow spectrally. Eph remembered Zack’s ninth birthday party at a “cosmic” bowling alley, and how every time Zack smiled, the boy’s teeth shone bright white.

They switched on the lights, and immediately the dark cabin was transformed into a crazy swirl of colors, a massive staining all throughout the floor and over the seats, leaving dark outlines of where the passengers had been.

Nora said, “Oh my God …”

Some of the glowing substance even coated the ceiling in a splashed-out pattern.

“It’s not blood,” said Eph, overwhelmed by the sight. Looking through to the aft cabin was like staring into a Jackson Pollock painting. “It’s some sort of biological matter.”

“Whatever it is, it’s sprayed all over the place. Like something exploded. But from where?”

“From here. From right where we are standing.” He knelt down, examining the carpet, the smell more pungent there. “We need to sample this and test it.”

“You think?” said Nora.

He stood again, still amazed. “Look at this.” He showed her a page of the airplane schematics. It diagrammed emergency rescue access for the Boeing 777 series. “See this shaded module at the front of the plane?”

She did. “It looks like a flight of stairs.”

“Right in back of the cockpit.”

“What’s ‘OFCRA’ stand for?”

Eph walked down to the galley before the cockpit door. Those very initials were printed on a wall panel there.

“Overhead flight crew rest area,” said Eph. “Standard on these long-distance big birds.”

Nora looked at him. “Did anybody check up here?”

Eph said, “I know we didn’t.”

He reached down and turned a handle recessed in the wall, pulling open the panel. A trifolding door revealed narrow, curving steps leading up into the dark.

“Oh, shit,” said Nora.

Eph played his Luma lamp up the stairs. “I take it that means you want me to go first.”

“Wait. Let’s get somebody else.”

“No. They won’t know what to look for.”

“Do we?”

Eph ignored that, and climbed the tight, curling stairs.

The upper compartment was tight, low-ceilinged. There were no windows. The Luma lights were better suited for forensic examination than indoor illumination.

Inside the first module, they made out two side-by-side business-class-size seats folded down. Behind these were two inclined bunks, also side by side, not much larger than a crawl space. The dark light showed both modules to be empty.

It also, however, showed more of the same multicolored mess they had discovered below. On the floor and tracked over the seats and one of the bunks. But here it was smudged, almost as though tracked in while still wet.

Nora said, “What the hell?”

The ammonia smell was here as well—and something else. A pungent odor.

Nora noticed it too, bringing the back of her hand beneath her nostrils. “What is it?”

Eph stood almost doubled over under the low ceiling between the two chairs. He was trying to put a word to it. “Like earthworms,” he said. “Used to dig them up as kids. Cut them in half in order to watch each section wriggle away. Their smell was earth, the cold soil they crawled through.”

Eph ran his black light over the walls and floors, scouring the chamber. He was about to give up when he noticed something behind Nora’s paper booties.

“Nora, don’t move,” said Eph.

He leaned to one side for a better angle on the carpeted floor behind her, Nora frozen as though she were about to trip a land mine.

A small clump of soil lay on the patterned carpet. No more than a few grams of dirt, a trace amount, richly black.

Nora said, “Is that what I think it is?”

Eph said, “The cabinet.”

They climbed back down the outside stairs to the area of the hangar reserved for cargo, where food-service carts were now being opened and inspected. Eph and Nora scanned the piles of luggage, the golf bags, the kayak.

The black wooden cabinet was gone. The space it had previously occupied, on the edge of the tarpaulin, was bare.

“Someone must have moved it,” said Eph, still looking. He walked away a few steps, scanning the rest of the hangar. “Couldn’t have gotten far.”

Nora’s eyes were blazing. “They are just starting to go through all this stuff. Nothing’s been taken out yet.”

Eph said, “This one thing was.”

“This is a secure site, Eph. That thing was what, about eight by four by three? It weighed a few hundred pounds. Would have taken four men to carry it.”

“Exactly. So somebody knows where it is.”

They went to the duty officer manning the hangar door, the keeper of the site log. The young man consulted his master list, a time log of everyone’s and everything’s entrances and exits. “Nothing here,” he said.

Eph sensed Nora’s objection rising and spoke before she could. “How long have you been here—standing right here?”

“Since about twelve, sir.”

“No break?” said Eph. “What about during the eclipse?”

“I stood right out here.” He pointed to a spot a few yards away from the door. “No one went by me.”

Eph looked back at Nora.

Nora said, “What in the hell is going on?” She looked at the duty officer. “Who else might have seen a great big coffin?”

Eph frowned at the word “coffin.” He looked back into the hangar, and then up at the security cameras in the rafters.

He pointed. “They did.”

Eph, Nora, and the Port Authority site log duty officer walked up the long, steel staircase to the control office overlooking the maintenance hangar. Below, mechanics were removing the aircraft’s nose for a look at the internals.

Four drone cameras ran constantly inside the hangar: one at the door leading to the office stairs; one trained on the hangar doors; one up in the rafters—the one Eph had pointed to—and one in the room they were standing in now. All displayed on a four-square screen.

Eph asked the maintenance foreman, “Why the camera in this room?”

The foreman shrugged. “Prolly ’cause this is where the petty cash is.”

He took his seat, a battered office chair whose armrests were striped with duct tape, and worked the keyboard beneath the monitor, expanding the rafter view to full screen. He scanned back through the security recording. The unit was digital, but a few years old, and too distorted to make out anything clearly during the rewind.

He stopped it. On the screen, the cabinet lay exactly where it had, on the edge of the off-loaded cargo.

“There it is,” said Eph.

The duty officer nodded. “Okay. So let’s see where it went.”

The foreman punched it forward. It ran more slowly than the rewind, but was still pretty fast. The light in the hangar darkened with the occultation, and when it brightened again, the cabinet was gone.

“Stop, stop,” said Eph. “Back it up.”

The foreman backed up a little, pressed play again. The time code on the bottom showed the image playing more slowly than before.

The hangar dimmed and at once the cabinet was again gone.

“What the—?” said the foreman, hitting pause.

Eph said, “Go back just a bit.”

The foreman did, then let it play through in real time.

The hangar dimmed, still lit by the interior work lights. The cabinet was there. And then it vanished.

“Wow,” said the duty officer.

The foreman paused the video. He was confounded too.

Eph said, “There is a gap. A cut.”

The foreman said, “No cut. You saw the time code.”

“Go back a bit then. A bit more … right there … now again.”

The foreman played it again.

And again the cabinet disappeared.

“Houdini,” grumbled the foreman.

Eph looked at Nora.

“It didn’t just disappear,” said the duty officer. He pointed out the other luggage nearby. “Everything else stays the same. Not a flicker.”

Eph said, “Back it up again. Please.”

The foreman ran it yet again. The cabinet disappeared yet again.

“Wait,” said Eph. He’d seen something. “Step it back—slowly.”

The foreman did, and ran it again.

“There,” said Eph.

“Christ,” exclaimed the foreman, almost jumping out of his creaky seat. “I saw it.”

“Saw what?” said Nora, together with the duty officer.

The foreman was into it now, rewinding the image just a few steps.

“Coming …,” said Eph, readying him. “Coming …” The foreman held his hand over the keyboard like a game show contestant waiting to press a buzzer. “… there.”

The cabinet was gone again. Nora leaned close. “What?”

Eph pointed to the side of the monitor. “Right there.”

Just evident on the wide right edge of the image was a black blur.

Eph said, “Something bursting past the camera.”

“Up in the rafters?” said Nora. “What, a bird?”

“Too damn big,” Eph said.

The duty officer, leaning close, said, “It’s a glitch. A shadow.”

“Okay,” Eph said, standing back. “A shadow of what?”

The duty officer straightened. “Can you go frame by frame?”

The foreman tried. The cabinet disappeared from the floor … almost simultaneously with the appearance of the blur in the rafters. “Best I can do on this machine.”

The duty officer studied the screen again. “Coincidence,” he declared. “How could anything move at that speed?”

Eph asked, “Can you zoom in?”

The foreman rolled his eyes. “This here ain’t CSI—it’s Radio-fucking-Shack.”

“So, it’s gone,” Nora said, turning to Eph, the other men unable to help. “But why—and how?”

Eph cupped his hand over the back of his neck. “The soil from the cabinet … it must be the same as the soil we just found. Which means …”

Nora said, “Are we formulating a theory that someone got up into the overhead flight crew rest area from the cargo hold?”

Eph recalled the feeling he had gotten, standing in the cockpit with the dead pilots—just before discovering that Redfern was still alive. That of a presence. Something nearby.

He moved Nora away from the other two. “And tracked some of that … whatever swirl of biological matter in the passenger cabin.”

Nora looked back to the image of the black blur in the rafters.

Eph said, “I think someone was hiding up in that compartment when we first entered the plane.”

“Okay …,” she said, grappling with that. “But then—where is it now?”

Eph said, “Wherever that cabinet is.”

Gus

GUS SAUNTERED DOWN the lane of cars in the low-ceilinged, long-term parking garage at JFK. The echoing screech of balding tires turning down the exit ramps made the place sound like a madhouse. He pulled out the folded index card from his shirt pocket and double-checked the section number, written in someone else’s hand. Then he double-checked that there was no one else near.

He found the van, a dinged-up, road-dirtied, white Econoline with no back windows, at the very end of the lane, parked astride a coned-off corner work area of fluttering tarp and crumbled stone where part of the overhead support had cracked.

He pulled out a hand rag and used it to try the driver’s door, which was unlocked, as advertised. He backed off from the van and looked around the isolated corner of the garage, quiet but for those monkey squeals in the distance, thinking trap. They could have a camera in any one of these other cars, watching him. Like on Cops, he’d seen that one: PD’d hooked up little cameras inside trucks and pulled them over on a city street, Cleveland or somewhere, and watched as kids and other yo-yos jumped in and took off on a joyride or a trip down to the local chop shop. Being caught was bad, but being tricked like that, getting hosed on prime-time TV, was much worse. Gus would rather be shot dead in his underwear than be branded a fool.

But he had taken the $50 the dude offered him to do this. Easy money, which Gus still had on him, tucked inside the band of his pinch-front hat, holding on to it for evidence in case things went south.

Dude was in the market when Gus went in for a Sprite. Behind him in line when he paid. Outside, a half block away, Gus heard someone coming up on him and turned fast. It was the dude—hands out, showing them empty. Wanting to know if Gus wanted to make some quick money.

White guy, neat suit, way out of place. He didn’t look cop but he didn’t look queer neither. Looked like some sort of missionary.

“A van in the airport parking garage. You pick it up, drive it into Manhattan, park it, and walk away.”

“A van,” said Gus.

“A van.”

“What’s in it?”

Dude just shook his head. Handed over an index card folded over five new tens. “Just a taste.”

Gus pulled out the bills, like lifting the meat out of a sandwich. “If you PD, this entrapment.”

“The pickup time is written on there. Don’t be early, and don’t be late.”

Gus thumbed the folded tens in his hand like sampling a fine fabric. Dude saw this. Dude also saw, Gus realized, the three small circles tattooed onto the webbing of Gus’s hand. Mex gang symbol for thief, but how would this dude know that? Was that why he made him back in the store? Why the dude had picked him?

“Keys and further instructions will be in the glove compartment.”

The dude started walking away.

“Yo,” said Gus after him. “I didn’t say yes yet.”

Gus pulled open the door—waited; no alarm—and climbed inside. Didn’t see no cameras—but he wouldn’t anyway, would he? Behind the front seats was a metal partition without a window. Bolted in there, aftermarket. Maybe truck full of PD he’s driving around.

Van felt still, though. He opened the glove compartment, again using the rag. Gently, as if a gag snake might jump out at him, and the little light came on. Laid out inside was the ignition key, the parking garage ticket he needed to get out, and a manila envelope.

He looked inside the envelope and the first thing he saw was his pay. Five new $100 bills, which pleased and pissed him off at the same time. Pleased him because it was more than he had expected, and pissed him off because no one would break a century from him without a hassle, especially nowhere in the hood. Even a bank would scan the hell out of those bills, coming out of the pocket of an eighteen-year-old tatted-up Mexican.

Folded around the bills was another index card listing the destination address and a garage access code, GOOD FOR ONE USE ONLY.

He compared the cards side by side. Same handwriting.

Anxiety faded as excitement rose. Sucker! Trusting him with this vehicle. Gus knew, right off the top of his head, three different spots in the South Bronx to take this baby for reconditioning. And to quickly satisfy his curiosity as to what sort of contraband goodness he was carrying in back.

The last item in the larger envelope was a smaller, letter-size envelope. He withdrew a few sheets of paper, unfolded them, and a warm flame rose out of the center of his back and into his shoulders and neck.

AUGUSTIN ELIZALDE, headed the first one. It was Gus’s rap sheet, his juvenile jacket leading up to the manslaughter conviction and his being kicked free with a clean slate on his eighteenth birthday, just three short weeks ago.

The second page showed a copy of his driver’s license and, below that, his mother’s driver’s license with the same East 115th Street address. Then a small picture of the front door of their building at the Taft Houses.

He stared at that paper for two straight minutes. His mind raced back and forth between that missionary-looking dude and how much he knew, and his madre here, and what kind of bad shit Gus had gotten himself into this time.

Gus didn’t take well to threats. Especially involving his madre: he had already put her through enough.

The third page was printed in the same handwriting as the index cards. It read: NO STOPS.

Gus sat at the window of the Insurgentes, eating his fried eggs doused with Tabasco sauce, looking at the white van double-parked out on Queens Boulevard. Gus loved breakfast, and, since getting out, had eaten breakfast at nearly every meal. He ordered specific now, because he could: bacon extra crispy, burn the toast.

Fuck them, NO STOPS. Gus didn’t like this game, not once they included his madre. He watched the van, thinking over his options, waiting for something to happen. Was he being watched? If so, how close? And if they could watch him—why weren’t they just driving the van themselves? What kind of shit had he gotten himself into here?

What was inside that van?

A couple of cabrones came sniffing around the front of the van. They ducked their heads and scattered when Gus emerged from the diner, his top-buttoned flannel shirt flaring out behind him in the late-day breeze, tats sleeving his bare forearms in bright accents of red around jailhouse black. The Latin Sultans’ cred carried out of Spanish Harlem north and east to the Bronx, and as far south into Queens. Their numbers were small, their shadow long. You didn’t mess with one unless you wanted war with all.

He pulled out into the boulevard, continuing west toward Manhattan, one eye out for tails. The van bounced over some roadwork and he listened closely but heard nothing shift in back. Yet something was weighing down the suspension.

He got thirsty and pulled over again outside a corner market, picking up two twenty-four-ounce cans of Tecate. He jammed one of the red-and-gold cans into the cup holder and pulled out again, the city buildings coming up across the river now, the sun falling behind them. Night was coming. He thought about his brother at home, Crispin, that shitbag addict, showing up just as Gus was trying his best to be good to his mother. Sweating out chemicals on the living room sofa, and all Gus wanted to do was slide a rusty blade between his ribs. Bringing his disease into their crib. His older brother was a ghoul, a straight-up zombie, but she wouldn’t put him out. She let him lay around and pretended he wasn’t shooting smack in her bathroom, biding time until he would vanish again, along with some of her things.

Gus needed to put some of this dinero sucio aside for his madre. Give it to her after Crispin was gone. Stick some more in his hat and leave it there for her. Make her happy. Do something right.

Gus pulled out his phone before the tunnel. “Felix, man. Come get me.”

“Where you at, bro?”

“I’ll be down Battery Park.”

“Battery Park? All the way down there, Gusto?”

“So roll over to Ninth and drop straight down, bitch. We’re going out. Have ourselves a party, man. That money I owe you—I made me some flash today. Bring me out a jacket or something to wear, clean shoes. Get me into a club.”

“Fuckin’—anything else?”

“Just pull your fingers out of your sister’s concha and come get me—comprende?”

He came out of the tunnel into Manhattan and drove across town before turning south. He maneuvered onto Church Street, south of Canal, and started checking street signs. The address was a loft building fronted with scaffolding, its windows plastered with building permits, but without any construction trucks around. The street was quiet, residential. The garage worked as advertised, the access code raising a steel door under which the van just fit, rolling down a ramp beneath the building.

Gus parked and sat still a moment, listening. The garage was dingy and underlit, looking to him like a good trap, the kicked-up dust swirling in the fading light through the open doorway. His impulse was to beat a hasty retreat, but he needed to be sure he was out clean. He waited as the garage door rolled shut.

Gus folded the pages and envelope from the glove compartment and stuffed them inside his pockets, draining the last of the first beer and crushing the can to an aluminum pick, then stepping out of the van. After a moment’s deliberation, he went back in with his hand rag and wiped down the steering wheel, the radio knobs, the glove compartment, the door handles inside and out, and anything else he thought he might have touched.

He looked around the garage, the only light now coming in between the blades of an exhaust fan, dust drifting like a mist in its faint rays. Gus wiped off the ignition key, then went around to the side and back doors of the van. He tried the handles, just to see. They were locked.

He thought about it a moment, and then curiosity got the better of him. He tried the key.

The locks were different from the ignition. Part of him was relieved.

Terrorists, he thought. Could be I’m a fucking terrorist now. Driving a van full of explosives.

What he could do was drive the van back out of here. Park it outside the nearest police precinct, leave a note on the windshield. Have them see if it’s anything or nothing.

But these fuckers had his address. His madre’s address. Who were they?

He got angry, a heat flare of shame shooting up his back. He pounded the meat of his fist once against the side of the white van, demonstrating his dissatisfaction with the arrangement. A satisfying sound resounded within, breaking the silence. He gave up then, tossing the key onto the front seat and slamming the driver’s door with his elbow—another satisfying bang.

But then—instead of getting quiet quickly again—he heard something. Or thought he did: something inside. With the last of the light eking in through the fan grate, Gus got right up to the locked back doors to listen, his ear almost touching the van.

Something. Almost … like a stomach rumbling. That same kind of empty, roiling hunger. A stirring.

Ah, what the fuck, he decided, stepping back. The deed is done. So long as the bomb goes off below 110th Street, what do I care?

A dull but distinct bang from inside the van rocked Gus back a step. The paper bag containing the second cerveza slipped from underneath his arm, and the can burst and sprayed beer over the gritty floor.

The spraying faded to a dull foaming, and Gus bent to gather up the mess, then stopped, crouching, his hand on the soaked bag.

The van listed ever so slightly. Its undercarriage springs pinged once.

Something had moved or shifted inside.

Gus straightened, leaving the burst beer on the ground and moving backward, shoes scraping the grit. A few steps away, he reset himself, willing himself to relax. His trick was to think that someone was watching him lose his cool. He turned and walked calmly to the closed garage door.

The spring creaked again, putting a hitch in his step, but not halting him.

He reached the black panel with a red plunger switch next to the door. He hit it with the heel of his hand, and nothing happened.

He hit it two more times, first slow and easy, then hard and fast, the spring action on the plunger sticking as though from disuse.

The van creaked again, and Gus did not allow himself to look back.

The garage door was made of faceless steel, no grip handles. Nothing to pull. He kicked it once and the thing barely rattled.

Another bang from inside the van, almost answering his own, followed by a severe creak, and Gus rushed back to the plunger. He hit it again, rapid-fire, and then a pulley whirred and the motor clicked and the chain started running.

The door began lifting off the ground.

Gus was outside before it was halfway up, scuttling up onto the sidewalk like a crab and then quickly catching his breath. He turned and waited, watching the door open, hold there, and then go back down again. He made certain it closed tightly and that nothing emerged.

Then he looked around, shaking off his nerves, checking his hat—and walked to the corner, guilty fast, wanting to put another block between him and the van. He crossed to Vesey Street and found himself standing before the Jersey barriers and construction fences surrounding the city block that had been the World Trade Center. It was all dug out now, the great basin a gaping hole in the crooked streets of Lower Manhattan, with cranes and construction trucks building up the site again.

Gus shook off his chill. He unfolded his phone at his ear.

“Felix, where are you, amigo?”

“On Ninth, heading downtown. Whassup?”

“Nothing. Just get here pronto. I’ve done something I need to forget about.”

Isolation Ward, Jamaica Hospital Medical Center

EPH ARRIVED AT the Jamaica Hospital Medical Center, fuming. “What do you mean they’re gone?”

“Dr. Goodweather,” said the administrator, “there was nothing we could do to compel them to remain here.”

“I told you to post a guard to keep that Bolivar character’s slimy lawyer out.”

“We did post a guard. An actual police officer. He looked at the legal order and told us there was nothing he could do. And—it wasn’t the rock star’s lawyer. It was Mrs. Luss the lawyer. Her firm. They went right over my head, right to the hospital board.”

“Then why wasn’t I told this?”

“We tried to get in touch with you. We called your contact.”

Eph whipped around. Jim Kent was standing with Nora. He looked stricken. He pulled out his phone and thumbed back through his calls. “I don’t see …” He looked up apologetically. “Maybe it was those sunspots from the eclipse, or something. I never got the calls.”

“I got your voice mail,” said the administrator.

He checked again. “Wait … there were some calls I might have missed.” He looked up at Eph. “With so much going on, Eph—I’m afraid I dropped the ball.”

This news hollowed out Eph’s rage. It was not at all like Jim to make any mistake whatsoever, especially at such a critical time. Eph stared at his trusted associate, his anger fizzling out into deep disappointment. “My four best shots at solving this thing just walked out that door.”

“Not four,” said the administrator, behind him. “Only three.”

Eph turned back to her. “What do you mean?”

Inside the isolation ward, Captain Doyle Redfern sat on his bed, inside the plastic curtains. He looked haggard; his pale arms were resting on a pillow in his lap. The nurse said that he had declined all food, claiming stiffness in his throat and persistent nausea, and had rejected even tiny sips of water. The IV in his arm was keeping him hydrated.

Eph and Nora stood with him, masked and gloved, eschewing full barrier protection.

“My union wants me out of here,” said Redfern. “The airline industry policy is, ‘Always blame pilot error.’ Never the airline’s fault, overscheduling, maintenance cutbacks. They’re going to go after Captain Moldes on this one, no matter what. And me, maybe. But—something doesn’t feel right. Inside. I don’t feel like myself.”

Eph said, “Your cooperation is critical. I can’t thank you enough for staying, except to say that we’ll do everything in our power to get you healthy again.”

Redfern nodded, and Eph could tell that his neck was stiff. He probed the underside of his jaw, feeling for his lymph nodes, which were quite swollen. The pilot was definitely fighting off something. Something related to the airplane deaths—or merely something he had picked up over the course of his travels?

Redfern said, “Such a young aircraft, and an all-around beautiful machine. I just can’t see it shutting down so completely. It’s got to be sabotage.”

“We’ve tested the oxygen mix and the water tanks, and both came back clean. Nothing to indicate why people died or why the plane went dark.” Eph massaged the pilot’s armpits, finding more jelly-bean-size lymph nodes there. “You still remember nothing about the landing?”

“Nothing. It’s driving me crazy.”

“Can you think of any reason the cockpit door would be unlocked?”

“None. Completely against FAA regulations.”

Nora said, “Did you happen to spend any time up in the crew rest area?”

“The bunk?” Redfern said. “I did, yeah. Caught a few z’s over the Atlantic.”

“Do you remember if you put the seat backs down?”

“They were already down. You need the leg room if you’re stretching out up there. Why?”

Eph said, “You didn’t see anything out of the ordinary?”

“Up there? Not a thing. What’s to see?”

Eph stood back. “Do you know anything about a large cabinet loaded into the cargo area?”

Captain Redfern shook his head, trying to puzzle it out. “No idea. But it sounds like you’re on to something.”

“Not really. Still as baffled as you are.” Eph crossed his arms. Nora had switched on her Luma light and was going over Redfern’s arms with it. “Which is why your agreeing to stay is so critical right now. I want to run a full battery of tests on you.”

Captain Redfern watched the indigo light shine over his flesh. “If you think you can figure out what happened, I’ll be your guinea pig.”

Eph nodded their appreciation.

“When did you get this scar?” asked Nora.

“What scar?”

She was looking at his neck, the front of his throat. He tipped his head back so that she could touch the fine line that showed up deep blue under her Luma. “Looks almost like a surgical incision.”

Redfern felt for it himself. “There’s nothing.”

Indeed, when she switched off the lamp, the line was all but invisible. She turned it back on and Eph examined the line. Maybe a half inch across, a few millimeters thick. The tissue growth over the wound appeared quite recent.

“We’ll do some imaging later tonight. MRI should show us something.”

Redfern nodded, and Nora turned off her light wand. “You know … there is one other thing.” Redfern hesitated, his airline pilot’s confidence fading for a moment. “I do remember something, but it won’t be of any use to you, I don’t think …”

Eph shrugged almost imperceptibly. “We’ll take anything you can give us.”

“Well, when I blacked out … I dreamed of something—something very old …” The captain looked around, almost ashamedly, then started talking in a very low voice. “When I was a kid … at night … I used to sleep in this big bed in my grandmother’s home. And every night, at midnight, as the bells chimed in the church nearby, I used to see a thing come out from behind a big old armoire. Every night, without fail—it would poke out its black head and long arms and bony shoulders … and stare at me …”

“Stare?” asked Eph.

“It had a jagged mouth, with thin, black lips … and it would look at me, and just … smile.”

Eph and Nora were both transfixed, the intimacy of the confession and its dreamlike tone both unexpected.

“And then I would start screaming, and my grandmother would turn on the light and take me to her bed. It went on for years. I called him Mr. Leech. Because his skin … that black skin looked just like the engorged leeches we used to pick up in a nearby stream. Child psychiatrists looked at me and talked to me and called it ‘night terrors’ and gave me reasons not to believe in him, but … every night he came back. Every night I would sink under my pillows, hiding from him—but it was useless. I knew he was there, in the room …” Redfern grimaced. “We moved out some years later and my grandmother sold the armoire and I never saw it again. Never dreamed of it again.”

Eph had listened carefully. “You’ll have to excuse me, Captain … but what does this have to do with …?”

“I’m coming to that,” he said. “The only thing I remember between our descent and waking up here—is that he came back. In my dreams. I saw him again, this Mr. Leech … and he was smiling.”

INTERLUDE II

The Burning Hole

HIS NIGHTMARES WERE ALWAYS THE SAME: ABRAHAM, OLD or young, naked and kneeling before the huge hole in the ground, the bodies burning below as a Nazi officer moved down the row of kneeling prisoners, shooting them in the back of the head.

The burning hole was behind the infirmary in the extermination camp known as Treblinka. Prisoners too sick or too old to work were taken through the white-painted barracks with a red cross painted on it, and into the hole they went. Young Abraham saw many die there, but he himself came close to it only once.

He tried to avoid notice, worked in silence, and kept to himself. Each morning he pricked his finger and smeared a drop of blood on each cheek in order to appear as healthy as possible at roll call.

He first saw the hole while repairing some shelving in the infirmary. At age sixteen, Abraham Setrakian was a yellow patch, a craftsman. He curried no favor; he was no one’s pet, merely a slave with a talent for woodwork that, in a death camp, was a talent for living. He had some value for the Nazi Hauptmann who used him without mercy, without regard, and without end. He raised barbed-wire fences, crafted a library set, repaired the railways. He carved elaborate pipes for the Ukrainian guard captain at Christmastime in ’42.

It was his hands that kept Abraham away from the hole. At dusk he could see its glow, and sometimes from his workshop the smell of flesh and petrol mixed with sawdust. As his fear took hold of his heart, so did the hole take residence there.

To this day, Setrakian still felt it in him, every time fear took hold—whether crossing a dark street, closing his shop at night, or upon waking from the nightmares—the tatters of his memories revived. Himself kneeling, naked, praying. In his dreams he could feel the mouth of the gun pressing against his neck.

Extermination camps had no function other than killing. Treblinka was disguised to look like a train station, with travel posters and timetables, and greenery woven into the barbed wire. He arrived there in September 1942 and spent all of his time working. “Earning his breath,” he called it. He was a quiet man, young but well raised, full of wisdom and compassion. He helped as many prisoners as he could and prayed in silence all the time. Even with the atrocities he witnessed daily, he believed that God was watching over all men.

But one winter night, in the eyes of a dead thing, Abraham saw the devil. And understood the ways of the world to be different from what he’d thought.

It was past midnight and the camp was as quiet as Setrakian ever saw it. The forest murmur had quieted down and the cold air was splitting his bones. He shifted quietly in his bunk and gazed blindly at the darkness surrounding him. And then he heard it—

Pick-pick-pick.

Exactly as his bubbeh had said … it sounded exactly as she’d said … and for some reason that made it all the more frightful …

His breath vanished and he felt in his heart the burning hole. In a corner of the barracks, the darkness moved. A Thing, a towering gaunt figure peeled off from the inky depths and glided over his sleeping comrades.

Pick-pick-pick.

Sardu. Or a Thing that once had been him. Its skin was shriveled and dark, blending with the fold of its dark, loose robes. Much like an animated blotch of ink. The Thing moved effortlessly, a weightless phantom gliding across the floor. Its talonlike toenails scraped the wood ever so softly.

But—it couldn’t be. The world was real—evil was real, and surrounding him all the time—but this could not be real. This was a bubbeh meiseh. A bubbeh—

Pick-pick-pick …

In a matter of seconds, the long-dead Thing reached the bunk across from Setrakian. Abraham could smell it now: dried leaves and earth and mold. He could see hints of its blackened face as it emerged from the bundled darkness of the body—and leaned forward, smelling the neck of Zadawski, a young Pole, a hard worker. The Thing stood the height of the barracks, its head among the beams above, breathing hard and hollowly, excited, hungry. It moved along to the next bunk, where its face was briefly outlined by the light of a nearby window.

The darkened skin became translucent, like a sliver of dry meat against the light. It was all dry and matte—except for its eyes: two gleaming spheres that seemed to glow intermittently, like lumps of burning coal catching a reanimating breath. Its dry lips drew back to reveal mottled gums and two rows of small, yellowed teeth, impossibly sharp.

It paused above the frail form of Ladizlav Zajak, an old man from Grodno, a late arrival sickened with tuberculosis. Setrakian had supported Zajak since his arrival, showing him the ropes and shielding him from scrutiny. His disease alone was reason enough for instant execution—but Setrakian claimed him as his assistant, and kept him away from the SS overseers and Ukrainian guards at critical times. But Zajak was gone now. His lungs were giving out, and, more important, he had lost the will to live: shutting down, seldom speaking, constantly crying in silence. He had become a liability to Setrakian’s survival, but his entreaties no longer inspired the old man—Setrakian hearing him shudder with silent coughing spasms and quietly sobbing until dawn.

But now, towering above him, the Thing observed Zajak. The arrhythmic breathing of the old man seemed to please it. Like the angel of death, it extended its darkness over the man’s frail body and clucked its dry palate eagerly.

What the Thing did then … Setrakian could not see. There was noise, but his ears refused to hear it. This great, gloating Thing bent over the old man’s head and neck. Something about its posture indicated … a feeding. Zajak’s old body twitched and spasmed ever so lightly, but, remarkably, the old man never awoke.

And never did again.

Setrakian muffled a gasp with his hand. And the feeding Thing didn’t seem to mind him. It spent time over the various sick and infirm. By night’s end, three corpses were left behind, and the thing looked flushed—its skin suppler but equally dark.

Setrakian saw the Thing fade away into the darkness and leave. Cautiously, he got up and moved next to the bodies. He looked them over in the faint light, and there was no sign of any trauma—other than a thin slit in the neck. A breach so thin as to be nearly imperceptible. If he hadn’t witnessed the horror himself …

Then it dawned on him. This Thing. It would return again—and soon. This camp was a fertile feeding ground, and it would graze on the unnoticed, the forgotten, the inconsequential. It would feed on them. All of them.

Unless someone rose up to stop it.

Someone.

Him.

MOVEMENT

Coach

Flight 753 survivor Ansel Barbour huddled with his wife, Ann-Marie, and his two children, eight-year-old Benjy and five-year-old Haily, on a blue chintz sofa in the back sunroom of their three-bedroom home in Flatbush, New York. Even Pap and Gertie got into the act, the two big Saint Bernards allowed inside the house for this special occasion, so happy to see him home, their man-size paws leaning on his knees and patting gratefully at his chest.

Ansel had been seated in aisle seat 39G, in coach, returning home from an employer-paid database security training session in Potsdam, southwest of Berlin. He was a computer programmer embarking on a four-month contract with a New Jersey – based retailer following the electronic theft of millions of customers’ credit card numbers. He had never been out of the country before, and had missed his family intensely. Downtime and sightseeing tours were built into the four-day conference, but Ansel never ventured outside his hotel, preferring to remain inside his room with his laptop, talking to the kids via Webcam and playing hearts over the Internet with strangers.

His wife, Ann-Marie, was a superstitious, sheltered woman, and Flight 753’s tragic end only confirmed her closely held fears of air travel and new experiences in general. She did not drive a car. She lived in the grip of dozens of borderline obsessive-compulsive routines, including touching and repetitively cleaning every mirror in the house, which reliably warded off bad luck. Her parents had died in an automobile accident when she was four—she’d survived the crash—and she was raised by an unmarried aunt who passed away just one week before Ann-Marie and Ansel’s wedding. The births of her children had only intensified Ann-Marie’s isolation, amplifying her fears, to the point where she would often go days without leaving the safety of her own house, relying exclusively on Ansel for anything involving a transaction with the outside world.

The news of the crippled airplane had brought her to her knees. Ansel’s subsequent survival revived her with the power of an exultation that she could define only in religious terms, a deliverance confirming and consecrating the absolute necessity of her redundant, life—preserving routines.

Ansel, for his part, was intensely relieved to be back home. Both Ben and Haily tried to pile on top of him, but he had to hold them off due to the lingering pain in his neck. The tightness—his muscles felt like ropes being torturously twisted—was centralized in his throat, but extended past the hinges of his jaw up to his ears. When you twist a rope, it shortens, and that was how his muscles felt. He stretched his neck, hoping for some chiropractic relief—

SNAP … CRACKLE … POP …

—which nearly doubled him over. The pain wasn’t worth the effort.

Later, Ann-Marie walked in on him in the kitchen as he was replacing her economy-size bottle of ibuprofen in the high cabinet over the stove. He popped six at once, the daily recommended dosage—and was barely able to get them down.

Her fearful eyes drained of all cheer. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he said, though he was in too much discomfort to shake his head. But best not to worry her. “Just stiffness from the plane. The way my head hung, probably.”

She remained in the doorway, pulling at her fingers. “Maybe you shouldn’t have left the hospital.”

“And how would you have been able to get by?” he shot back, being shorter with her than he’d planned.

SNAP, CRACKLE, AND POP—

“But what if … what if you have to go back in? What if, this time, they want you to stay?”

It was exhausting, having to dismiss her fears at the expense of his own. “I can’t miss any work as it is. You know we’re right on the edge with our finances.”

They were a one-income household in an America of two-income households. And Ansel couldn’t take a second job, because then who would do the grocery shopping?

She said, “You know I … I couldn’t get along without you.” They never discussed her illness. At least, never in terms of it being an illness. “I need you. We need you.”

Ansel’s shoulder nod was more like a bow, dipping at his waist instead of his neck. “My God, when I think about all those people.” He pictured his seatmates from the long flight. The family with three grown children two rows in front of him. The older couple sitting across the aisle, sleeping most of the way, white-haired heads sharing the same travel pillow. The bleached-blonde flight attendant who dripped diet soda on his lap. “Why me, you know? Is there some reason I survived?”

“There is a reason,” she said, her hands flat against her chest. “Me.”

Later, Ansel took the dogs back out to their backyard shed. The yard was the main reason they’d bought this house: plenty of play room for the kids and the dogs. Ansel had Pap and Gertie before he’d ever met Ann-Marie, and she had fallen in love with them at least as much as she had him. They loved her back, no conditions. As did Ansel, and as did the kids—although Benjy, the older one, was starting to question her eccentricities here and there. Especially when they caused a conflict with an eight-year-old’s schedule of baseball practices and play dates. Already Ansel could sense Ann-Marie pulling back from him a bit. But Pap and Gertie would never challenge her, so long as she kept overfeeding them. He feared for the kids as they grew up, feared that they might outgrow their mother at too early an age, and never truly understand why she might appear to favor the dogs over them.

Inside the old garden shed, a metal fence pole was driven into the center floorboards, with two chains attached to it. Gertie had run off earlier that year, coming back with switch marks all over her back and legs, somebody having taken a whipping stick to her. So they chained up the dogs at night now, for their own protection. Ansel slowly—keeping his neck and head aligned, minimizing discomfort—set down their food and water, then ran his hand over the tufts of their enormous heads as they ate, just making them real, appreciating them for what they were at the end of this lucky day. He went out and closed the door after chaining them to the pole, and stood looking at his house from the back, trying to imagine this world without him in it. Ansel had seen his children weep today, and he had wept with them. His family needed him more than anything.

A sudden, piercing pain in his neck shook him. He grabbed for the corner of the dog shed in order to keep from falling over, and for several moments stood frozen like that, doubled over to one side, shivering and riding out this flaring, knifing pain. It passed finally, leaving him with a seashell-like roaring in one ear. He probed his neck gently with his fingers, too tender to touch. He tried to stretch it, to improve his mobility, tipping his head back as far as he could toward the night sky. Airplane lights up there, stars.

I survived, he thought. The worst is over. This soon will pass.

That night he had a horrifying dream. His children were being chased through the house by some rampaging beast, but when Ansel ran to save them, he found he had monster claws for hands. He woke up with his half of the bed soaked in sweat, and climbed out quickly—only to be gripped by another seizure of pain.

SNAP

His ears, jaw, and throat were fused together by the same taut ache, leaving him unable to swallow.

CRACKLE

The pain of that basic esophageal retraction was nearly crippling.

And then there was the thirst. Like nothing he had ever felt—an urge that would not stop.

When he could move again, he walked across the hall and into the dark kitchen. He opened the fridge and poured himself a tall glass of lemonade, then another, and another … and soon he was drinking straight from the pitcher. But nothing would quench the thirst. Why was he sweating so much?

The stains on his nightshirt had a heavy odor—vaguely musky—and the sweat had an amber tint. So hot in here …

As he placed the pitcher back in the fridge, he spotted a plate with marinating meat. He saw the sinuous strands of blood mixing lazily with oil and vinegar, and his mouth watered. Not at the prospect of grilling it, but at the idea of biting it—of sinking his teeth into it and tearing it and draining it. At the idea of drinking the blood.

POP

He wandered into the main hallway and took a peek at the kids. Benjy was balled up under Scooby-Doo sheets; Haily was snoring softly with her arm dangling off the side of her mattress, reaching for picture books that had fallen there. Seeing them allowed him to relax his shoulders and catch his breath a bit. He stepped out into the backyard to cool off, the night air chilling the dried sweat on his skin. Being home, he felt, being with his family, could cure him of anything. They would help him.

They would provide.

Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, Manhattan

THERE WAS NO BLOOD on the medical examiner who met Eph and Nora. That alone was a strange sight. Normally it ran down their waterproof gowns and stained their plastic sleeves up to the elbows. But not today. The M.E. might as well have been a Beverly Hills gynecologist.

He introduced himself as Gossett Bennett, a brown-skinned man with browner eyes, a purposeful face behind a plastic shield. “We’re just getting under way here,” he said, waving at the tables. The autopsy room was a noisy place. Whereas an operating room is sterile and silent, the morgue is its direct opposite: a bustling space hectic with whining saws, running water, and dictating doctors. “We’ve got eight going from your airplane.”

Bodies lay upon eight guttered tables of cold stainless steel. The airline fatalities were in various stages of autopsy, two of them fully “canoed”: that is, their chests had already been eviscerated, the removed organs laid out on an open plastic bag on their shins, a pathologist paring away samples on a cutting board like a cannibal preparing a platter of human sashimi. The wounded necks had been dissected and the tongues pulled through, the faces folded halfway down like latex masks, exposing the skullcaps, which had been opened with the circular saw. One brain was in the process of being severed from its attachment to the spinal cord, whereupon it would be placed in a formalin solution to harden, the last step of an autopsy. A morgue attendant was standing by with wadding, and a large curved needle threaded with heavy waxed twine, to refill the emptied skull.

A long-handled pair of hardware-store pruning shears was being passed from one table to the next, where another attendant stood on a metal footstool over an open-chested body and began cracking ribs one at a time, so that the entire rib cage and sternum could be lifted out whole. The smell was an absorbing stew of Parmesan cheese, methane, and rotten eggs.

“After you called, I began checking their necks,” said Bennett. “All the bodies so far present the same laceration you spoke of. But no scar. An open wound, as precise and clean as any I’ve ever seen.”

He showed them to an undissected female body laid out on a table. A six-inch metal block beneath her neck made her head fall back, arching her chest, extending her neck. Eph probed the skin over the woman’s throat with his gloved fingers.

He noticed the faint line—as thin as a paper cut—and gently parted the wound. He was shocked by its neatness as well as its apparent depth. Eph released her skin, and the breach closed lazily, like a sleepy eyelid or a timid smile.

“What could have caused this?” he asked.

“Nothing in nature, not that I know of,” said Bennett. “Notice the scalpel-like precision. Almost calibrated, you might say, both in aim and length. And yet—the edges are rounded, which is to say, almost organic in appearance.”

“How deep?” asked Nora.

“A clean breach, straight in, puncturing the wall of the common carotid, but stopping there. Not going out the other side, not rupturing the artery.”

“In every case?” gasped Nora.

“Every one I’ve looked at so far. Every body bears the laceration, though if you hadn’t alerted me, I have to admit I might not have noticed it. Especially with everything else going on with these bodies.”

“What else?”

“We’ll get there in a moment. Each laceration is on the neck, either front or side. Excluding one female who had hers on the chest, high above her heart. And one male we had to search, and eventually found the breach on the upper inside thigh, over the femoral artery. Each wound perforated skin and muscle, ending exactly inside a major artery.”

“A needle?” ventured Eph.

“But finer than that. I … I need to do more research into it, we’re just at the beginning here. And there’s plenty of other freaky shit going down. You’re aware of this, I assume?” Bennett led them to the door of a walk-in refrigerator. Inside, it was wider than a two-car garage. There were fifty or so gurneys, most containing a crash bag unzipped down to the corpse’s chest. A handful were fully unzipped, those bodies nude—having already been weighed, measured, and photographed—and ready for the autopsy table. There were also eight or so corpses unrelated to Flight 753, lying on bare gurneys without crash bags, bearing standard yellow toe tags.

Refrigeration slows decomposition, in the same way it preserves fruits and vegetables and delays cold cuts from spoiling. But the airplane bodies hadn’t spoiled at all. Thirty-six hours out, and they looked nearly as fresh as when Eph had first boarded the plane. As opposed to the yellow-tagged corpses, which were bloating, effluvium oozing from every orifice like a black purge, flesh going dark green and leatherlike from evaporation.

“These are some pretty good-looking dead people,” said Bennett.

Eph felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature in the cooler. He and Nora both waded in, three rows deep. The bodies looked—not healthy, for they were shrunken and bloodlessly wan—but not long dead. They bore the characteristic mask of the deceased, but it was as though they had just passed over, not thirty minutes ago.

They followed Bennett back out into the autopsy room, to the same female corpse—a woman in her early forties with no distinguishing marks other than a decade-old Cesarean scar below the bikini line—being prepped for incision. But instead of a scalpel, Bennett reached for a tool never used inside a morgue. A stethoscope.

“I noticed this earlier,” he said, offering the scope to Eph. Eph put in the ear plugs, and Bennett called for everyone else in the room to stop, for silence. A pathology assistant rushed around turning off the running water.

Bennett laid the acoustic end of the stethoscope against the corpse’s chest, just below her sternum. Eph listened with trepidation, afraid of what he was to hear. But he heard nothing. He looked at Bennett again, who showed no expression, waiting. Eph closed his eyes and focused.

Faint. Very faint. A squirming sound, almost like that of something wriggling in mud. A slow sound, so maddeningly slight he couldn’t be altogether certain he wasn’t imagining it.

He gave the scope to Nora to have a listen.

“Maggots?” she said, straightening.

Bennett shook his head. “In fact there is no infestation at all, accounting in part for the lack of decay. But there are some other intriguing abnormalities …”

Bennett waved everyone else to return to their work, selecting, from a side tray, a big number 6 blade scalpel. But instead of starting in on the chest with the usual Y-shaped incision, he took a large-mouthed stock jar from the enameled counter and placed it beneath the corpse’s left hand. He drew the scalpel blade abruptly across the underside of the wrist, slicing it open like the rind of an orange.

A pale, opalescent liquid sprayed at first, some of it spurting out onto his gloves and his hip on the initial cut, then sluicing steadily out of the arm, singing into the bottom of the jar. Flowing fast, but then, lacking any circulatory pressure from its stilled heart, losing force after about three ounces or so. Bennett lowered the arm to draw out more.

Eph’s shock at the callousness of the cut was quickly overcome by his amazement at the sight of the flow. This couldn’t be blood. Blood settles and congeals after death. It doesn’t drain out like engine oil.

Nor does it turn white. Bennett returned the arm to the corpse’s side and held up the jar for Eph to see.

Lieutenant—the corpses—they’re …

“At first I thought maybe the proteins were separating, the way oil sits on top of water,” Bennett said. “But it’s not quite that either.”

The issue was pasty white, almost as though sour milk had been introduced into the bloodstream.

Lieutenant … oh, Jesus—

Eph could not believe what he was seeing.

Nora said, “They’re all like this?”

Bennett nodded. “Exsanguinated. They have no blood.”

Eph eyed the white matter in the jar, and his taste for whole milk turned his stomach.

Bennett said, “I’ve got some other things. Core temperature is elevated. Somehow these bodies are still generating heat. Additionally, we’ve found dark spots on some organs. Not necrosis, but almost more like … like bruising.”

Bennett set the jar of opalescent fluid back down on the counter and called over a pathology assistant. She brought with her an opaque plastic tub of the same sort that take-out soup comes in. She peeled off the top and Bennett reached inside, removing an organ, setting it on a cutting board like a small, fresh-from-the-butcher roast. It was an undissected human heart. He pointed a gloved finger at where it would have joined the arteries. “See the valves? Almost as if they have grown open. Now, they couldn’t have operated like this in life. Not closing and opening and pumping blood. So this can’t have been congenital.”

Eph was aghast. This abnormality was a fatal defect. As every anatomist knows, people look just as different on the inside as they do on the outside. But no human being could conceivably have survived to adulthood with this heart.

Nora asked, “Do you have medical records for the patient? Anything we can check this against?”

“Nothing yet. Probably not until morning. But it’s made me slow this process down. Way down. I’m stopping in a little while, shutting down for the night so I can get some more support in here tomorrow. I want to check every little thing. Such as—this.”

Bennett walked them down to a fully anatomized body, that of a midweight adult male. His neck had been dissected back to the throat, exposing the larynx and trachea, so that the vocal folds, or vocal cords, were visible just above the larynx.

Bennett said, “See the vestibular folds?”

They were also known as “false vocal cords”: thick mucous membranes whose only function is to sit above and protect the true vocal folds. They are a true anatomical oddity in that they can regenerate themselves completely, even after surgical removal.

Eph and Nora leaned in closer. Both saw the outgrowth from the vestibular folds, a pinkish, fleshy protuberance—not disruptive or malformed like a tumorous mass, but branching from and within the inner throat, below the tongue. A novel, seemingly spontaneous augmentation of the soft lower mandible.

They scrubbed up outside, more diligently than usual. Both were deeply shaken by what they had seen inside the morgue.

Eph spoke first. “I’m wondering when things are going to start making sense again.” He dried his hands completely, feeling the open air against his gloveless hands. Then he felt his own neck, over the throat, approximately where the incisions were all located. “A straight, deep puncture wound in the neck. And a virus that slows antemortem decomposition on the one hand, yet apparently causes spontaneous antemortem tissue growth on the other?”

Nora said, “This is something new.”

“Or—something very, very old.”

They started out the delivery door, to Eph’s illegally parked Explorer, his EMERGENCY BLOOD DELIVERY pass on the dash. The last streaks of daytime warmth were leaving the sky. Nora said, “We need to check out the other morgues, see if they are finding the same deviations.”

The alarm went off on Eph’s cell phone. A text message from Zack:

whre R U ???? Z

“Shit,” said Eph. “I forgot … the custody hearing …”

“Now?” Nora said, before catching herself. “Okay. You go. I’ll meet you after—”

“No, I’ll call them—it will be fine.” He looked around, feeling himself splitting in two. “We need to take another look at the pilot. Why did his puncture close up, but not the others’? We need to get on top of the physiopathology of this thing.”

“And the other survivors.”

Eph frowned, reminded that they were gone. “It’s not like Jim to screw up like that.”

Nora wanted to defend Jim. “If they’re getting sick, they’ll come back.”

“Only—it might be too late. For them, and for us.”

“What do you mean, for us?”

“To get to the bottom of this thing. There’s got to be an answer somewhere, an explanation. A rationale. Something impossible is happening, and we need to find out why and stop it.”

Up on the sidewalk at the main entrance on First Street, news crews were set up for live remotes from the medical examiner’s office. That attracted a sizable crowd of onlookers, whose nervousness was palpable from around the corner. Lots of uncertainty in the air.

But one man broke from the crowd, a man Eph had noticed on the way in. An old man with birch white hair, holding a walking stick that was too tall for him, gripping it, like a staff, below its high silver handle. Like a dinner-theater Moses, except that he was impeccably dressed, formal and old-fashioned, in a light black overcoat over a gabardine suit, with a gold watch chain looped on his vest. And—oddly for the otherwise distinguished wardrobe—gray wool gloves with the fingertips cut off.

“Dr. Goodweather?”

The old man knew his name. Eph gave him another look, and said, “Do I know you?”

The man spoke with an accent, maybe Slavic. “I saw you on the box. The TV. I knew you would have to come here.”

“You’ve been waiting here for me?”

“What I have to say, Doctor, it is very important. Critical.”

Eph was distracted by the handle on top of the old man’s tall walking stick: a silver wolf’s head. “Well, not now … call my office, make an appointment …” He moved away, dialing rapidly on his cell phone.

The old man appeared anxious, an agitated man striving to speak calmly. He put on his best gentlemanly smile, including Nora in his introduction. “Abraham Setrakian is my name. Which should mean nothing to you.” He gestured, with his walking stick, at the morgue. “You saw them in there. The passengers from the airplane.”

Nora said, “You know something about that?”

“Indeed,” he said, sending a grateful smile her way. Setrakian glanced at the morgue again, like a man who, having waited so long to speak, was uncertain where to start. “You found them not much changed in there, no?”

Eph turned off his cell phone before it rang through. The old man’s words echoed his own irrational fears. “Not changed how?” he said.

“The dead. Bodies not breaking down.”

Eph said, more out of concern than intrigue, “So that is what people are hearing out here?”

“No one had to tell me anything, Doctor. I know.”

“You ‘know,’” said Eph.

“Tell us,” said Nora. “What else do you know?”

The old man cleared his throat. “Have you found a … coffin?”

Eph felt Nora rise up almost three inches off the sidewalk. Eph said, “What did you say?”

“A coffin. If you have it, then you still have him.”

Nora said, “Him who?”

“Destroy it. Right away. Do not keep it for study. You must destroy the coffin, without delay.”

Nora shook her head. “It’s gone,” she said. “We don’t know where it is.”

Setrakian swallowed with bitter disappointment. “It is as I feared.”

“Why destroy it?” asked Nora.

Eph cut in then, saying to Nora, “If this kind of talk is getting around, people will panic.” He looked at the old man. “Who are you? How did you hear these things?”

“I am a pawnbroker. I heard nothing. These things I know.”

“You know?” said Nora. “How do you know?”

“Please.” He focused on Nora now, the more receptive one. “What I am about to say, I do not say lightly. I say it desperately and with utter honesty. Those bodies in there?” He pointed at the morgue. “I tell you, before this night falls, they must be destroyed.”

“Destroyed?” said Nora, reacting negatively to him for the first time. “Why?”

“I recommend incineration. Cremation. It is simple and sure.”

“That’s him,” came a voice from the side doors, a morgue official leading a uniformed New York City patrolman toward them. Toward Setrakian.

The old man ignored them, speaking faster now. “Please. It is almost too late.”

“Right there,” said the morgue official, marching over, pointing out Setrakian to the cop. “That’s the guy.”

The cop, amiable and bored, said to Setrakian, “Sir?”

Setrakian ignored him, pleading his case directly to Nora and Eph. “A truce has been broken. An ancient, sacred pact. By a man who is no longer a man, but an abomination. A walking, devouring abomination.”

“Sir,” said the cop. “May I have a word with you, sir?”

Setrakian reached out and grasped Eph’s wrist, to command his attention. “He is here now, here in the New World, this city, this very day. This night. Do you understand? He must be stopped.”

The wool-covered fingers of the old man’s hand were gnarled, clawlike. Eph pulled away from him, not roughly but enough to jostle the old man backward. His walking stick whacked the cop on the shoulder, almost in the face—and suddenly the cop’s disinterest turned to anger.

“Okay, that’s it,” said the cop, twisting the walking stick out of his hands and bracing the old man’s arm. “Let’s go.”

“You must stop him here,” Setrakian continued, being led away.

Nora turned to the morgue official. “What’s this about? What are you doing?”

The official glanced at the laminated identification cards hanging from their necks—the red letters reading CDC—before answering. “He tried to get inside earlier, claiming to be a family member. Insisting on viewing the dead bodies.” The official looked at him being taken away. “Some kind of ghoul.”

The old man continued to plead his case. “Ultraviolet light,” he called over his shoulder. “Go over the bodies with ultraviolet light …”

Eph froze. Had he just heard that?

“Then you will see I am right,” yelled the old man, being folded into the backseat of a cruiser. “Destroy them. Now. Before it is too late …”

Eph watched them slam the door on the old man, the cop climbing behind the wheel and pulling away.

Excess Baggage

EPH’S CALL RANG through forty minutes late to his, Kelly’s, and Zack’s fifty-minute session with Dr. Inga Kempner, their court-appointed family therapist. He was relieved not to be sitting inside her first-floor office in a prewar brownstone in Astoria, the place where the final custody issues were to be decided.

Eph pled his case through the doctor’s speakerphone. “Let me explain—I’ve been dealing all weekend with the most extreme of circumstances. This dead-airplane situation out at Kennedy. It couldn’t be helped.”

Dr. Kempner said, “This isn’t the first time you’ve failed to present yourself at an appointment.”

“Where’s Zack?” he said.

“Out in the waiting area,” said Dr. Kempner.

She and Kelly had been talking without him. Things had already been decided. It was all over before it had even begun.

“Look, Dr. Kempner—all I ask is that you reschedule our appointment …”

“Dr. Goodweather, I am afraid that—”

“No—wait—please, hold on.” He cut right to it. “Look, am I the perfect father? No, I’m not. I admit that. Points for honesty, right? In fact, I’m not even sure I’d want to be the ‘perfect’ father, and raise some plain vanilla kid who’s not going to make a difference in this world. But I do know that I want to be the best father I can be. Because that is what Zack deserves. And that is my only goal right now.”

“All appearances to the contrary,” said Dr. Kempner.

Eph gave his phone the finger. Nora stood just a few feet away. He felt angry, yet strangely exposed and vulnerable.

“Listen to me,” said Eph, fighting hard to keep his cool. “I know that you know I have rearranged my life around this situation, around Zack. I established this office in New York City specifically so that I could be here, near his mother, so that he would have the benefit of us both. I—usually—have very regular hours during the week, a dependable schedule, with established off-call times. I’m working doubles on weekends in order to have two off for every one I’m on.”

“Did you attend an AA meeting this weekend?”

Eph grew silent. All the air went out of his tires. “Were you even listening?”

“Have you felt the need to drink?”

“No,” he grunted, making a supreme effort to keep his cool. “I’ve been sober twenty-three months, you know that.”

Dr. Kempner said, “Dr. Goodweather, this isn’t a question of who loves your son more. It never is, in these situations. Wonderful, that you both care so much, so deeply. Your dedication to Zack is plainly evident. But, as is so often the case, there seems to be no way to prevent this from turning into a contest. The state of New York issues guidelines I must follow in my recommendation to the judge.”

Eph swallowed bitterly. He tried to interrupt, but she kept on talking.

“You’ve resisted the court’s original custodial inclination, you’ve fought it every step of the way. And I consider that a measure of your affection for Zachary. You have also made great personal strides, and that is both evident and admirable. But now we find that you have reached your court of last resort, if you will. In the formulas we use for arbitrating custody. Visitation rights, of course, have never been in question …”

“No, no, no,” murmured Eph, like a man about to be rammed by an oncoming car. It was this same sinking feeling he’d had all weekend. He tried reaching back—to he and Zack sitting in his apartment, eating Chinese food and playing video games. The entire weekend stretched out before them. What a glorious feeling that had been.

“My point, Dr. Goodweather,” said Dr. Kempner, “is that I can’t see much purpose in going any further.”

Eph turned to Nora, who looked up at him, understanding in an instant what he was going through.

“You can tell me it’s over,” Eph whispered into the phone. “But it’s not over, Dr. Kempner. It never will be.” And with that, he hung up.

He turned away, knowing Nora would respect him in this moment and not try to approach. And for that he was grateful, because there were tears in his eyes that he did not want her to see.

THE FIRST NIGHT

Just a few hours later, inside the basement morgue of the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in Manhattan, Dr. Bennett was finishing up after a very long day. He should have been exhausted, but in fact he was exhilarated. Something extraordinary was happening. It was as though the normally reliable rules of death and decomposition were being rewritten, right in this room. This shit went beyond established medicine, beyond human biology itself … perhaps even into the realm of the miraculous.

As planned, he had halted all autopsies for the night. Some work continued on other matters, the medico-legal investigators operating out of the cubicles upstairs, but the morgue was Bennett’s. He had noticed something during the CDC doctors’ visit, something about the blood sample he had drawn, the opalescent fluid he had collected in a specimen jar. He had stored it in the back of one of the specimen coolers, stashing it behind some glassware like the last good dessert inside a community refrigerator.

He unscrewed the cap and looked at it now, seated on a stool at the examination counter near the sink. After a few moments, the surface of the six or so ounces of white blood rippled, and Bennett shivered. He took a deep breath in order to collect himself. He thought about what to do, and then pulled an identical jar down from the shelf above. He filled it with the same amount of water and set the jars down side by side. He needed to make certain that the disturbance was not the result of vibrations from a passing truck or some such.

He watched and waited.

There it was again. The viscous white fluid rippled—he saw it—while the considerably less dense water surface did not undulate at all.

Something was moving inside the blood sample.

Bennett thought for a moment. He poured the water down the sink drain, and then slowly poured the oily blood from one jar into the other. The fluid was syrupy and poured slowly but neatly. He saw nothing pass through the thin stream. The bottom of the first jar remained lightly coated with the white blood, but he saw nothing there.

He set the new jar down, and again he watched and waited.

He did not have to watch very long. The surface undulated and Bennett nearly leaped out of his stool.

He heard a noise behind him then, a scratching or a rustling sound. He turned, made jumpy by his discovery. Overhead lamps shone down on the empty stainless-steel tables behind him, every surface wiped down, the floor drains mopped clean. The Flight 753 victims locked away inside the walk-in cooler across the morgue.

Rats, maybe. There was nothing they could do to keep the vermin out of the building—and they had tried everything. In the walls. Or beneath the floor drains. He listened for a moment longer, then returned to the jar.

He poured the liquid from jar to jar again, this time stopping halfway. The amounts in each jar were roughly even. He set them underneath the overhead lamp and watched the milky surface for a sign of life.

There it was. In the first jar. A plip this time, almost like that of a small fish nibbling at the surface of a cloudy pond.

Bennett watched the other jar until he was satisfied, and then poured its contents down the drain. He then started over, again dividing the contents between the two glass vessels.

A siren in the street outside made him sit up. It passed, and in what should have been the ensuing silence, he heard sounds again. Movement-type sounds, behind him. Again he turned, feeling equal parts paranoid and foolish now. The room was empty, the morgue sterilized and still.

Yet … something was making that noise. He stood from his stool, silently, turning his head this way and that in order to get a fix on its source.

His divining directed his attention to the steel door of the walk-in refrigerator. He took a few steps toward it, all his senses attuned.

A rustling. A stirring. As though from inside. He had spent more than enough time down here not to be spooked by the mere proximity to the dead … but then he remembered the antemortem growth these corpses had exhibited. Clearly, these anxieties had prompted him to revert to the usual human taboos regarding the dead. Everything about his job flew in the face of normal human instinct. Cutting open corpses. Defiling cadavers, peeling faces back from skulls. Excising organs and flaying genitals. He smiled at himself in the empty room. So he was basically normal after all.

His mind playing tricks on him. Probably a glitch in the cooling fans or something. There was a safety switch inside the cooler, a big red button, in the event anyone ever got himself stuck in there accidentally.

He turned back to the jars. Watching them, waiting for more movement. He was wishing he had brought his laptop down in order to record his thoughts and impressions.

Plip.

He had been ready for it this time, his heart leaping but his body staying put. Still in the first jar. He poured out the other one and split the fluid a third time, approximately one ounce in each.

As he did this, he thought he saw something ride the spill from the first jar to the second. Something very thin, no more than an inch and a half in length—if indeed he saw what he thought he saw …

A worm. A fluke. Was this a parasitic disease? There were various examples of parasites reshaping hosts in order to serve their own reproductive aspects. Was this the explanation for the bizarre after-death changes he had seen on the autopsy table?

He held up the jar in question, swishing around the thinning white fluid underneath the lamplight. He eyed the contents carefully, closely … and yes … not once but twice, something slithered inside. Wriggled. Wire thin and as white as its surroundings, moving very fast.

Bennett had to isolate it. Dip it in formalin, and then study it, and identify it. If he had this one, he had dozens, maybe hundreds, maybe … who knows how many, circulating inside the other bodies in the—

A sharp bang from the cooler shocked him, made him jerk up, jostling the jar from his hand. It fell to the counter, but did not shatter—bouncing instead, clattering into the sink, spilling and splattering its contents. Bennett let loose a string of obscenities, searching the stainless-steel basin for the worm. Then he felt warmth on the back of his left hand. Some of the white blood had spattered on him, and was now stinging his flesh. Not burning, but mildly caustic, enough to hurt. He quickly ran cold water over it and wiped it off on his lab coat before it could damage his skin.

He whirled around then, facing the cooler. The bang he had heard was certainly no electrical malfunction, but more like a wheeled stretcher banging into another wheeled stretcher. Impossible … and his ire rose again. His worm had just gone down the drain. He would get another blood sample, and isolate this parasite. This discovery was his.

Still wiping his hand on the flap of his jacket, he went to the door and pulled on the handle, releasing the chamber’s seal. A hiss of stale, refrigerated air breathed over him as the door opened wide.

Joan Luss, after having released herself and the others from the isolation ward, hired a car to take her straight to the weekend home in New Canaan, Connecticut, of one of the founding partners of her law firm. She’d had the driver pull over twice so she could retch out the window. A combination of flu and nerves. But no matter. She was victim class and advocate now. Aggrieved party and crusading counselor. Fighting for restitution for the families of the dead and for the four fortunate survivors. The white-shoe firm of Camins, Peters, and Lilly could be looking at 40 percent of the largest corporate-claim payout ever, bigger than Vioxx, bigger even than WorldCom.

Joan Luss, partner.

You think you’re doing all right in Bronxville until you drive out into New Canaan. Bronxville, Joan’s home, is a leafy village in Westchester County, fifteen miles north of midtown Manhattan, twenty-eight minutes by Metro-North train. Roger Luss worked in international finance for Clume and Fairstein, and traveled out of the country most weeks. Joan had traveled quite a bit, but had to pull back after the children were born, because it didn’t look good. But she missed it, and had thoroughly enjoyed her previous week in Berlin, at the Ritz-Carlton on the Potsdamer Platz. She and Roger, having grown so accustomed to hotel living, had emulated that very lifestyle in their home, with heated bathroom floors, a downstairs steam room, twice-weekly fresh flower deliveries, seven-day-a-week landscaping, and of course their housekeeper and laundress. Everything but turn-down service and a sweet on their pillows at night.

Buying into Bronxville several years before, with its lack of new construction and forbiddingly high tax rate, had been a big step up for them. But now, having had a taste of New Canaan—where lead partner Dory Camins lived like a feudal lord on a three-house estate complete with a fishing pond, horse stables, and an equestrian track—Bronxville, on her way back, had struck her as quaint, provincial, even a little … tired.

Now home, she had just awakened after suffering through a tremulous late-afternoon nap. Roger was still in Singapore, and she kept hearing noises in the house, noises that finally scared her awake. Restless anxiety. She attributed it to the meeting, perhaps the biggest meeting of her life.

Joan emerged from her study, holding the wall on her way downstairs, coming into the kitchen as Neeva, the children’s wonderful nanny, was clearing away the dinner mess, running a damp cloth over the table crumbs. “Oh, Neeva, I could have done that,” said Joan, not meaning a word of it, walking right to the tall glass cabinet where she kept their medicine. Neeva was a Haitian grandmother who lived in Yonkers, one town over. She was sixty-something, but looked basically ageless, always wearing a long ankle-length floral dress and comfortable Converse sneakers. Neeva was a much-needed calming influence in the Luss home. They were a busy bunch, what with Roger’s traveling and Joan’s long hours in the city and the children’s school and programs in between, everyone going in sixteen different directions. Neeva was the family rudder, and Joan’s secret weapon in keeping the household running right.

“Joan, you don’t look so good.”

“Joan” and “don’t” came out sounding like “Jon” and “don” in Neeva’s island lilt.

“Oh, I’m just a little run-down.” She popped some Motrin and two Flexerils and sat down at the kitchen island, opening House Beautiful.

“You should eat,” said Neeva.

“Hurts to swallow,” said Joan.

“Soup, then,” decreed Neeva, and set about getting it for her.

Neeva was a mother figure for all of them, not just the children. And why shouldn’t Joan have some mothering too? God knows, her real mother—twice divorced, living in an apartment in Hialeah, Florida—wasn’t up to the task. And the best part? When Neeva’s doting ways became too annoying, Joan could simply send her away on an errand with the kiddies. Best. Arrangement. Ever.

“I hear about that air-o-plane.” Neeva looked back at Joan from the can opener. “No good. An evil thing.”

Joan smiled at Neeva and her adorable little tropical superstitions—the smile cut abruptly short by a sharp pain in her jaw.

While the soup bowl rotated in the whirring microwave, Neeva came back to look at Joan, laying her roughened brown hand against Joan’s forehead, exploring the glandular region of Joan’s neck with gray-nailed fingers. Joan pulled back in pain.

“Swollen bad,” Neeva said.

Joan closed the magazine. “Maybe I should go back to bed.”

Neeva stood back, looking at her strangely. “You should go back to hospital.”

Joan would have laughed if she knew it wouldn’t hurt. Back to Queens? “Trust me, Neeva. I am much better off here in your hands. Besides—take it from one who knows. That whole hospital thing was an insurance ploy on the airline’s behalf. All for their benefit—not mine.”

As she rubbed her sore, swollen neck, Joan envisioned the impending lawsuit, and once again her spirits soared. She glanced around the kitchen. Funny how a house she had spent so much time and money redecorating and re-renovating could appear so suddenly … shabby.

Camins, Peters, Lilly … and Luss.

The children entered the kitchen then, Keene and Audrey, whining about some toy-related incident. Their voices worked their way inside Joan’s head such that she was seized by a commanding urge to backhand them each hard enough to send them flying halfway across the kitchen. But she managed to do what she always did, channeling her aggression toward her children into false enthusiasm, thrown up like a wall around her angry self. She closed the magazine and raised her voice in order to silence theirs.

“How would you each like a pony, and your very own pond?”

She believed it was her generous bribe that had silenced the children, but it was in fact her smile, gargoylelike and glaring, baring an expression of utter hatred, that frightened them into stillness.

For Joan, the momentary silence was bliss.

The 911 call came in for a naked man at the Queens-Midtown Tunnel exits. The dispatch went out as a 10–50, a low-priority disorderly person call. A unit from the 1–7 arrived within eight minutes, and found a bad jam-up, worse than usual for a Sunday night. A few drivers honked and pointed them uptown. The suspect, they yelled, a fat guy wearing nothing but a red tag on his toe, had already moved on.

“I got kids here!” howled one guy in a dinged-up Dodge Caravan.

Officer Karn, the driver, said to his partner, Officer Lupo, “I’m gonna say Park Avenue type. Sex club regular. Took too much X before his weekend kink session.”

Officer Lupo unbuckled and opened his door. “I’m on traffic duty. Loverboy’s all yours.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Officer Karn to the slamming of the door. He lit up his rack and waited patiently—he wasn’t paid extra to rush—for the traffic snarl to part for him.

He cruised up past Thirty-eighth, eyeballing cross streets. A fat naked guy on the loose shouldn’t be too hard to find. People on the sidewalks seemed okay, not freaked. One helpful citizen smoking outside a bar saw the slow-rolling cruiser and stepped forward, pointing him up the street.

A second and third call came in, both for a naked man marauding outside the United Nations headquarters. Officer Karn hit the gas, looking to end this. He cruised past the lit-up flags of all the member nations flying out front, to the visitors’ entrance at the north end. Blue NYPD sawhorses everywhere, as well as car-bomb deterring cement planters.

Karn rolled up on a detail of bored cops near the sawhorses. “I’m looking for a fat naked man.”

One cop shrugged. “I could give you a few phone numbers.”

Gabriel Bolivar returned by limousine to his new home in Manhattan, two town houses undergoing extensive renovations on Vestry Street, in Tribeca. When finished, the home would encompass thirty-one rooms and fourteen thousand total square feet, including a mosaic-lined swimming pool, servants’ quarters for a staff of sixteen, a basement recording studio, and a twenty-six-seat movie theater.

Only the penthouse was finished and furnished, rushed into completion while Bolivar was away on his European tour. The rest of the rooms in the lower floors were roughed out, some of them plastered, others still dressed in plastic wrap and insulation. Sawdust had worked its way onto every surface and into every crevice. Bolivar’s business manager had briefed him on the developments, but Bolivar wasn’t much interested in the journey, only the destination of his soon-to-be lavish and decadent palace.

The “Jesus Wept” tour had ended on a down note. The promoters had had to work hard to fill the arenas so that Bolivar could truthfully claim to have played to sold-out audiences everywhere—but he had. Then the tour charter crapped out in Germany, and rather than wait behind with the others, Bolivar had consented to hop a commercial flight home. He was still feeling the aftereffects of that big mistake. In fact, it was getting worse.

He moved inside the front entrance with his security detail and three young ladies from the club. A few of his larger treasures had been moved in, including twin black marble panthers poised on either side of the twenty-foot-high foyer. Two blue industrial-waste drums said to have belonged to Jeffrey Dahmer and several rows of framed paintings: Mark Ryden, Robert Williams, Chet Zar—big, expensive stuff. The loose light switch on the wall activated a string of construction lights winding up the marble staircase, beyond a great, winged, weeping angel of uncertain provenance, having been “rescued” from a Romanian church during the Ceauşescu regime.

“He’s beautiful,” said one of the girls, looking up into the angel’s shadowed, time-worn features.

Bolivar stumbled near the great angel, seized by a pain in his gut that was more than a cramp, that was like a punch from an adjoining organ. He gripped the angel’s wing to steady himself, and the girls converged on him.

“Baby,” they cooed, helping him to stand, and he tried to shake off the pain. Had someone slipped him something at the club? It had happened before. Christ, girls had drugged him before, so desperate were they to have their way with Gabriel Bolivar—to get the legend underneath the makeup. He pushed the three of them away, waving off his bodyguards as well, standing erect despite the ache. His detail remained below while he used his silver-encrusted walking stick to shoo the girls up the curling flights of blue-veined white marble to the penthouse.

He left the girls to mix themselves more drinks and fix themselves up in the other bathroom. Bolivar locked himself inside the master bath and dug out his Vicodin stash and self-medicated with two pretty white pills chased with a gulp of scotch. He rubbed his neck, massaging the rawness of his throat, worried about his voice. He wanted to run water through the raven’s-head faucet and splash some on his face to cool down, but he still had his makeup on. Nobody would know him in the clubs without it. He stared at the sickly pallor it gave him, the gaunt shadowing of his cheeks, the dead black pupils of his contact lenses. He was in fact a beautiful man, and no amount of makeup could hide it, and this, he knew, was part of the secret of his success. His entire career consisted of taking beauty and corrupting it. Seducing the ear with moments of transcendent music only to subvert it with gothic screams and industrial distortion. That was what the young responded to. Defacing beauty. Subverting good.

Beautiful Corruption. Possible title for his next CD.

The Lurid Urge had moved 600,000 copies in the first week of its U.S. release. Huge for the post-mp3 era, but still down almost a full half million units from Lavish Atrocities. People were becoming inured to his antics, both onstage and off. He was no longer the anti—everything Wal-Mart had loved to ban and religious America—including his own father—had sworn to oppose. Funny how his father was in agreement with Wal-Mart, proving his thesis about how dull everything was. Nonetheless, with the exception of the religious right, it was getting difficult to shock people anymore. His career was hitting a wall and he knew it. Bolivar was not exactly considering a switch to coffeehouse folk—though that would indeed shock the world—but the theatrical autopsies and onstage biting and cutting were no longer fresh. They were anticipated, like encores. He was playing to his audience instead of playing against them. He had to run ahead of them, because if they ever caught up, he’d be trampled.

But hadn’t he taken his act as far as he could? Where could it possibly go from here?

He heard the voices again. Like an unrehearsed chorus, voices in pain, pain that echoed his own. He spun around in the bathroom to make certain he was alone. He shook his head hard. The sound was like that when you put seashells to your ears, only, instead of hearing an echo of the ocean, he heard the moaning of souls in limbo.

When he came out of the bathroom, Mindy and Sherry were kissing, and Cleo lay on the big bed with a drink in hand, smiling at the ceiling. All of them started when he appeared, and turned in anticipation of his advance. He crawled up onto the bed, his gut doing kayak rolls, thinking that this was just what he needed. A vigorous pipe cleaning to clear the system. Blonde Mindy came at him first, running her fingers through his silky black hair, but Bolivar chose Cleo, something about her, running his pale hand over the brown flesh of her neck. She removed her top for easier access and slipped her own hands down over the fine leather sheathing his hips.

She said, “I’ve been a fan of yours ever since—”

“Shhhh,” he told her, hoping to cut through the usual acolyte’s back-and-forth. The Vikes must have acted on the voices in his head, because they had dulled to a thrumming noise, almost like an electrical current, but with some throbbing mixed in.

The other two crawled up around him now, their hands like crabs, touching him, exploring him. Starting to peel off his clothes to reveal the man beneath. Mindy again ran her fingers through his hair, and he pulled away, as if there was something clumsy in her touch. Sherry squealed playfully, undoing the buttons of his fly. He knew the whispers that went around about him, from conquest to conquest, about his prodigious size and skill. She slid her hand across his leather pants and over his crotch, and while there was no groan of disappointment, there was no gasp of astonishment either. Nothing doing down there yet. Which was baffling, even given his illness. He had proven himself in much more adverse conditions, over and over and over again.

He returned his focus to the girl Cleo’s shoulders, her neck, her throat. Lovely—but it was more than that. He felt a bucking sensation in his mouth. Not a sensation of nausea, but perhaps its opposite: a need somewhere on the continuum between the longing for sex and the necessity of nourishment. But—bigger. A compulsion. A craving. An urge to violate, to ravish, to consume.

Mindy nibbled on his neck, and Bolivar turned on her finally, pushing her back down against the sheets—first in a fury, but then with a forced tenderness. He eased back her jaw, extending her neck, running his warm fingers over her fine, firm throat. He felt the strength of her young muscles inside—and he wanted them. More than he wanted her breasts, her ass, her loins. The thrumming that obsessed him was coming from her.

He brought his mouth to her throat. He tried with his lips, kissing, but that didn’t quite do it. He tried nibbling on her, and the instinct seemed correct but the method … something about it was all wrong.

He wanted—somehow—more.

The thrumming vibrated throughout his own body now, his skin like that of a drum being pounded in an ancient ceremony. The bed was twirling a bit and his neck and thorax were bucking with need and repulsion. He went away for a little while, mentally. Like the amnesia of great sex, only, when he came back, it was to a woman’s squealing. He had the girl’s neck in his hands and was sucking on it with an intensity that went beyond the realm of the teenage hickey. He was drawing her blood to the surface of her skin, and she was screaming and the other two half-naked girls were trying to pull her away from him.

Bolivar straightened, first chastened by the sight of the florid bruising along her throat—then, remembering his stature as the maypole of this foursome, he asserted his authority.

“Get out!” he railed, and they did, clothes clutched to their bodies, the blonde Mindy whimpering and sniffling all the way down the stairs.

Bolivar staggered off the bed and back into his bathroom and his makeup case. He sat down on the leather stool and went through his nightly ministrations. The makeup came off—he knew this because he saw it on the tissues—and yet his flesh looked much the same in the mirror. He rubbed harder, scraping at his cheeks with his fingernail, but nothing more came off. Had the makeup adhered to his skin? Or was he this sick, this gaunt?

He ripped off his shirt and examined himself: white as marble and crisscrossed with greenish veins and purplish blotches of settled blood.

He went to his contact lenses, carefully pinching out the cosmetic gels and depositing them in the fluid baths of their holding cases. He blinked a few times in relief, swiping at his eyes with his fingers, then feeling something weird. He leaned closer to the glass, blinking, examining his own eyes.

The pupils were dead black. Almost as though he still had the lenses in, only more textured now—more real. And—when he blinked, he noticed further activity within the eye. He got right up against the mirror, eyes wide now, almost afraid to close them.

A nictitating membrane had formed underneath his eyelid, a translucent second eyelid closing beneath the outer eyelid, gliding horizontally across the eyeball. Like a filmy cataract eclipsing his black pupil, closing upon his wild and horrified stare.

Augustin “Gus” Elizalde sat slumped in the back of the dining area with his pinch-front hat on the seat next to him. It was a narrow storefront eatery, one block east of Times Square. Neon burgers shining in the window, and red-and-white-checkered tablecloths on the tables. Budget eating in Manhattan. You walk in and order at the counter up front—sandwiches, pizza, something on the grill—pay for it, and take it in back, to a windowless room of tables jammed in tight. Wall murals of Venice and gondolas surrounded them. Felix scarfed down a plate of goopy macaroni and cheese. It was all he ate, mac and cheese, the more disgustingly orange the better. Gus looked down at his half-eaten greaseburger, suddenly more interested in his Coke, in the caffeine and sugar, getting some jolt back into him.

He still didn’t feel right about that van. Gus turned over his hat underneath the table and checked the inside band again. The original five $10 bills he had gotten from that dude, plus the $500 he had earned for driving the van into the city, were still tucked in there. Tempting him. He and Felix could have a hell of a lot of fun on half that amount. Take home half for his madre, money she needed, money she could use.

Problem was, Gus knew himself. Problem was stopping at half. Problem was walking around with unspent money on his person.

He should get Felix to run him home right now. Unburden himself of half this haul. Slip it to his madre without his dirtbag brother Crispin knowing. Crackhead could sniff out dollars like a fiend.

Then again, this was dirty money. He had done something wrong to get it—clearly, though he didn’t know what he’d done—and handing the money over to his madre was like passing on a curse. Best thing to do with dirty money is spend it quick, get rid of it—easy come, easy go.

Gus was torn. He knew that, once he started drinking, he lost all impulse control. And Felix was the gasoline to his flame. The two of them would burn through $550 before sunup, and then, instead of bringing something beautiful home to his madre, instead of bringing home something good, he would come in dragging his own hungover ass, hat all dented to hell, empty pockets turned inside out.

“Penny for your thoughts, Gusto,” said Felix.

Gus shook his head. “I’m my own worst enemy, ’mano. I’m like a fucking mutt sniffing in the street who don’t know what tomorrow means. I got a dark side, amigo, and sometimes it takes me over.”

Felix sipped his giant-ass Coke. “So what are we doing in this greasy spoon? Let’s get out and meet some young ladies tonight.”

Gus ran his thumb along the leather rim inside his hat, over the folded cash Felix knew nothing about—so far. Maybe just a hundred. Two hundred, half for each. Pull out exactly that much, that was his limit, no more. “Gotta pay to play, right, ’mano?”

“Fuck yeah.”

Gus looked away and saw a family next to him, dressed for the theater, rising and leaving with their desserts unfinished. Because of Felix’s language, Gus guessed. By the looks of these Midwestern kids, they had never heard hard talk. Well, fuck them. You come into this town, you keep your kids out past nine o’clock, you risk them seeing the full show.

Felix finally finished his slop and Gus eased his cash-filled hat onto his head and they sauntered out into the night. They were walking on Forty-fourth Street, Felix sucking on a cigarette, when they heard screams. It didn’t quicken their pace any, hearing screams in Midtown Manhattan. Not until they saw the fat, naked guy shuffling across the street at Seventh and Broadway.

Felix nearly spit out his cigarette laughing. “Gusto, you see that shit?” He started to jog ahead, like a bystander called by a barker to a show.

Gus wasn’t into it. He followed slowly after him.

People in Times Square were making way for this guy and his pasty, floppy ass. Women screamed at the sight, half laughing, covering their eyes or their mouths or both. A young bachelorette party group snapped photos with their phones. Every time the guy turned, a new group got a look at his shriveled, flesh-buried junk, and howled.

Gus wondered where the cops were. This was America for you: a brown brother couldn’t even duck into a doorway for a discreet piss without getting hassled, yet a white guy can parade naked through the crossroads of the world and get a free pass.

“Wasted off his ass,” hooted Felix, following the fool, along with a loose bunch of others, many drunk themselves, savoring the street theater. The lights of the brightest intersection in the world—Times Square is a slashing X of avenues, walled with eye-popping advertisements and word crawls, a pinball game run through with never-ending traffic—dazzled the fat man, set him spinning. He lunged about, lurching like a circus bear on the loose.

Felix’s crowd of carousers laughed and reared back when the man turned and staggered toward them. He was getting bolder now, or a little panicked, like a frightened animal, and more confused and seemingly—sometimes he pressed a hand to his throat, as though choking—more pained. Everything was really lively until the pale, fat man lashed out at a laughing woman, grabbing her by the back of her head. The woman screamed and twisted and a part of her head came off in his hand—for a moment it looked as though he had ripped open her skull—but it was just her frizzy black extensions.

The attack crossed the line from fun into fright. The fat man stumbled out into traffic with the fistful of fake hair still in his hand, and the crowd followed, pursuing him now, growing angry, yelling. Felix took the lead, crossing to the traffic island after this guy. Gus went along, but away from the crowd, threading through the honking cars. He was calling to Felix to come away, to be done with this. This was not going to end well.

The fat man was advancing toward a family gathered in the island to take in Times Square at night. He had them backed up against the traffic shooting past, and when the father tried to intervene he got knocked back hard. Gus recognized them as the theatergoing family from the restaurant. The mother seemed more concerned about shielding her kids’ eyes from the sight of the naked man than protecting herself. She got grabbed by the back of the neck, pulled close up against his sagging belly and pendulous man breasts. The crazy man’s mouth opened as though he wanted a kiss. But then it kept opening, like a snake’s mouth—clearly dislocating the jaw with a soft pop.

Gus had no love for tourists, but he didn’t even think before coming up behind the guy and hook-arming him in a headlock. He choked back on him strong, the guy’s neck surprisingly muscular beneath the loose folds of flesh. Gus had the advantage, though, and the guy released the mother, falling against her husband in front of her screaming kids.

Now Gus was stuck. He had the naked man locked up, the big bear’s arms pinwheeling. Felix came up in front to help … but then stopped. He was staring at the naked guy’s face as if there was something really wrong there. A few people behind him reacted the same, others turned away in horror, but Gus couldn’t see why. He did feel the guy’s neck undulate under his forearm, very unnaturally—almost as though he were swallowing sideways. Felix’s look of disgust made him think the fat guy was maybe suffocating under his choke hold, so Gus relaxed his grip a bit—

—just enough for the guy, with the animal strength of the insane, to hurl Gus off with a hairy elbow.

Gus fell to the sidewalk hard and his hat popped off. He turned in time to see it roll off the curb and into traffic. Gus jumped up and started after his hat and his money—but Felix’s yell spun him back. The guy had Felix wrapped up in some kind of maniacal embrace, the big man’s mouth going at Felix’s neck. Gus saw Felix’s hand pull something from his back pocket, flicking it open with a wrist flip.

Gus ran toward Felix before Felix could use the knife, dropping a shoulder into the fat man’s side, feeling ribs crack, sending the tub of flesh sprawling. Felix fell too, Gus seeing blood spilling down the front of Felix’s neck, and—more shockingly—a look of outright terror on his compadre’s face. Felix sat up, dropping the knife in order to grip his neck, and Gus had never seen Felix look that way. Gus knew then that something bizarre had happened—was happening—he just didn’t know what. All he knew was that he had to act in order to make his friend right again.

Gus reached for the knife, taking its burled black grip in his hand as the naked man got to his feet. The guy stood with his hand covering his mouth, almost as though trying to contain something in there. Something squirming. Blood rimmed his fat cheeks and stained his chin—Felix’s blood—as he started toward Gus with his free hand outstretched.

He came fast—faster than a man of his size should have—shoving Gus down backward, before he could react. Gus’s bare head smacked against the sidewalk—and for a moment everything was silent. He saw the Times Square billboards flashing above him in a kind of liquid slow motion … a young model staring down at him, wearing only a bra and panties … then the big man. Looming over him. Something undulating inside his mouth as he stared at Gus with empty, dark eyes …

The man dropped to one knee, choking out this thing in his throat. Pinkish and hungry, it shot out at Gus with the greedy speed of a frog’s darting tongue. Gus slashed at the thing with his knife, cutting and stabbing like a dreamer fighting some creature in a nightmare. He didn’t know what it was—only that he wanted it away from him, wanted to kill it. The fat man reeled back, making a noise like squealing. Gus kept up his slashing, cutting the man’s neck, slicing his throat to ribbons.

Gus kicked away and the guy got to his feet, hands over his mouth and throat. He was bleeding white—not red—a creamy substance thicker and brighter than milk. He stumbled backward off the curb and fell into the moving traffic.

The truck tried to stop in time. That was the worst of it. After rolling over his face with the front tires, the rear set stopped right on the fat man’s crushed skull.

Gus staggered to his feet. Still dizzy from his fall, he looked down at the blade of Felix’s knife in his hand. It was stained white.

He was hit from behind then, his arms wrapped up, his shoulder driven into the pavement. He reacted as though it were the fat man still attacking him, writhing and kicking.

“Drop the knife! Drop it!”

He got his head around and saw three red-faced cops on him, two more behind him aiming guns.

Gus released the knife. He allowed his arms to be wrenched behind him, where they were cuffed. His adrenaline exploded. He said, “Fucking now you’re here?”

“Stop resisting!” said the cop, cracking Gus’s face into the pavement.

“He was attacking this family here—ask them!”

Gus turned.

The tourists were gone.

Most of the crowd was gone. Only Felix remained, seated on the edge of the island in a daze, gripping his throat—as a blue-gloved cop shoved him down, dropping a knee into his side.

Beyond Felix, Gus saw a small black thing rolling farther out into traffic. His hat, with all his dirty money still inside the brim—a slow-rolling taxi crushing it flat, Gus thinking, This was America for you.

Gary Gilbarton poured himself a whisky. The family—the extended family, both sides—and friends were all gone finally, leaving behind stacks of take-out food cartons in the refrigerator and wastebaskets full of tissues. Tomorrow they’d be back to their lives, and with a story to tell.

My twelve-year-old niece was on that plane …

My twelve-year-old cousin was on that plane …

My neighbor’s twelve-year-old daughter was on that plane …

Gary felt like a ghost walking through his nine-room home in the leafy suburb of Freeburg. He touched things—a chair, a wall—and felt nothing. Nothing mattered anymore. Memories could console him, but were more likely to drive him mad.

He had disconnected all the telephones after reporters started calling, wanting to know about the youngest casualty on board. To humanize the story. Who was she? they asked him. It would take Gary the rest of his life to work on a paragraph about his daughter, Emma. It would be the longest paragraph in history.

He was more focused on Emma than he was Berwyn, his wife, because children are our second selves. He loved Berwyn, and she was gone. But his mind kept circling around his lost little girl like water circling an ever-emptying drain.

That afternoon, a lawyer friend—a guy Gary hadn’t had over to the house in maybe a year—pulled him aside in the study. He sat Gary down and told him that he was going to be a very rich man. A young victim like Em, with a much longer timeline of life lost, guaranteed a huge settlement payout.

Gary did not respond. He did not see dollar signs. He did not throw the guy out. He truly did not care. He felt nothing.

He had spurned all the offers from family and friends to spend the night so that he would not be alone. Gary had convinced one and all that he was fine, though thoughts of suicide had already occurred to him. Not just thoughts: a silent determination; a certainty. But later. Not now. Its inevitability was like a balm. The only sort of “settlement” that would mean anything to him. The only way he was getting through all this now was knowing that there would be an end. After all the formalities. After the memorial playground was erected in Emma’s honor. After the scholarship was funded. But before he sold this now-haunted house.

He was standing in the middle of the living room when the doorbell rang. It was well after midnight. If it was a reporter, Gary would attack and kill him. It was as simple as that. To violate this time and place? He would tear the interloper apart.

He whipped open the door … and then all at once the pent-up mania went out of him.

A girl stood barefoot on the welcome mat. His Emma.

Gary Gilbarton’s face crumpled in disbelief, and he slipped to his knees in front of her. Her face showed no reaction, no emotion. Gary reached out to his daughter—then hesitated. Would she pop like a soap bubble and disappear again forever?

He touched her arm, gripping her thin biceps. The fabric of her dress. She was real. She was there. He grasped her and pulled her to him, hugging her, wrapping her up in his arms.

He pulled back and looked at her again, pushing the stringy hair off her freckled face. How could this be? He looked around outside, scanning his misty front yard to see who had brought her.

No car in the driveway, no sound of an automobile engine pulling away.

Was she alone? Where was her mother?

“Emma,” he said.

Gary got to his feet and led her inside, closing the front door, switching on the light. Em looked dazed. She wore the dress her mother had bought her for the trip, that made her look so grown up as she twirled around when she’d first tried it on for him. There was dirt on one sleeve—and perhaps blood. Gary spun her around, looking her over and finding more blood on her bare feet—no shoes?—and dirt all over, and scrapes on her palms and bruises on her neck.

“What happened, Em?” he asked her, holding her face in his palms. “How did you …?”

The wave of relief struck him again, nearly knocking him over, and he grasped her tight. He picked her up and carried her over to the sofa, sitting her there. She was traumatized, and oddly passive. So unlike his smiling, headstrong Emma.

He felt her face, the way her mother always did when Emma acted strangely, and it was hot. So hot that her skin felt sticky, and she was terribly pale, nearly translucent. He saw veins beneath the surface, prominent red veins he had never seen before.

The blue in her eyes seemed to have faded. A head wound, probably. She was in shock.

Thoughts of hospitals ran through his head, but he wasn’t letting her out of this house now, never again.

“You’re home now, Em,” he said. “You’re going to be fine.”

He took her hand and tugged on it to get her to stand, leading her into the kitchen. Food. He installed her in her chair at the table, watching her from the counter as he toasted two chocolate chip waffles, her favorite. She sat there with her hands at her sides, watching him, not staring exactly, but not alive to the room either. No silly stories, no school-day chatter.

The toaster jumped and he slathered the waffles with butter and syrup and set the plate down in front of her. He sat in his seat to watch. The third chair, Mommy’s place, was still empty. Maybe the doorbell would ring again …

“Eat,” he told her. She hadn’t picked up her fork yet. He cut off a corner of the stack and held it before her mouth. She did not open it.

“No?” he said. He showed her himself, putting the waffles in his mouth, chewing. He tried her again, but her response was the same. A tear slipped from Gary’s eye and rolled down his cheek. He knew by now that something was terribly wrong with his daughter. But he shoved all that aside.

She was here now, she was back.

“Come.”

He walked her upstairs to her bedroom. Gary entered first, Emma stopping inside the doorway. Her eyes looked on the room with something akin to recognition, but more like distant memory. Like the eyes of an old woman returned miraculously to the bedroom of her youth.

“You need sleep,” he said, rummaging through her chest of drawers for pajamas.

She remained by the door, her hands at her sides.

Gary turned with the pajamas in his hand. “Do you want me to change you?”

He got down on his knees and lifted off her dress, and his very modest preteen daughter offered no protest. Gary found more scratches, and a big bruise on her chest. Her feet were filthy, the crevices of her toes crusted with blood. Her flesh hot to the touch.

No hospital. He was never letting her out of his sight again.

He ran a cool bath and sat her in it. He knelt by the edge and gently worked a soapy facecloth over her abrasions, and she did not even squirm. He shampooed and conditioned her dirty, flat hair.

She looked at him with her dark eyes but there was no rapport. She was in some sort of trance. Shock. Trauma.

He could make her better.

He dressed her in her pajamas, taking the big comb from the straw basket in the corner and combing her blond hair down straight. The comb snagged in her hair and she did not flinch or utter a complaint.

I am hallucinating her, Gary thought. I have lost my bearings on reality.

And then, still combing her hair: I don’t goddamn care.

He flipped back her sheets and quilted comforter and laid his daughter down in her bed, just as he used to when she was still a toddler. He pulled the covers up around her neck, tucking her in, Emma lying still and sleeplike but with her black eyes wide open.

Gary hesitated before leaning over to kiss her still-hot forehead. She was little more than a ghost of his daughter. A ghost whose presence he welcomed. A ghost he could love.

He wet her brow with his grateful tears. “Good night,” he said, to no response. Emma lay still in the pinkish spray of her night-light, staring at the ceiling now. Not acknowledging him. Not closing her eyes. Not waiting for sleep. Waiting … for something else.

Gary walked down the hallway to his bedroom. He changed and climbed into bed alone. He did not sleep either. He was waiting also, though he didn’t know what for.

Not until he heard it.

A soft creak on the threshold of his bedroom. He rolled his head and saw Emma’s silhouette. His daughter standing there. She came to him, out of the shadows, a small figure in the night-darkened room. She paused near his bed, opening her mouth wide, as though for a gusty yawn.

His Emma had returned to him. That was all that mattered.

Zack had trouble sleeping. It was true what everyone said: he was very much like his father. Obviously too young to have an ulcer, but already with the weight of the world on his shoulders. He was an intense boy, an earnest boy, and he suffered for it.

He had always been that way, Eph had told him. He would stare back from the crib with a little grimace of worry, his intense dark eyes always making contact. And his little worried expression made Eph laugh—for he reminded him of himself so much—the worried baby in the crib.

For the last few years, Zack had felt the burden of the separation, divorce, and custody battle. It took some time to convince himself that all that was happening was not his fault. Still, his heart knew better: knew that somehow, if he dug deep enough, all the anger would connect with him. Years of angry whispers behind his back … the echoes of arguments late at night … being awakened by the muffled pounding on walls … It had all taken its toll. And Zack was now, at the ripe old age of eleven, an insomniac.

Some nights he would quiet the house noises with his iPod and stare out his bedroom window. Other nights he would crack open his window and listen to every little noise the night had to offer, listening so hard his ears buzzed as the blood rushed in.

He enacted that age-old hope of many a boy, that his street, at night, when it believed itself unwatched, would yield its mysteries. Ghosts, murder, lust. But all he ever saw, until the sun rose again on the horizon, was the hypnotic blue flicker of the distant TV in the house across the street.

The world was devoid of heroes or monsters, though in his imagination Zack sought both. A lack of sleep took its toll on the boy, and he kept dozing off during the daytime. He zoned out at school, and the other kids, never kind enough to let a difference go unnoticed, immediately found nicknames for him. They ranged from the common “Dickwad” to the more inscrutable “Necro-boy,” every social clique choosing its favorite.

And Zack faded through the days of humiliation until the time came for his dad to visit him again.

With Eph he felt comfortable. Even in silence—especially in silence. His mom was too perfect, too observant, too kind—her silent standards, all for his “own good,” were impossible to meet, and he knew, in a strange way, that from the moment he was born, he had disappointed her. By being a boy—by being too much like his dad.

With Eph he felt alive. He would tell his dad the things Mom always wanted to know about: out-of-boundaries things that she was eager to learn. Nothing critical—just private. Important enough not to reveal. Important enough to save for his father, and that was what Zack did.

Now, lying awake on the top of his bedcovers, Zack thought of the future. He was certain now that they would never again be together as a family. No chance. But he wondered how much worse it would get. That was Zack in a nutshell. Always wondering: how much worse can it get?

Much worse was always the answer.

At least, he hoped, now the army of concerned adults would finally screw out of his life. Therapists, judges, social workers, his mother’s boyfriend. All of them keeping him hostage to their own needs and stupid goals. All of them “caring” for him, for his well-being, and none of them really giving a shit.

My Bloody Valentine grew quiet in the iPod and Zack popped the earphones out. The sky was still not yet brightening outside, but he finally felt tired. He loved feeling tired now. He loved not thinking.

So he readied himself for sleep. But as soon as he got settled, he heard the footsteps.

Flap-flap-flap. Like bare feet out on the asphalt. Zack looked out his window and saw a guy. A naked guy.

Walking down the street, skin pale as moonlight, shining stretch marks glowing in the night, crisscrossing the deflated belly. Obvious that the man had been fat once—but had since lost so much weight that now his skin folded in all different ways and different directions, so much so that it was almost impossible to figure out his exact silhouette.

It was old but appeared ageless. The balding head with badly tinted hair and varicose veins on the legs pinned him at around seventy, but there was a vigor to his step and a tone to his walk that made you think of a young man. Zack thought all these things, noticed all these things, because he was so much like Eph. His mother would have told him to move away from the window and called 911, while Eph would have pointed out all the details that formed the picture of that strange man.

The pale creature circled the house across the street. Zack heard a soft moan, and then the rattle of a backyard fence. The man came back and moved toward the neighbor’s front door. Zack thought of calling the police, but that would raise all sorts of questions for him with Mom: he’d had to hide his insomnia from her, or else suffer days and weeks of doctor’s appointments and tests, never mind her worrying.

The man walked out into the middle of the street and then stopped. Flabby arms hanging at his side, his chest deflated—was he even breathing?—hair ruffling in the soft night wind. Exposing the roots to a bad “Just for Men” reddish brown.

It looked up toward Zack’s window, and for one weird moment they locked eyes. Zack’s heart raced. This was the first time he saw the guy frontally. During the whole time, he had been able to see only a flank or the man’s skin-draped back, but now he saw his full thorax—and the pale Y-shaped scar that crossed it whole.

And his eyes—they were dead tissue, glazed over, opaque even in the gentle moonlight. But worst of all, they had a frenzied energy, darting back and forth and then fixing on him—looking up at him with a feeling that was hard to pinpoint.

Zack shrank back, peeling away from the window, scared to death by the scar and those vacant eyes that had looked back at him. What was that expression …?

He knew that scar, knew what it meant. An autopsy scar. But how could that be?

He risked another peek over the window’s edge, so carefully, but the street was empty now. He sat up to see better, and the man was gone.

Had he ever even been there? Maybe the lack of sleep was really getting to him now. Seeing naked male corpses walking in the street: not something a child of divorce wants to share with a therapist.

And then it came to him: hunger. That was it. The dead eyes looked at him with intense hunger …

Zack dove into his sheets and buried his face in his pillow. The man’s absence did not ease his mind, but instead did the contrary. The man was gone, but he was everywhere now. He could be downstairs, breaking in through the kitchen window. Soon it would be on the steps, climbing ever so slowly—could he hear his footsteps already?—and then in the corridor outside his door. Softly rattling his lock—the busted lock that would not catch. And soon it would reach Zack’s bed and then—what? He feared the man’s voice and its dead stare. Because he had the horrible certainty that, even though it moved, the man was no longer alive.

Zombies …

Zack hid under his pillow, mind and heart racing, full of fear and praying for dawn to come and save him. Much as he dreaded school, he begged the morning to come.

Across the street, in the neighboring house, window glass was broken and the TV light snapped off.

Ansel Barbour whispered to himself as he wandered about the second floor of his house. He wore the same T-shirt and boxer shorts he had tried to sleep in, and his hair darted up at odd angles from continuous squeezing and pulling. He didn’t know what was happening to him. Ann-Marie suspected a fever, but when she came to him with the thermometer, he could not bear to think of that steel-tipped probe being stuck in under his inflamed tongue. They had an ear thermometer, for the kids, but he couldn’t even sit still long enough to get an accurate reading. Ann-Marie’s practiced palm against his forehead detected heat—lots of heat—but then, he could have told her that.

She was petrified, he could tell. She made no effort to hide it. To her, any illness whatsoever was an assault on the sanctity of their family unit. The kids’ throw-up bugs were met with the same dark-eyed fear another might reserve for, say, a bad blood test or the appearance of an unexplained lump. This is it. The beginning of the terrible tragedy she was certain would one day befall her.

His tolerance for Ann-Marie’s eccentricities was at low ebb. He was dealing with something serious here, and he needed her help, not her added stress. Now he couldn’t be the strong one. He needed her to take charge.

Even the kids were staying away from him, startled by the not-there look in their father’s eyes, or perhaps—he was vaguely aware of this—the odor of his sickness, which to his nose resembled the smell of congealed cooking grease stored too long in a tin can rusting beneath the sink. He saw them from time to time hiding behind the balusters at the bottom of the staircase, watching him cross the second-floor landing. He wanted to allay their fears, but worried he might lose his temper trying to explain this to them, and in doing so make things worse. The surest way to set their minds at ease was to get better. To outlast this surge of disorientation and pain.

He stopped inside his daughter’s bedroom, found the purple walls too purple, then doubled back into the hallway. He stood very still on the landing—as still as he could—until he could hear it again. That thumping. A beating—quiet and close. Wholly separate from the headache pounding in his skull. Almost … like in small-town movie theaters, where you can hear, during quiet moments in movies, the clicking of the film running through the projector in the back. Which distracts you, and keeps pulling you back to the reality that this is not real, as though you and you alone realize this truth.

He shook his head hard, grimacing from the pain that went with it … trying to use that pain like bleach, to clean his thoughts … but the thumping. The throbbing. It was everywhere, all around him.

The dogs too. Acting strange around him. Pap and Gertie, the big, bumbling Saint Bernards. Growling as they would when some strange animal came into the yard.

Ann-Marie came up later, alone, finding him sitting at the foot of their bed, his head in his hands like a fragile egg. “You should sleep,” she said.

He gripped his hair like the reins of a mad horse and fought down the urge to berate her. Something was wrong in his throat, and whenever he lay down for any length of time, his epiglottis seized up, cutting off his airway, suffocating him until he choked himself back to breathing. He was terrified now of dying in his sleep.

“What do I do?” she asked, remaining in the doorway, her palm and fingers pressing against her own forehead.

“Get me some water,” he said. His voice hissed through his raw throat, burning like steam. “Lukewarm. Dissolve some Advil in it, ibuprofen—anything.”

She didn’t move. She stood there staring, worrying. “Aren’t you even a little better …?”

Her timidity, which normally aroused strong protective instincts in him, now moved him only to rage. “Ann-Marie, get me some goddamn water, and then take the kids outside or something but keep them the hell away from me!”

She scurried away in tears.

When Ansel heard them go outside into the darkened backyard, he ventured downstairs, walking with one hand clamped on the handrail. She had left the glass on the counter next to the sink, set on a folded napkin, dissolved pills clouding the water. He brought the glass to his lips two-handedly and forced himself to drink. He poured the water into his mouth, giving his throat no choice but to swallow. He got some of it down before gagging on the rest of the contents, coughing onto the sink window overlooking the backyard. He gasped as he watched the splatter drip down the glass pane, distorting his view of Ann-Marie standing behind the kids on the swings, staring off into the darkened sky, breaking her crossed arms only occasionally to push low-swinging Haily.

The glass slipped from his hand, spilling into the sink. He left the kitchen for the living room, dropping onto the sofa there in a kind of a stupor. His throat was engorged and he felt sicker than ever.

He had to return to the hospital. Ann-Marie would just have to make it on her own for a little while. She could do it if she had no choice. Maybe it would even end up being good for her …

He tried to focus, to determine what needed to be done before he left. Gertie came into the doorway, panting softly. Pap entered behind her, stopping near the fireplace, settling down into a crouch. Pap started a low, even growl, and the thumping noise surged in Ansel’s ears. And Ansel realized: the noise was coming from them.

Or was it? He got down off the sofa, moving over toward Pap on his hands and knees, getting closer to hear. Gertie whimpered and retreated to the wall, but Pap held his unrelaxed crouch. The growl intensified in the dog’s throat, Ansel grasping his collar just as the dog tried to back up onto its feet and get away.

Thrum … Thrum … Thrum …

It was in them. Somehow. Somewhere. Something.

Pap was pulling and whimpering, but Ansel, a big man who rarely had to use his strength, curled his free arm around the Saint Bernard’s neck, holding him in a canine headlock. He pressed his ear to the dog’s neck, the hair of its fur tickling the inside of his auditory canal.

Yes. A thrumming pulse. Was it the animal’s circulating blood?

That was the noise. The yelping dog strained to get away, but Ansel pressed his ear harder against the dog’s neck, needing to know.

“Ansel?”

He turned fast—too fast, a blinding shot of white pain—and saw Ann-Marie at the door, Benjy and Haily behind her. Haily was hugging her mother’s leg, the boy standing alone, both of them staring. Ansel’s grip relaxed and the dog pulled away.

Ansel was still on his knees. “What do you want?” he yelled.

Ann-Marie stayed frozen in the doorway, in a trance of fear. “I’m … I don’t … I’m taking them for a walk.”

“Fine,” he said. He wilted a little under the gaze of his children, another choke from his throat making him rasp. “Daddy’s fine,” he told them, wiping off spit with the back of his hand. “Daddy’s going to be fine.”

He turned his head toward the kitchen, where the dogs were. All the make-nice thoughts faded under the resurgent thrumming. Louder than before. Pulsating.

Them.

A nauseous shame rose up within him, and he shuddered, then put a fist to his temple.

Ann-Marie said, “I’ll let the dogs out.”

“No!” He caught himself, holding out an open palm to her from where he knelt on the living room floor. “No,” he said, more evenly. He tried to catch his breath, to seem normal. “They’re fine. Leave them in.”

She hesitated, wanting to say more. To do something, anything. But in the end, she turned and went out, pulling Benjy after her.

Ansel used the wall to get to his feet and walk to the first-floor bathroom. He pulled the string light on over the mirror, wanting to stare into his own eyes. Glowering, red-veined eggs of sallow ivory. He swiped perspiration from his forehead and upper lip and opened his mouth to try and look down his own throat. He expected to see inflamed tonsils, or some kind of white-bump rash, but it only looked dark. It hurt to raise his tongue, but he did, looking underneath. The pad beneath was scarlet and sore, and angry red, glowing hot the way a charcoal glows. He touched it and the pain was brain-splittingly raw, riding out along both sides of his jaw, straining the cords in his neck. His throat bucked in protest, issuing a harsh, barking cough that hacked dark specks onto the mirror. Blood, mixed with something white, maybe phlegm. Some spots were closer to black than others, as though he had brought up some solid residue, like rotten bits of himself. He reached for one of those dark nuggets, smearing the chunk off the glass and onto the tip of his middle finger. He brought it to his nose, sniffing it, then rubbed it with his thumb. It was like a discolored clot of blood. He brought it to the tip of his tongue, and before he knew it, he was tasting it. He swirled the small, soft mass inside his mouth, and then, once it dissipated, swiped another spot off the glass, tasting that one too. Not much taste, but there was something about the sensation on his tongue that was almost healing.

He leaned forward, licking the bloody stains off the cool glass. It should have hurt his tongue to do this, but, on the contrary, the soreness in his mouth and throat had abated. Even that most tender part underneath his tongue—the pain was reduced to a tingle. The thrumming sound also faded, though never completely went away. He looked at his reflection in the red-smeared mirror and tried to understand.

This respite was maddeningly brief. The tightness, like having his throat wrung by powerful hands, resurged, and he pulled his gaze away from the mirror, lurching out into the hallway.

Gertie whined and back-stepped down the hall, away from him, trotting into the living room. Pap was scratching at the back door, wanting to get out. When he saw Ansel coming into the kitchen, he scooted away. Ansel stood there, his throat throbbing, then reached into the dogs’ cabinet, pulling down the box of Milk-Bone treats. He jammed one between his fingers, as he usually did, and went into the living room.

Gertie was lying on the wood landing at the bottom of the stairs, paws out, ready to spring away. Ansel sat down on his footstool and waved the treat. “Come on, baby,” he said, in a heartless whisper that grated against his soul.

Gertie’s leathery nostrils flared, sniffing at the scent in the air.

Thrum … thrum…

“Come on, girl. Get your treat.”

She pushed up slowly onto all fours. She took one small step forward, then stopped again and sniffed. She knew instinctively that there was something wrong with this bargain.

But Ansel held the cookie still, which seemed to reassure her. She padded slowly over the rug, head low, eyes alert. Ansel nodded his encouragement, the thrumming intensifying in his head as she approached.

He said, “Come on, Gertie, old girl.”

Gertie came up and swiped the cookie once with her thick tongue, catching some of his finger. She did this again, wanting to trust him, wanting the treat. Ansel brought out his other hand and laid it on top of her head, stroking her as she liked him to. Tears sprang out of his eyes as he did this. Gertie leaned forward to close her teeth on the treat, taking it from his fingers, and that was when Ansel grabbed her collar and fell upon her with all his weight.

The dog struggled beneath him, snarling and trying to bite him, her panic giving his rage a focus. He forced back her lower jaw with his hand, effectively shutting her mouth by raising her head, then brought his mouth to her furry neck.

He tore in. He bit through her silky, slightly greasy coat, opening a wound. The dog howled as he tasted her fur, the texture of her thick soft flesh vanishing quickly under a hot surge of blood. The pain of his biting pushed Gertie into a frenzy beneath him, but Ansel held his grip, forcing the dog’s big head even higher, fully exposing the neck.

He was drinking the dog. Somehow drinking without swallowing. Ingesting. As though there were some new mechanism of which he was not aware working in his throat. He could not understand it; he only understood the satisfaction he felt. A palliative pleasure in the act. And power. Yes—power. As that of drawing life from one being into another.

Pap came into the room howling. A mournful bassoon sound, and Ansel had to stop this sad-eyed Saint Bernard from spooking the neighbors. With Gertie twitching limply beneath him, he sprang up, and with renewed speed and strength, raced across the room after Pap, knocking a floor lamp down as he lunged and tackled the big, clumsy dog in the hall.

The pleasure of the sensation, in drinking the second dog, was rapturous. He felt within him that tipping point, as when suction catches inside a siphoning tube and the desired change in pressure is achieved. Fluid flowed without effort, replenishing him.

Ansel sat back when he was done, numb for a while, dazed, slow to return to the here and now of the room. He looked down at the dead dog on the floor at his feet and felt suddenly wide awake, and cold. Remorse came all at once.

He got to his feet and saw Gertie, then looked down at his own chest, clawing at his T-shirt, wet with dog blood.

What is happening to me?

The blood on the checkered rug made a nasty black stain. Yet there wasn’t much of it. And that was when he remembered that he had drunk it.

Ansel went first to Gertie, touching her coat, knowing that she was dead—that he had killed her—and then, setting aside his disgust, rolled her up inside the ruined rug. He lifted the bundle into his arms with a great grunt and carried it through the kitchen, outside and down the steps to the backyard dog shed. Inside, he dropped to his knees, unrolled the rug and the heavy Saint Bernard, and left Gertie to go back for Pap.

He laid them together against the wall of the shed, underneath his pegboard of tools. His revulsion was distant, foreign. His neck was tight but not sore, his throat cool suddenly, his head calm. He looked at his bloody hands and had to accept what he could not understand.

What he had done had made him better.

He went back inside the house, to the bathroom upstairs. He stripped off his bloody shirt and boxers and pulled on an old sweat suit, knowing Ann-Marie and the kids would return at any moment. As he searched the bedroom for sneakers, he felt the thrumming return. He didn’t hear it: he felt it. And what it meant terrified him.

Voices at the front door.

His family was home.

He made it back downstairs and just out the back door, unseen, his bare feet hitting the backyard grass, running from the pulsating sense filling his head.

He turned toward the driveway, but there were voices in the dark street. He had left the shed doors open, and so, in his desperation, ducked inside the doghouse to hide, shutting both doors behind him. He didn’t know what else to do.

Gertie and Pap lay dead against the side wall. A cry nearly escaped Ansel’s lips.

What have I done?

New York winters had warped the shed doors, so they no longer hung perfectly flush. He could still see through the seam, spying Benjy getting a glass of water from the kitchen sink, his head in the window, Hailey’s little hand reaching up.

What is happening to me?

He was like a dog who had turned. A rabid dog.

I have caught some form of rabies.

Voices now. The kids coming down the back-porch steps, lit by the security light over the deck, calling the dogs. Ansel looked around him fast and seized a rake from the corner, sliding it through the interior door handles as quickly and quietly as he could. Locking the children out. Locking himself inside.

“Ger-tie! Pa-ap!”

No true concern in their voices, not yet. The dogs had gotten away a few times in the past couple of months, which was why Ansel had dug the iron stake into the ground here in the shed, so they could be chained up securely at night.

Their calling voices faded in his ears as the thrum took over his head: the steady rhythm of blood circulating through their young veins. Little hearts pumping hard and strong.

Jesus.

Haily came to the doors. Ansel saw her pink sneakers through the gap at the bottom and shrank back. She tried the doors. They rattled but wouldn’t give.

She called to her brother. Benjy came and shook the doors with all his eight-year-old might. The four walls shivered, but the rake handle held.

Thrummity … thrummity … thrum …

Their blood. Calling to him. Ansel shuddered and let his focus fall on the dog’s stake in front of him. Buried six feet deep, set in a solid block of concrete. Strong enough to keep two Saint Bernards leashed during a summer thunderstorm. Ansel looked to the wall shelves and saw an extra chain collar, price tag still attached. He felt certain he had an old shackle lock in here somewhere.

He waited until they were a safe distance away before he reached up and pulled down the steel collar.

Captain Redfern was laid out in his johnny on the stretcher bed inside the clear plastic curtains, his lips open in a near-grimace, his breathing deep and labored. Having grown increasingly uncomfortable as night approached, Redfern had been administered enough sedatives to put him out for hours. They needed him still for imaging. Eph dimmed the light inside the bay and switched on his Luma light, again aiming the indigo glow at Redfern’s neck, wanting another look at the scar. But now, with the other lights dimmed, he saw something else as well. A strange rippling effect along Redfern’s skin—or, rather, beneath his skin. Like a mottling, or a subcutaneous psoriasis, blotching that appeared just below the surface of the flesh in shades of black and gray.

When he brought the Luma light closer for further examination, the shading beneath the skin reacted. It swirled and squirmed, as though trying to get away from the light.

Eph backed off, pulled the wand away. With the black light removed from Redfern’s skin, the sleeping man appeared normal.

Eph returned, this time running the violet lamplight over Redfern’s face. The image revealed beneath it, the mottled sub-flesh, formed a kind of mask. Like a second self lurking behind the airline pilot’s face, aged and malformed. A grim visage, an evil awake within him while the sick man slept. Eph brought the lamp even closer … and again the interior shadow rippled, almost forming a grimace, trying to shy away.

Redfern’s eyes opened. As though awakened by the light. Eph jerked back, shocked by the sight. The pilot had enough secobarbital in him for two men. He was too heavily sedated to reach consciousness.

Redfern’s staring eyes were wide in their sockets. He stared straight at the ceiling, looking scared. Eph held the lamp away and moved into his line of sight.

“Captain Redfern?”

The pilot’s lips were moving. Eph leaned closer, wanting to hear what Redfern was trying to say.

The man’s lips moved dryly, saying, “He is here.”

“Who is here, Captain Redfern?”

Redfern’s eyes stared, as though witnessing a terrible scene being played out before him.

He said, “Mr. Leech.”

Much later, Nora returned, finding Eph down the hallway from radiology. They spoke standing before a wall covered with crayon artwork from thankful young patients. He told her about what he had seen under Redfern’s flesh.

Nora said, “The black light of our Luma lamps—isn’t that low-spectrum ultraviolet light?”

Eph nodded. He too had been thinking about the old man outside the morgue.

“I want to see it,” said Nora.

“Redfern’s in radiology now,” Eph told her. “We had to further sedate him for MRI imaging.”

“I got the results from the airplane,” said Nora, “the liquid sprayed around there. Turns out you were right. There’s ammonia and phosphorous—”

“I knew it—”

“But also oxalic and iron and uric acids. Plasma.”

“What?”

“Raw plasma. And a whole load of enzymes.”

Eph held his forehead as though taking his own temperature. “As in digestion?”

“Now what does that remind you of?”

“Excretions. Birds, bats. Like guano. But how …”

Nora shook her head, feeling in equal parts both excited and bewildered. “Whoever, whatever was on that airplane … took a giant shit in the cabin.”

While Eph was trying to wrap his mind around that one, a man in hospital scrubs came hustling down the hallway, calling his name. Eph recognized him as the technician from the MRI room.

“Dr. Goodweather—I don’t know what happened. I just stepped out to get some coffee. I wasn’t gone five minutes.”

“What do you mean? What is it?”

“Your patient. He’s gone from the scanner.”

Jim Kent was downstairs near the closed gift shop, away from the others, talking on his mobile phone. “They are imaging him now,” he told the person on the other end. “He seems to be going downhill pretty fast, sir. Yes, they should have the scans in just a few hours. No—no word on the other survivors. I thought you’d want to know. Yes, sir, I am alone—”

He became distracted by the sight of a tall, ginger-haired man wearing a hospital johnny, walking unsteadily down the hallway, trailing along the floor IV tubes from his arm. Unless Jim was mistaken, it was Captain Redfern.

“Sir, I … something’s happening … let me call you back.”

He hung up and plucked the wire from his ear, stuffing it into his jacket pocket and following the man a few dozen yards away. The patient slowed for just a moment, turning his head as though aware of his pursuer.

“Captain Redfern?” said Jim.

The patient continued around a corner and Jim followed, only to find, when he turned the same corner, the hallway empty.

Jim checked door signs. He tried the one marked STAIRS and looked down the narrow well between half flights. He caught sight of an IV tube trailing down the steps.

“Captain Redfern?” said Jim, his voice echoing in the stairwell. He fumbled out his phone as he descended, wanting to call Eph. The display said NO SERVICE because he was underground now. He pushed through the door into the basement hallway and, distracted by his phone, never saw Redfern running at him from the side.

When Nora, searching the hospital, went through the door from the stairwell into the basement hallway, she found Jim sitting against the wall with his legs splayed. He had a sleepy expression on his face.

Captain Redfern was standing barefoot over him, his johnny-bare back to her. Something hanging from his mouth spilled driblets of blood to the floor.

“Jim!” she yelled, though Jim did not react in any way to her voice. Captain Redfern stiffened, however. When he turned to her, Nora saw nothing in his mouth. She was shocked by his color, formerly quite pale, now florid and flushed. The front of his johnny was indeed bloodstained, and blood also rimmed his lips. Her first thought was that he was in the grip of some sort of seizure. She feared he had bitten off a chunk of his tongue and was swallowing blood.

Closer, her diagnosis became less certain. Redfern’s pupils were dead black, the sclera red where it should have been white. His mouth hung open strangely, disjointedly, as though his jaw had been reset on a lower hinge. And there was a heat coming off him that was extreme, beyond the warmth of any normal, natural fever.

“Captain Redfern,” she said, calling him over and over, trying to snap him out of it. He advanced on her with a look of vulturelike hunger in his filmy eyes. Jim remained slumped on the floor, not moving. Redfern was obviously violent, and Nora wished she had a weapon. She looked around, seeing only a hospital phone, 555 the alert code.

She grabbed the receiver off the wall, barely getting it into her hand before Redfern attacked, throwing her to the floor. Nora kept hold of the receiver, its cord pulling right out of the wall. Redfern had maniacal strength, descending on her and pinning her arms hard to the polished floor. His face strained and his throat bucked. She thought he was about to vomit on her.

Nora was screaming when Eph came flying from the stairwell door, throwing his weight into Redfern’s torso, sending him sprawling, off her. Eph righted himself and held out a cautionary hand toward his patient, dragging himself up from the floor now. “Hold on—”

Redfern emitted a hissing sound. Not snakelike, but throaty. His black eyes were flat and vacant as he started to smile. Or seemed to smile, using those same facial muscles—only, when his mouth opened, it kept on opening.

His lower jaw descended and out wriggled something pink and fleshy that was not his tongue. It was longer, more muscular and complex … and squirming. As though he had swallowed a live squid, and one of its tentacles was still thrashing about desperately inside his mouth.

Eph jumped back. He grabbed the IV tree to keep from falling, and then upended it, using it like a prod to keep Redfern and that thing in his mouth at bay. Redfern grabbed the steel stand and then the thing in his mouth lashed out. It extended the six-foot distance of the IV tree, Eph spinning out of the way just in time. He heard the flap of the end of the appendage—narrowed, like a fleshy stinger—strike the wall. Redfern flung the stand to the side, cracking it in half, Eph tumbling with it backward into a room.

Redfern entered after him, still with that hungry look in his black-and-red eyes. Eph searched around wildly for anything that would help him keep this guy away from him, finding only a trephine in a charger on a shelf. A trephine is a surgical instrument with a spinning cylindrical blade generally used for cutting open the human skull during autopsy. The helicopter-type blade whirred to life, and Redfern advanced, his stinger mostly retracted yet still lolling, with flanking sacs of flesh pulsing at its sides. Before Redfern could attack again, Eph tried to cut it.

He missed, slicing a chunk out of the pilot’s neck. White blood kicked out, just as he had seen in the morgue, not spraying out arterially but spilling down his front. Eph dropped the trephine before its whirring blades could spit the substance at him. Redfern grabbed at his neck, and Eph picked up the nearest heavy object he could find, a fire extinguisher. He used the butt end of it to batter Redfern in the face—his hideous stinger Eph’s prime target. Eph smashed him twice more, Redfern’s head snapping back with the last blow, his spine emitting an audible crack.

Redfern collapsed, his body giving out. Eph dropped the tank and stumbled back, looking in horror at what he had done.

Nora came rushing in wielding a broken piece of the IV tree, then saw Redfern lying in a heap. She dropped the shaft and rushed to Eph, who caught her in his arms.

“Are you okay?” he said.

She nodded, her hand over her mouth. She pointed at Redfern and Eph looked down and saw the worms wriggling out of his neck. Reddish worms, as though blood filled, spilling out of Redfern’s neck like cockroaches fleeing a room when a light is turned on. Eph and Nora backed up to the open doorway.

“What the hell just happened?” said Eph.

Nora’s hand came away from her mouth. “Mr. Leech,” she said.

They heard a groan from the hallway—Jim—and rushed out to tend to him.

INTERLUDE III

Revolt, 1943

AUGUST WAS SEARING THROUGH THE CALENDAR AND Abraham Setrakian, laying out beams for a suspended roof, felt its burden more than most. The sun was baking him, every day it was like this. But even more than that, he had come to loathe the night—his bunk and his dreams of home, which had formerly been his only respite from the horror of the death camp—and was now a hostage to two equally merciless masters.

The Dark Thing, Sardu, now spaced his visits to a regular pattern of twice-a-week feedings in Setrakian’s barracks, and probably the same in the other barracks as well. The deaths went completely unnoticed by guards and prisoners alike. The Ukrainian guards wrote the corpses off as suicides, and to the SS it meant only a change in a ledger entry.

In the months since the Sardu-Thing’s first visit, Setrakian—obsessed with the notion of defeating such evil—learned as much as he could from other local prisoners about an ancient Roman crypt located somewhere in the outlying forest. There, he was now certain, the Thing had made its lair, from whence it emerged each night to slake its ungodly thirst.

If Setrakian ever understood true thirst, it was that day. Water carriers circulated among the prisoners constantly, though many of them themselves fell prey to heat seizures. The burning hole was well fed that day. Setrakian had managed to collect what he needed: a length of raw white oak, and a bit of silver for the tip. That was the old way to dispose of the strigoi, the vampire. He had sharpened the tip for days before treating it with the silver. Smuggling it into his barracks alone took the better part of two weeks of planning. He had lodged it in an empty space directly behind his bed. If the guards ever found it, they would execute him on the spot, for there was no mistaking the shape of the hardwood as a weapon.

The night before, Sardu had entered the camp late, later than usual. Setrakian had lain very still, waiting patiently for it to begin feeding on an infirm Romani. He felt revulsion and remorse, and prayed for forgiveness—but it was a necessary part of his plan, for the half-gorged creature would be less alert.

The blue light of impending dawn filtered through the small grated windows at the east end of the barracks. Just what Setrakian had been waiting for. He pricked his index finger, drawing a perfect crimson pearl out of his dry flesh. Yet he was completely unprepared for what happened next.

He had never heard the Thing utter a sound. It conducted its unholy repast in utter silence. But now, at the smell of young Setrakian’s blood, the Thing groaned. The sound reminded Setrakian of the creaking sound of dry wood when twisted, or the sputter of water down a clogged drain.

In a matter of seconds, the Thing was at Setrakian’s side.

As the young man cautiously slid his hand back, reaching for the stake, the two locked eyes. Setrakian couldn’t help but turn toward it when it moved near his bed.

The Thing smiled at him.

“Ages since we fed looking into living eyes,” the Thing said. “Ages …”

Its breath smelled of earth and of copper, and its tongue clicked in its mouth. Its deep voice sounded like an amalgam of many voices, poured forth as though lubricated by human blood.

“Sardu …” whispered Setrakian, unable to keep the name to himself.

The beady, burnished eyes of the Thing opened wider, and for a fleeting moment they looked almost human.

“He is not alone in this body,” it hissed. “How dare you call to him?”

Setrakian gripped the stake behind his bed, slowly sliding it out …

“A man has the right to be called by his own name before meeting God,” said Setrakian, with the righteousness of youth.

The Thing gurgled with joy. “Then, young thing, you may tell me yours …”

Setrakian made his move then, but the silver tip of the stake made a tiny scraping noise, revealing its presence a mere instant before it flew toward the Thing’s heart.

But that instant was enough. The Thing uncoiled its claw and stopped the weapon an inch from its own chest.

Setrakian tried to free himself, striking out with his other hand, but the Thing stopped that too. It lacerated the side of Setrakian’s neck with the tip of its stinger—just a gash, coming as fast as the blink of an eye, enough to inject him with the paralyzing agent.

Now it held the young man firmly by both hands. It raised him up from the bed.

“But you will not meet God,” the Thing said. “For I am personally acquainted with him, and I know him to be gone …”

Setrakian was on the verge of fainting from the vicelike pressure the claws exerted upon his hands. The hands that had kept him alive for so long in that camp. His brain was bursting with pain, mouth gaping, lungs gasping for breath, but no scream would surge from within.

The Thing looked deep into Setrakian’s eyes then, and saw his soul.

“Abraham Setrakian,” it purred. “A name so soft, so sweet, for a boy so full of spirit …” It moved close to his face. “But why destroy me, boy? Why am I so deserving of your wrath, when around you you find even more death in my absence. I am not the monster here. It is God. Your God and mine, the absent Father who left us all so long ago … In your eyes I see what you fear most, young Abraham, and it is not me … It is the pit. So now you shall see what happens when I feed you to it and God does nothing to stop it.”

And then, with a brutal cracking noise, the Thing shattered the bones in the hands of young Abraham.

The boy fell to the floor, curled in a ball of pain, his crushed fingers near his chest. He had landed in a faint pool of sunlight.

Dawn.

The Thing hissed, attempting to move close to him one more time.

But the prisoners in the barracks began to stir, and as young Abraham lost consciousness, the Thing vanished.

Abraham was discovered bleeding and injured before roll call. He was dispatched to the infirmary from which wounded prisoners never returned. A carpenter with broken hands served no purpose in the camp, and the head overseer immediately approved his disposal. He was dragged out to the burning hole with the rest of the roll-call failures, made to kneel in a line. Thick, greasy, black smoke occluded the sun above, searing hot and merciless. Setrakian was stripped and dragged to the very edge, cradling his destroyed hands, shivering in fear as he gazed into the pit.

The searing pit. The hungry flames twisting, the greasy smoke lifting away in a kind of hypnotic ballet. And the rhythm of the execution line—gunshot, gun carriage clicking, the soft bouncing tinkle of the bullet casing against the dirt ground—lulled him into a death trance. Staring down into the flames stripping away flesh and bone, unveiling man for what he is: mere matter. Disposable, crushable, flammable sacks of meat—easily revertible to carbon.

The Thing was an expert in horror, but this human horror indeed exceeded any other possible fate. Not only because it was without mercy, but because it was acted upon rationally and without compulsion. It was a choice. The killing was unrelated to the larger war, and served no purpose other than evil. Men chose to do this to other men and invented reasons and places and myths in order to satisfy their desire in a logical and methodical way.

As the Nazi officer mechanically shot each man in the back of the head and kicked them forward into the consuming pit, Abraham’s will eroded. He felt nausea, not at the smells or the sights but at the knowledge—the certainty—that God was no longer in his heart. Only this pit.

The young man wept at his failure and the failure of his faith as he felt the muzzle of the Luger press against the bare skin—

Another mouth at his neck—

And then he heard the shots. From across the yard, a work crew of prisoners had taken the observation towers and were now overriding the camp, shooting every uniformed officer in sight.

The man at his back went away. Leaving Setrakian poised at the edge of that pit.

A Pole next to him in line stood and started to run—and the will seeped back into young Setrakian’s body. Hands clutched to his chest, he found himself up and running, naked, toward the camouflaged barbed-wire fence.

Gunfire all around him. Guards and prisoners bursting with blood and falling. Smoke now, and not just from the pit: fires starting all across the camp. He made it to the fence, near some others and somehow, with anonymous hands lifting him to the top, doing what his broken hands could not, he fell to the other side.

He lay on the ground, rifle rounds and machine-gun fire ripping into the dirt around him—and again, helping hands and arms raised him up, lifting him to his feet. And as his unseen helpers were torn apart by bullets, Setrakian ran and ran and found himself crying … for in the absence of God he had found Man. Man killing man, man helping man, both of them anonymous: the scourge and the blessing.

A matter of choice.

For miles he ran, even as Austrian reinforcements closed in. His feet were sliced open, his toes shattered by rocks, but nothing could stop him now that he was beyond the fence. His mind was of a single purpose as he finally reached the woods and collapsed in the darkness, hiding in the night.

DAWN

17th Precinct Headquarters, East Fifty-first Street, Manhattan

Setrakian shifted his weight, trying to get comfortable on the bench against the wall inside the precinct house holding tank. He had waited in a glass-walled prebooking area all night, stuck with many of the same thieves, drunks, and perverts he was caged in with now. During the long wait, he had had sufficient time to consider the scene he had made outside the coroner’s office, and realized he had spoiled his best chance at reaching the federal disease control agency in the person of Dr. Goodweather.

Of course he had come off like a crazy old man. Maybe he was slipping. Going wobbly like a gyroscope at the end of its revolutions. Maybe the years of waiting for this moment, lived on that line between dread and hope, had taken their toll.

Part of getting old is checking oneself constantly. Keeping a good firm grip on the handrail. Making sure you’re still you.

No. He knew what he knew. The only thing wrong with him now was that he was being driven mad by desperation. Here he was, being held captive in a police station in Midtown Manhattan, while all around him …

Be smart, you old fool. Find a way out of here. You’ve worked your way out of far worse places than this.

He replayed the scene from the booking area in his mind. In the middle of his giving his name and address and having the charges of disturbing the peace and criminal trespass explained to him, and signing a property form for his walking stick (“It is of immense personal significance,” he had told the sergeant) and his heart pills, a Mexican youth of eighteen or nineteen was brought in, wrists handcuffed behind him. The youth had been roughed up, his face scratched, his shirt torn.

What caught Setrakian’s eye were the burn holes in his black pants and across his shirt.

“This is bullshit, man!” said the youth, arms pulled tight behind him, leaning back as he was pushed ahead by detectives. “That puto was crazy. Dude was loco, he was naked, running in the streets. Attacking people. He came at us!” The detectives dropped him, hard, into a chair. “You didn’t see him, man. That fucker bled white. He had this fucking … this thing in his mouth! It wasn’t fucking human!”

One of the detectives came over to Setrakian’s booking sergeant’s cubicle, wiping sweat off his face with a paper towel. “Crazy-ass Mex. Two-time juvie loser, just turned eighteen. Killed a man this time, in a fight. Him and a buddy, must have jumped the guy, stripped off his clothes. Tried to roll him right in the middle of Times Square.”

The booking sergeant rolled his eyes and continued pecking at his keyboard. He asked Setrakian another question, but Setrakian didn’t hear him. He barely felt the seat beneath him, or the warped fists his old, broken hands made. Panic nearly overtook him at the thought of facing the unfaceable again. He saw the future. He saw families torn apart, annihilation, an apocalypse of agonies. Darkness reigning over light. Hell on earth.

At that moment Setrakian felt like the oldest man on the planet.

Suddenly, his dark panic was supplanted by an equally dark impulse: revenge. A second chance. The resistance, the fight—the coming war—it had to begin with him.

Strigoi.

The plague had started.

Isolation Ward,
Jamaica Hospital Medical Center

JIM KENT, still in his street clothes, lying in the hospital bed, sputtered, “This is ridiculous. I feel fine.”

Eph and Nora stood on either side of the bed. “Let’s just call it a precaution, then,” said Eph.

“Nothing happened. He must have knocked me down as I went through the door. I think I blacked out for a minute. Maybe a low-grade concussion.”

Nora nodded. “It’s just that … you’re one of us, Jim. We want to make sure everything checks out.”

“But—why in isolation?”

“Why not?” Eph forced a smile. “We’re here already. And look—you’ve got an entire wing of the hospital to yourself. Best bargain in New York City.”

Jim’s smile showed that he wasn’t convinced. “All right,” he said finally. “But can I at least have my phone so I can feel like I’m contributing?”

Eph said, “I think we can arrange that. After a few tests.”

“And—please tell Sylvia I’m all right. She’s going to be panicked.”

“Right,” said Eph. “We’ll call her as soon as we get out of here.”

They left shaken, pausing before exiting the isolation unit. Nora said, “We have to tell him.”

“Tell him what?” said Eph, a little too sharply. “We have to find out what we’re dealing with first.”

Outside the unit, a woman with wiry hair pulled back under a wide headband stood up from the plastic chair she had pulled in from the lobby. Jim shared an apartment in the East Eighties with his girlfriend, Sylvia, a horoscope writer for the New York Post. She brought five cats to the relationship, and he brought one finch, making for a very tense household. “Can I go in?” said Sylvia.

“Sorry, Sylvia. Rules of the isolation wing—only medical personnel. But Jim said to tell you that he’s feeling fine.”

Sylvia gripped Eph’s arm. “What do you say?”

Eph said, tactfully, “He looks very healthy. We want to run some tests, just in case.”

“They said he passed out, he was a bit woozy. Why the isolation ward?”

“You know how we work, Sylvia. Rule out all the bad stuff. Go step by step.”

Sylvia looked to Nora for female reassurance.

Nora nodded and said, “We’ll get him back to you as soon as we can.”

Downstairs, in the hospital basement, Eph and Nora found an administrator waiting for them at the door to the morgue. “Dr. Goodweather, this is completely irregular. This door is never to be locked, and the hospital insists on being informed of what is going on—”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Graham,” said Eph, reading her name off her hospital ID, “but this is official CDC business.” He hated pulling rank like a bureaucrat, but occasionally being a government employee had its advantages. He took out the key he had appropriated and unlocked the door, entering with Nora. “Thank you for your cooperation,” he said, locking it again behind him.

The lights came on automatically. Redfern’s body lay underneath a sheet on a steel table. Eph selected a pair of gloves from the box near the light switch and opened up a cart of autopsy instruments.

“Eph,” said Nora, pulling on gloves herself. “We don’t even have a death certificate yet. You can’t just cut him open.”

“We don’t have time for formalities. Not with Jim up there. And besides—I don’t even know how we’re going to explain his death in the first place. Any way you look at it, I murdered this man. My own patient.”

“In self-defense.”

“I know that. You know that. But I certainly don’t have the time to waste explaining that to the police.”

He took the large scalpel and drew it down Redfern’s chest, making the Y incision from the left and right collarbones down on two diagonals to the top of the sternum, then straight down the center line of the trunk, over the abdomen to the pubis bone. He then peeled back the skin and underlying muscles, exposing the rib cage and the abdominal apron. He didn’t have time to perform a full medical autopsy. But he did need to confirm some things that had shown up on Redfern’s incomplete MRI.

He used a soft rubber hose to wash away the white, blood-like leakage and viewed the major organs beneath the rib cage. The chest cavity was a mess, cluttered with gross black masses fed by spindly feeders, veinlike offshoots attached to the pilot’s shriveled organs.

“Good God,” said Nora.

Eph studied the growths through the ribs. “It’s taken him over. Look at the heart.”

It was misshapen, shrunken. The arterial structure had been altered also, the circulatory system grown more simplified, the arteries themselves covered over with a dark, cancerous blight.

Nora said, “Impossible. We’re only thirty-six hours out from the plane landing.”

Eph flayed Redfern’s neck then, exposing his throat. The new construct was rooted in the midneck, grown out of the vestibular folds. The protuberance that apparently acted as a stinger lay in its retracted state. It connected straight into the trachea, in fact fusing with it, much like a cancerous growth. Eph elected not to anatomize further just yet, hoping instead to remove the muscle or organ or whatever it was in its entirety at a later time, to study it whole and determine its function.

Eph’s phone rang then. He turned so that Nora could pull it from his pocket with her clean gloves. “It’s the chief medical examiner’s office,” she said, reading the display. She answered it for him, and after listening for a few moments, told the caller, “We’ll be right there.”

Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, Manhattan

DIRECTOR BARNES ARRIVED at the OCME at Thirtieth and First at the same time as Eph and Nora. He stepped from his car, unmistakable in his goatee and navy-style uniform. The intersection was jammed with police cars and TV news crews set up outside the turquoise front of the morgue building.

Their credentials got them inside, all the way to Dr. Julius Mirnstein, the chief medical examiner for New York. Mirnstein was bald but for tufts of brown hair on the sides and back of his head, long faced, dour by nature, wearing the requisite white doctor’s coat over gray slacks.

“We think we were broken into overnight—we don’t know.” Dr. Mirnstein looked at an overturned computer monitor and pencils spilled from a cup. “We can’t get any of the overnight staff on the phone.” He double-checked that with an assistant who had a telephone to her ear, and who shook her head in confirmation. “Follow me.”

Down in the basement morgue, everything appeared to be in order, from the clean autopsy tables to the countertops, scales, and measuring devices. No vandalism here. Dr. Mirnstein led the way to the walk-in refrigerator and waited for Eph, Nora, and Director Barnes to join him.

The body cooler was empty. The stretchers were all still there, and a few discarded sheets, as well as some articles of clothing. A handful of dead bodies remained along the left wall. All the airplane casualties were gone.

“Where are they?” said Eph.

“That’s just it,” said Dr. Mirnstein. “We don’t know.”

Director Barnes stared at him for a moment. “Are you telling me that you believe someone broke in here overnight and stole forty-odd corpses?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Dr. Barnes. I was hoping your people could enlighten me.”

“Well,” said Barnes, “they didn’t just walk away.”

Nora said, “What about Brooklyn? Queens?”

Dr. Mirnstein said, “I have not heard from Queens yet. But Brooklyn is reporting the same thing.”

“The same thing?” said Nora. “The airline passengers’ corpses are gone?”

“Precisely,” said Dr. Mirnstein. “I called you here in the hopes that perhaps your agency had claimed these cadavers without our knowledge.”

Barnes looked at Eph and Nora. They shook their heads.

Barnes said, “Christ. I have to get on the phone with the FAA.”

Eph and Nora caught him before he did, away from Dr. Mirnstein. “We need to talk,” said Eph.

The director looked from face to face. “How is Jim Kent?”

“He looks fine. He says he feels fine.”

“Okay,” said Barnes. “What?”

“He has a perforation wound in his neck, through the throat. The same as we found on the Flight 753 victims.”

Barnes scowled. “How can that be?”

Eph briefed him on Redfern’s escape from imaging and the subsequent attack. He pulled an MRI scan from an oversize X-ray envelope and stuck it up on a wall reader, switching on the backlight. “This is the pilot’s ‘before’ picture.”

The major organs were in view, everything looked sound. “Yes?” said Barnes.

Eph said, “This is the ‘after’ picture.” He put up a scan showing Redfern’s torso clouded with shadows.

Barnes put on his half-glasses. “Tumors?”

Eph said, “It’s—uh—hard to explain, but it is new tissue, feeding off organs that were completely healthy just twenty-four hours ago.”

Director Barnes pulled down his glasses and scowled again. “New tissue? What the hell do you mean by that?”

“I mean this.” Eph went to a third scan, showing the interior of Redfern’s neck. The new growth below the tongue was evident.

“What is it?” asked Barnes.

“A stinger,” answered Nora. “Of some sort. Muscular in construction. Retractable, fleshy.”

Barnes looked at her as if she was crazy. “A stinger?”

“Yes, sir,” said Eph, quick to back her up. “We believe it’s responsible for the cut in Jim’s neck.”

Barnes looked back and forth between them. “You’re telling me that one of the survivors of the airplane catastrophe grew a stinger and attacked Jim Kent with it?”

Eph nodded and referred to the scans again as proof. “Everett, we need to quarantine the remaining survivors.”

Barnes checked Nora, who nodded rigorously, with Eph on this all the way.

Director Barnes said, “The inference is that you believe this … this tumorous growth, this biological transformation … is somehow transmissible?”

“That is our supposition and our fear,” said Eph. “Jim may well be infected. We need to determine the progression of this syndrome, whatever it is, if we want to have any chance at all of arresting it and curing him.”

“Are you telling me you saw this … this retractable stinger, as you call it?”

“We both did.”

“And where is Captain Redfern now?”

“At the hospital.”

“His prognosis?”

Eph answered before Nora could. “Uncertain.”

Barnes looked at Eph, now starting to sense that something wasn’t kosher.

Eph said, “All we are requesting is an order to compel the others to receive medical treatment—”

“Quarantining three people means potentially panicking three hundred million others.” Barnes checked their faces again, as though for final confirmation. “Do you think this relates in any way to the disappearance of these bodies?”

“I don’t know,” said Eph. What he almost said was, I don’t want to know.

“Fine,” said Barnes. “I will start the process.”

“Start the process?”

“This will take some doing.”

Eph said, “We need this now. Right now.”

“Ephraim, what you have presented me with here is bizarre and unsettling, but it is apparently isolated. I know you are concerned for the health of a colleague, but securing a federal order of quarantine means that I have to request and receive an executive order from the president, and I don’t carry those around in my wallet. I don’t see any indication of a potential pandemic just yet, and so I must go through normal channels. Until that time, I do not want you harassing these other survivors.”

“Harassing?” said Eph.

“There will be enough panic without our overstepping our obligations. I might point out to you, if the other survivors have indeed become ill, why haven’t we heard from them by now?”

Eph had no answer.

“I will be in touch.”

Barnes went off to make his calls.

Nora looked at Eph. She said, “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” She could see right through him.

“Don’t go looking up the other survivors. Don’t screw up our chance of saving Jim by pissing off this lawyer woman or scaring off the others.”

Eph was stewing when the outside doors opened. Two EMTs wheeled in an ambulance gurney with a body bag set on top, met by two morgue attendants. The dead wouldn’t wait for this mystery to play itself out. They would just keep coming. Eph foresaw what would happen to New York City in the grip of a true plague. Once the municipal resources were overwhelmed—police, fire, sanitation, morticians—the entire island, within weeks, would degenerate into a stinking pile of compost.

A morgue attendant unzipped the bag halfway—and then emitted an uncharacteristic gasp. He backed away from the table with his gloved hands dripping white, the opalescent fluid oozing from the black rubber bag, down the side of the stretcher, onto the floor.

“What the hell is this?” the attendant asked the EMTs, who stood by the doorway looking particularly disgusted.

“Traffic fatality,” said one, “following a fight. I don’t know … must have been a milk truck or something.”

Eph pulled gloves from the box on the counter and approached the bag, peering inside. “Where’s the head?”

“In there,” said the other EMT. “Somewhere.”

Eph saw that the corpse had been decapitated at the shoulders, the remaining mass of its neck splattered with gobs of white.

“And the guy was naked,” added the EMT. “Quite a night.”

Eph drew the zipper all the way down to the bottom seam. The headless corpse was overweight, male, roughly fifty. Then Eph noticed its feet.

He saw a wire wound around the bare big toe. As though there had been a casualty tag attached.

Nora saw the toe wire also, and blanched.

“A fight, you say?” said Eph.

“That’s what they told us,” said the EMT, opening the door to the outside. “Good day to you, and good luck.”

Eph zipped up the bag. He didn’t want anyone else seeing the tag wire. He didn’t want anyone asking him questions he couldn’t answer.

He turned to Nora. “The old man.”

Nora nodded. “He wanted us to destroy the corpses,” she remembered.

“He knew about the UV light.” Eph stripped off his latex gloves, thinking again of Jim, lying alone in isolation—with who could say what growing inside him. “We have to find out what else he knows.”

17th Precinct Headquarters, East Fifty-first Street, Manhattan

SETRAKIAN COUNTED thirteen other men inside the room-size cage with him, including one troubled soul with fresh scratches on his neck, squatting in the corner and rubbing spit vigorously into his hands.

Setrakian had seen worse than this, of course—much worse. On another continent, in another century, he had been imprisoned as a Romanian Jew in World War II, in the extermination camp known as Treblinka. He was nineteen when the camp was brought down in 1943, still a boy. Had he entered the camp at the age he was now, he would not have lasted a few days—perhaps not even the train ride there.

Setrakian looked at the Mexican youth on the bench next to him, the one he had first seen in booking, who was now roughly the same age Setrakian had been when the war ended. His cheek was an angry blue and dried black blood clogged the slice beneath his eye. But he appeared to be uninfected.

Setrakian was more concerned about the youth’s friend, lying on the bench next to him, curled up on his side, not moving.

For his part, Gus, feeling angry and sore, and jittery now that his adrenaline was gone, grew wary of the old man looking over at him. “Got a problem?”

Others in the tank perked up, drawn by the prospect of a fight between a Mexican gangbanger and an aged Jew.

Setrakian said to him, “I have a very great problem indeed.”

Gus looked at him darkly. “Don’t we all, then.”

Setrakian felt the others turning away, now that there would be no sport to interrupt their tedium. Setrakian took a closer look at the Mexican’s curled-up friend. His arm lay over his face and neck, his knees were pulled up tight, almost into a fetal position.

Gus was looking over at Setrakian, recognizing him now. “I know you.”

Setrakian nodded, used to this, saying, “118th Street.”

“Knickerbocker Loan. Yeah—shit. You beat my brother’s ass one time.”

“He stole?”

“Tried to. A gold chain. He’s a druggie shitbag now, nothing but a ghost. But back then, he was tough. Few years older than me.”

“He should have known better.”

“He did know better. Why he tried it. That gold chain was just a trophy, really. He wanted to defy the street. Everybody warned him, ‘You don’t fuck with the pawnbroker.’”

Setrakian said, “The first week I took over the shop, someone broke my front window. I replaced it—and then I watch, and I wait. Caught the next bunch who came to break it. I gave them something to think about, and something to tell their friends. That was more than thirty years ago. I haven’t had a problem with my glass since.”

Gus looked at the old man’s crumpled fingers, outlined by wool gloves. “Your hands,” he said. “What happened, you get caught stealing once?”

“Not stealing, no,” said the old man, rubbing his hands through the wool. “An old injury. One I did not receive medical attention for until much too late.”

Gus showed him the tattoo on his hand, making a fist so that the webbing between his thumb and forefinger swelled up. It showed three black circles. “Like the design on your shop sign.”

“Three balls is an ancient symbol for a pawnbroker. But yours has a different meaning.”

“Gang sign,” said Gus, sitting back. “Means thief.”

“But you never stole from me.”

“Not that you knew, anyway,” said Gus, smiling.

Setrakian looked at Gus’s pants, the holes burned into the black fabric. “I hear you killed a man.”

Gus’s smile went away.

“You were not wounded? The cut on your face, you received from the police?”

Gus stared at him now, like the old man might be some kind of jailhouse informer. “What’s it to you?”

Setrakian said, “Did you get a look inside his mouth?”

Gus turned to him. The old man was leaning forward, almost in prayer. Gus said, “What do you know about that?”

“I know,” said the old man, without looking up, “that a plague has been loosed upon this city. And soon the world beyond.”

“This wasn’t no plague. This was some crazy psycho with kind of a … a crazy-ass tongue coming up out of his …” Gus felt ridiculous saying this aloud. “So what the fuck was that?”

Setrakian said, “What you fought was a dead man, possessed by a disease.”

Gus remembered the look on the fat man’s face, blank and hungry. His white blood. “What—like a pinche zombie?”

Setrakian said, “Think more along the lines of a man with a black cape. Fangs. Funny accent.” He turned his head so that Gus could hear him better. “Now take away the cape and fangs. The funny accent. Take away anything funny about it.”

Gus hung on the old man’s words. He had to know. His somber voice, his melancholy dread, it was contagious.

“Listen to what I have to say,” the old man continued. “Your friend here. He has been infected. You might say—bitten.”

Gus looked over at unmoving Felix. “No. No, he’s just … the cops, they knocked him out.”

“He is changing. He is in the grip of something beyond your comprehension. A disease that changes human people into non-people. This person is no longer your friend. He is turned.”

Gus remembered seeing the fat man on top of Felix, their maniacal embrace, the man’s mouth going at Felix’s neck. And the look on Felix’s face—a look of terror and awe.

“You feel how hot he is? His metabolism, racing. It takes great energy to change—painful, catastrophic changes are taking place inside his body now. The development of a parasitic organ system to accommodate his new state of being. He is metamorphosing into a feeding organism. Soon, twelve to thirty-six hours from the time of infection, but most likely tonight, he will arise. He will thirst. He will stop at nothing to satisfy his craving.”

Gus stared at the old man as though in a state of suspended animation.

Setrakian said, “Do you love your friend?”

Gus said, “What?”

“By ‘love,’ I mean honor, respect. If you love your friend—you will destroy him before he is completely turned.”

Gus’s eyes darkened. “Destroy him?”

“Kill him. Or else he will turn you.”

Gus shook his head in slow motion. “But … if you say he’s already dead … how can I kill him?”

“There are ways,” said Setrakian. “How did you kill the one who attacked you?”

“A knife. That thing coming out of his mouth—I cut up that shit.”

“His throat?”

Gus nodded. “That too. Then a truck hit him, finished the job.”

“Separating the head from the body is the surest way. Sunlight also works—direct sunlight. And there are other, more ancient methods.”

Gus turned to look at Felix. Lying there, not moving. Barely breathing. “Why doesn’t anybody know about this?” he said. He turned back to Setrakian, wondering which one of them was crazy. “Who are you really, old man?”

“Elizalde! Torrez!”

Gus was so absorbed in the conversation that he never saw the cops enter the cell. He looked up at hearing his and Felix’s names and saw four policemen wearing latex gloves come forward, geared up for a struggle. Gus was pulled to his feet before he even knew what was happening.

They tapped Felix’s shoulder, slapped at his knee. When that failed to rouse him, they lifted him up bodily, locking their arms underneath his. His head hung low and his feet dragged as they hauled him away.

“Listen, please.” Setrakian got to his feet behind them. “This man—he is sick. Dangerously ill. He has a communicable disease.”

“Why we wear these gloves, Pops,” called back one cop. They wrenched up Felix’s limp arms as they dragged him through the door. “We deal with STDs all the time.”

Setrakian said, “He must be segregated, do you hear me? Locked up separately.”

“Don’t worry, Pops. We always offer preferential treatment to killers.”

Gus’s eyes stayed on the old man as the tank door was closed and the cops pulled him away.

Stoneheart Group, Manhattan

HERE WAS the bedroom of the great man.

Climate controlled and fully automated, the presets adjustable through a small console just an arm’s reach away. The shushing of the corner humidifiers in concert with the drone of the ionizer and the whispering air-filtration system was like a mother’s reassuring hush. Every man, thought Eldritch Palmer, should slumber nightly in a womb. And sleep like a baby.

Dusk was still many hours away, and he was impatient. Now that everything was in motion—the strain spreading throughout New York City with the sure exponential force of compound interest, doubling and doubling itself again every night—he hummed with the glee of a greedy banker. No financial success, of which there had been plenty, ever enlivened him as much as did this vast endeavor.

His nightstand telephone toned once, the handset flashing. Any calls to this phone had to be routed through his nurse and assistant, Mr. Fitzwilliam, a man of extraordinary good judgment and discretion. “Good afternoon, sir.”

“Who is it, Mr. Fitzwilliam?”

“Mr. Jim Kent, sir. He says it is urgent. I am putting him through.”

In a moment, Mr. Kent, one of Palmer’s many well-placed Stoneheart Society members, said, “Yes, hello?”

“Go ahead, Mr. Kent.”

“Yes—can you hear me? I have to talk quietly …”

“I can hear you, Mr. Kent. We were cut off last time.”

“Yes. The pilot had escaped. Walked away from testing.”

Palmer smiled. “And he is gone now?”

“No. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I followed him through the hospital until Dr. Goodweather and Dr. Martinez caught up with him. They said Redfern is okay, but I can’t confirm his status. I heard another nurse saying I was alone up here. And that members of the Canary project had taken over a locked room in the basement.”

Palmer darkened. “You are alone up where?”

“In this isolation ward. Just a precaution. Redfern must have hit me or something, he knocked me out.”

Palmer was silent for a moment. “I see.”

“If you would explain to me exactly what I am supposed to be looking for, I could assist you better—”

“You said they have commandeered a room in the hospital?”

“In the basement. It might be the morgue. I will find out more later.”

Palmer said, “How?”

“Once I get out of here. They just need to run some tests on me.”

Palmer reminded himself that Jim Kent was not an epidemiologist himself, but more of a facilitator for the Canary project, with no medical training. “You sound as though you have a sore throat, Mr. Kent.”

“I do. Just a touch of something.”

“Mm-hmm. Good day, Mr. Kent.”

Palmer hung up. Kent’s exposure was merely an aggravation, but the report about the hospital morgue room was troubling. Though in any worthy venture, there are always hurdles to overcome. A lifetime of deal making had taught him that it was the setbacks and pitfalls that make final victory so sweet.

He picked up the handset again and pressed the star button.

“Yes, sir?”

“Mr. Fitzwilliam, we have lost our contact within the Canary project. You will ignore any further calls from his mobile phone.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And we need to dispatch a team to Queens. It seems there may be something in the basement of the Jamaica Hospital Medical Center that needs retrieving.”

Flatbush, Brooklyn

ANN-MARIE BARBOUR checked again to make sure that she had locked all the doors, then went through the house twice—room by room, top to bottom—touching every mirror twice in order to calm herself down. She could not pass any reflective surface without reaching out to it with the first two fingers of her right hand, a nod following each touch, a rhythmic routine resembling genuflection. Then she went through a third time, wiping each surface clean with a fifty-fifty mix of Windex and holy water until she was satisfied.

When she felt in control of herself again, she phoned her sister-in-law, Jeanie, who lived in central New Jersey.

“They’re fine,” said Jeanie, referring to the children, whom she had come and picked up the day before. “Very well behaved. How is Ansel?”

Ann-Marie closed her eyes. Tears leaked out. “I don’t know.”

“Is he better? You gave him the chicken soup I brought?”

Ann-Marie was afraid her trembling lower jaw would be detected in her speech. “I will. I … I’ll call you back.”

She hung up and looked out the back window, at the graves. Two patches of overturned dirt. Thinking of the dogs lying there.

Ansel. What he had done to them.

She scrubbed her hands, then went through the house again, just the downstairs this time. She pulled out the mahogany chest from the buffet in the dining room and opened up the good silver, her wedding silver. Shiny and polished. Her secret stash, hidden there as another woman might hide candy or pills. She touched each utensil, her fingertips going back and forth from the silver to her lips. She felt that she would fall apart if she didn’t touch every single one.

Then she went to the back door. She paused there, exhausted, her hand on the knob, praying for guidance, for strength. She prayed for knowledge, to understand what was happening, and to be shown the right thing to do.

She opened the door and walked down the steps to the shed. The shed from which she had dragged the dogs’ corpses to the corner of the yard, not knowing what else to do. Luckily, there had been an old shovel underneath the front porch, so she didn’t have to go back into the shed. She buried them in shallow soil and wept over their graves. Wept for them and for her children and for herself.

She stepped to the side of the shed, where orange and yellow mums were planted in a box beneath a small, four-pane window. She hesitated before looking inside, shading her eyes from the sunlight. Yard tools hung from pegboard walls inside, other tools stacked on shelves, and a small workbench. The sunlight through the window formed a perfect rectangle on the dirt floor, Ann-Marie’s shadow falling over a metal stake driven into the ground. A chain like the one on the door was attached to the stake, the end of which was obscured by her angle of vision. The floor showed signs of digging.

She went back to the front, stopping before the chained doors. Listening.

“Ansel?”

No more than a whisper on her part. She listened again, and, hearing nothing, put her mouth right up to the half inch of space between the rain-warped doors.

“Ansel?”

A rustling. The vaguely animalistic sound terrified her … and yet reassured her at the same time.

He was still inside. Still with her.

“Ansel … I don’t know what to do … please … tell me what to do … I can’t do this without you. I need you, dearest. Please answer me. What will I do?”

More rustling, like dirt being shaken off. A guttural noise, as from a clogged pipe.

If she could just see him. His reassuring face.

Ann-Marie reached inside the front of her blouse, drawing out the stubby key that hung on a shoelace there. She reached for the lock that secured the chain through the door handles and inserted the key, turning it until it clicked, the curved top disengaging from the thick steel base. She unwound the chain and pulled it through the metal handles, letting it fall to the grass.

The doors parted, swinging out a few inches on their own. The sun was straight overhead now, the shed dark inside but for residual light from the small window. She stood before the opening, trying to see inside.

“Ansel?”

She saw a shadow stirring.

“Ansel … you have to keep quieter, at night … Mr. Otish from across the street called the police, thinking it was the dogs … the dogs …”

She grew teary, everything threatening to spill out of her.

“I … I almost told him about you. I don’t know what to do, Ansel. What is the right thing? I am so lost here. Please … I need you …”

She was reaching for the doors when a moanlike cry shocked her. He drove at the shed doors—at her—attacking from within. Only the staked chain jerked him back, strangling an animal roar in his throat. But as the doors burst open, she saw—before her own scream, before she slammed the doors on him like shutters on a ferocious hurricane—her husband crouched in the dirt, naked but for the dog collar tight around his straining neck, his mouth black and open. He had torn away most of his hair just as he had torn off his clothes, his pale, blue-veined body filthy from sleeping—hiding—beneath the dirt like a dead thing that had burrowed into its own grave. He bared his bloodstained teeth, eyes rolling back inside his head, recoiling from the sun. A demon. She wound the chain back through the handles with wildly fluttering hands and fastened the lock, then turned and fled back into her house.

Vestry Street, Tribeca

THE LIMOUSINE took Gabriel Bolivar straight to his personal physician’s office in a building with an underground garage. Dr. Ronald Box was the primary physician for many New York-based celebrities of film, television, and music. He was not a Rock Doc, or a Dr. Feelgood, a pure prescription-writing machine—although he was liberal with his electronic pen. He was a trained internist, and well versed in drug-rehabilitation centers, the treatment of sexually transmitted diseases, hepatitis C, and other fame-related maladies.

Bolivar went up the elevator in a wheelchair, clad only in a black robe, sunk into himself like an old man. His long, silken black hair had gone dry and was falling out in patches. He covered his face with thin, arthritic-like hands so that none would recognize him. His throat was so swollen and raw that he could barely speak.

Dr. Box saw him right away. He was looking through images transferred electronically from the clinic. The images came with a note of apology from the head clinician, who saw only the results and not the patient, promising to repair their machines and suggesting another round of tests in a day or two. But, looking at Bolivar, Dr. Box didn’t think it was their equipment that was corrupt. He went over Bolivar with his stethoscope, listening to his heart, asking him to breathe. He tried to look into Bolivar’s throat, but the patient declined, wordlessly, his black-red eyes glaring in pain.

“How long have you had those contact lenses in?” asked Dr. Box.

Bolivar’s mouth curled into a jagged snarl and he shook his head.

Dr. Box looked at the linebacker standing by the door, wearing a driver’s uniform. Bolivar’s bodyguard, Elijah—six foot six, two hundred and sixty pounds—looked very nervous, and Dr. Box was becoming frightened. He examined the rock star’s hands, which appeared aged and sore yet not at all fragile. He tried to check the lymph nodes under his jaw, but the pain was too great. The temperature reading from the clinic had read 123° F, a human impossibility, and yet, standing near enough to feel the heat coming off Bolivar, Dr. Box believed it.

Dr. Box stood back.

“I don’t really know how to tell you this, Gabriel. Your body, it seems, is riddled with malignant neoplasms. That’s cancer. I’m seeing carcinoma, sarcoma, and lymphoma, and all of it is wildly metastasized. There is no medical precedent for this that I am aware of, although I will insist on involving some experts in the field.”

Bolivar just sat there, listening, a baleful look in his discolored eyes.

“I don’t know what it is, but something has you in its grip. I do mean that literally. As far as I can tell, your heart has ceased beating on its own. It appears that the cancer is … manipulating the organ now. Beating it for you. Your lungs, the same. They are being invaded and … almost absorbed, transformed. As though …” Dr. Box was just realizing this now. “As though you are in the midst of a metamorphosis. Clinically, you could be considered deceased. It appears that the cancer is keeping you alive. I don’t know what else to say to you. Your organs are all failing, but your cancer … well, your cancer is doing great.”

Bolivar sat staring into the middle distance with those frightful eyes. His neck bucked slightly, as though he were trying to formulate speech but could not get his voice past an obstruction.

Dr. Box said, “I want to check you in to Sloan-Kettering right away. We can do so under an assumed name with a dummy social security number. It’s the top cancer hospital in the country. I want Mr. Elijah to drive you there now—”

Bolivar emitted a rumbling chest groan that was an unmistakable no. He placed his hands on the armrests of the wheelchair and Elijah came forward to brace the rear handles as Bolivar rose to his feet. He took a moment regaining his balance, then picked at the belt of his robe with his sore hands, the knot falling open.

Revealed beneath his robe was his limp penis, blackened and shriveled, ready to drop from his groin like a diseased fig from a dying tree.

Bronxville

NEEVA, THE LUSSES’ NANNY, still very much rattled by the events of the past twenty-four hours, left the children in the care of her nephew, Emile, while her daughter, Sebastiane, drove her back to Bronxville. She had kept the Luss children, Keene and his eight-year-old sister, Audrey, eating Frosted Flakes for lunch, and cubed fruit, things Neeva had taken with her from the Luss house when she’d fled.

Now she was returning for more. The Luss children wouldn’t eat her Haitian cooking, and—more pressingly—Neeva had forgotten Keene’s Pulmicort, his asthma medication. The boy was wheezing and looking pasty.

They pulled in to find Mrs. Guild’s green car in the Lusses’ driveway, the sight of which gave Neeva pause. She told Sebastiane to wait for her there, then got out and straightened her slip beneath her dress, going with her key to the side entrance. The door opened without any tone, the house alarm not set. Neeva walked through the perfectly appointed mudroom with built-in cubbies and coat hooks and heated tile floor—a mudroom that had never seen any mud—and pushed through the French doors into the kitchen.

It did not appear that anyone had been in the room since she had left with the children. She stood still inside the doorway and listened with extraordinary attention, holding her breath for as long as she could before exhaling. She heard nothing.

“Hallo?” she called a few times, wondering if Mrs. Guild, with whom she had a largely silent relationship—the housekeeper, Neeva suspected, was a silent racist—would answer. Wondering if Joan—a mother so devoid of natural maternal instinct as to be, for all her lawyerly success, like a child herself—would answer. And knowing, in both cases, that they would not.

Hearing nothing, she crossed to the central island and laid her bag gently down on it, between the sink and the countertop range. She opened the snack cabinet, and quickly, a bit more like a thief than she had imagined, filled a Food Emporium bag with crackers and juice pouches and Smartfood popcorn—stopping once in a while to listen.

After raiding the paneled refrigerator of string cheese and yogurt drinks, she noticed Mr. Luss’s number on the contact sheet taped to the wall near the kitchen phone. A bolt of uncertainty shot through her. What could she say to him? Your wife is ill. She is not right. So I take the children. No. As it was, she barely exchanged words with the man. There was something evil in this magnificent house, and her first and only duty—both as an employee and as a mother herself—was the safety of the children.

She checked the cabinet over the built-in wine cooler, but the box of Pulmicort was empty, just as she had dreaded. She had to go down to the basement pantry. At the top of the curling, carpeted stairs, she paused and pulled from her bag her black enameled crucifix. She descended with it at her side just in case. From the bottom step, the basement appeared very dark for that time of day. She flipped up every switch on the panel and stood listening after the lights came on.

They called it the basement, but it was actually another fully appointed floor of their home. They had installed a home theater downstairs, complete with theater chairs and a reproduction popcorn cart. Another subroom was jammed with toys and game tables; another was the laundry where Mrs. Guild kept up with the family’s clothing and linens. There was also a fourth bathroom, the pantry, and a recently installed temperature-controlled wine cellar. It was European in style, the workers having broken through the basement foundation to create a pure dirt floor.

The heat came rumbling on with a sound like that of somebody kicking the furnace—the actual working guts of the basement were hidden behind a door somewhere—and the sound nearly sent Neeva through the ceiling. She turned back to the stairs, but the boy needed his nebulizer medicine, his color wasn’t good.

She crossed the basement determinedly, and was between two leather theater chairs, halfway to the folding door of the pantry, when she noticed the stuff stacked up against the windows. Why it had seemed so dark down there in the middle of the day: toys and old packing cartons were arranged in a tower up the wall, obscuring the small windows, with old clothes and newspapers snuffing out every ray of the day’s sun.

Neeva stared, wondering who had done this. She hurried to the pantry, finding Keene’s asthma medicine stacked on the same steel-wire shelf as Joan’s vitamins and tubs of candy-colored Tums. She pulled down two long boxes of the plastic vials, ignoring the rest of the food in her haste, rushing away without closing the door.

Starting back across the basement, she noticed that the door to the laundry room was ajar. Something about that door, which was never left open, represented the disruption of normal order that Neeva felt so palpably in this house.

She saw rich and dark dirt stains on the plush carpeting then, spaced almost like footprints. Her eye followed them to the wine cellar door she had to pass in order to reach the stairs. She saw soil smeared on the door handle.

Neeva felt it as she neared the wine cellar door. From that earthen room, a tomblike blackness. A soullessness. And yet—not a coldness. Instead, a contradictory warmth. A heat, lurking and seething.

The door handle began to turn as she rushed past it to the stairs. Neeva, a fifty-three-year-old woman with bad knees, her feet as much kicking at the steps as running up them. She stumbled, steadying herself against the wall with her hand, the crucifix gouging out a small chunk of plaster. Something was behind her, coming up the stairs at her. She yelled in Creole as she emerged into the sunlit first floor, running the length of the long kitchen, grabbing her handbag, knocking over the Food Emporium bag, snacks and drinks crashing to the floor, too scared to turn back.

The sight of her mother running screaming from the house in her ankle-length floral dress and black shoes brought Sebastiane out of her car. “No!” yelled her mother, motioning her back inside. She ran as if she was being chased, but in fact there was no one behind her. Sebastiane dropped back into her seat, alarmed.

“Mama, what happened?”

“Drive!” Neeva yelled, her large chest heaving, her eyes still wild, focused on the open side door.

“Mama,” said Sebastiane, putting the car into reverse. “This is kidnapping. They have laws. Did you call the husband? You said you would call the husband.”

Neeva opened her palm, finding it bloody. She had gripped the beaded crucifix so tightly the crosspiece had cut into her flesh. She let it fall to the floor of the car.

17th Precinct Headquarters, East Fifty-first Street, Manhattan

THE OLD PROFESSOR sat at the very end of the bench inside lockup, as far away as possible from a shirtless, snoring man who had just relieved himself without wishing to trouble anyone else for directions to the toilet in the corner of the room, or even removing his pants.

“Setraykeen … Setarkian … Setrainiak …”

“Here,” he answered, rising and walking toward the remedial reader in the police officer’s uniform by the open tank door. The officer let him out and closed the door behind him.

“Am I being released?” asked Setrakian.

“I guess so. Your son’s here to pick you up.”

“My—”

Setrakian held his tongue. He followed the officer to an unmarked interrogation room. The cop pulled open the door and motioned for him to walk inside.

It took Setrakian a few moments, just long enough for the door to close behind him, to recognize the person on the other side of the bare table as Dr. Ephraim Goodweather of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

Next to him was the female doctor who had been with him before. Setrakian smiled appreciatively at their ruse, though he was not surprised by their presence.

Setrakian said, “So it has begun.”

Dark circles—like bruises of fatigue and sleeplessness—hung under Dr. Goodweather’s eyes as he looked the old man up and down. “You want out of here, we can get you out. First I need an explanation. I need information.”

“I can answer many of your questions. But we have lost so much time already. We must begin now—this moment—if we have any chance at all of containing this insidious thing.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” said Dr. Goodweather, thrusting out one hand rather harshly. “What is this insidious thing?”

“The passengers from the plane,” said Setrakian. “The dead have risen.”

Eph did not know how to answer that. He couldn’t say. He wouldn’t say.

“There is much you will need to let go of, Dr. Goodweather,” said Setrakian. “I understand that you believe you are taking a risk in trusting the word of an old stranger. But, in a sense, I am taking a thousandfold greater risk entrusting this responsibility to you. What we are discussing here is nothing less than the fate of the human race—though I don’t expect you to quite believe that yet, or understand it. You think that you are drafting me into your cause. The truth of the matter is, I am drafting you into mine.”

THE OLD PROFESSOR

Knickerbocker Loans and Curios, East 118th Street, Spanish Harlem

Eph put up his EMERGENCY BLOOD DELIVERY windshield placard and parked in a marked loading zone on East 119th Street, following Setrakian and Nora one block south to his corner pawnshop. The doors were gated, the windows shuttered with locked metal plates. Despite the tilted CLOSED sign jammed in the door glass over the store hours, a man in a tattered black peacoat and a high knit hat—like the kind Rastafarians liked to wear, except that he lacked the ropy dreadlocks to fill it out, so it sagged off his head like a collapsed soufflé—stood at the door with a shoe box in his hand, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

Setrakian came out with keys dangling from a chain, busying himself with the locks up and down the door grates, making his gnarled fingers work. “No pawns today,” he said, allowing himself a sidelong glance at the box in the man’s hand.

“Look here.” The man produced a bundle of linen from the shoe box, a dinner napkin he unwrapped to reveal nine or ten utensils. “Good silverware. You buy silver, I know that.”

“I do, yes.” Setrakian, having unlocked the grate, rested the handle of his tall walking stick against his shoulder and selected a knife, weighing it, rubbing the blade with his fingers. After patting his vest pockets, he turned to Eph. “Do you have ten dollars, Doctor?”

In the interest of hurrying this along, Eph reached for his money clip and peeled off a ten-dollar bill. He handed it to the man with the shoe box.

Setrakian then handed the man back his utensils. “You take,” he said. “Not real silver.”

The man accepted the handout gratefully and backed away with the shoe box under his arm. “God bless.”

Setrakian said, entering his shop, “We’ll soon see about that.”

Eph watched his money hustle off down the street, then followed Setrakian inside.

“The lights are right on the wall there,” said the old man, pulling the gate ends to meet again, locking up.

Nora threw all three switches at once, illuminating glass cabinets, display walls, and the entrance where they stood. It was a small corner shop, wedge-shaped, banged into the city block with a wooden hammer. The first word that came to Eph’s mind was “junk.” Lots and lots of junk. Old stereo systems. VCRs and other outdated electronics. A wall display of musical instruments, including a banjo and a Keytar guitarlike keyboard from the 1980s. Religious statues and collectible plates. A couple of turntables and small mixing boards. A locked glass countertop featuring cheap brooches and high-flash, low-quality bling. Racks of clothes, mostly winter coats with fur collars.

So much junk that his heart fell a little. Had he entrusted this precious time to a crazy person?

“Look,” he told the old man, “we have a colleague, we believe he is infected.”

Setrakian passed him, tapping his oversize walking stick. He lifted the hinged counter with his gloved hand and invited Eph and Nora through. “We go up here.”

A back staircase led to a door on the second floor. The old man touched the mezuzah before entering, leaning his tall stick against the wall. It was an aged apartment of low ceilings and worn-out rugs. The furniture hadn’t been moved in perhaps thirty years.

“You are hungry?” Setrakian asked. “Look around, you’ll find something.” Setrakian lifted the top of a fancy pastry container, revealing an open box of Devil Dogs. He lifted one out, tearing open its cellophane wrapper. “Don’t let your energy run down. Keep up your strength. You’ll need it.”

The old man bit into the crème-filled cake on his way to a bedroom to change clothes. Eph looked around the small kitchen, and then at Nora. The place smelled clean despite its cluttered appearance. Nora lifted, from the table with only one chair, a framed black-and-white portrait of a young raven-haired woman in a simple dark dress, posed upon a great rock at an otherwise empty beach, fingers laced over one bare knee, pleasant features arranged in a winning smile. Eph returned to the hallway through which they had entered, looking into the old mirrors hanging from the walls—dozens of them, of all different sizes, time-streaked and imperfect. Old books were stacked along both sides of the floor, narrowing the passageway.

The old man reappeared, having changed into different articles of the same sort of clothing: an old tweed suit with vest, braces, a necktie, and brown leather shoes buffed until thin. He still wore wool tipless gloves over his damaged hands.

“I see you collect mirrors,” Eph said.

“Certain kinds. I find older glass to be most revealing.”

“Are you now ready to tell us what is going on?”

The old man dipped his head gently to one side. “Doctor, this isn’t something one simply tells. It is something that must be revealed.” He moved past Eph to the door through which they had entered. “Please—come with.”

Eph followed him back down the stairs, Nora behind him. They passed the first-floor pawnshop, continuing through another locked door to another curling flight leading down. The old man descended, one angled step at a time, his gnarled hand sliding down the cool iron rail, his voice filling the narrow passageway. “I consider myself a repository of ancient knowledge, of persons dead and books long forgotten. Knowledge accumulated over a life of study.”

Nora said, “When you stopped us outside the morgue, you said a number of things. You indicated that you knew the dead from the airplane were not decomposing normally.”

“Correct.”

“Based upon?”

“My experience.”

Nora was confused. “Experience with other aircraft-related incidents?”

“The fact that they were on an airplane is completely incidental. I have seen this phenomenon before, indeed. In Budapest, in Basra. In Prague and not ten kilometers outside Paris. I have seen it in a tiny fishing village on the banks of the Yellow River. I have seen it at a seven-thousand-feet elevation in the Altai Mountains of Mongolia. And yes, I have seen it on this continent as well. Seen its traces. Usually dismissed as a fluke, or explained away as rabies or schizophrenia, insanity, or, most recently, an occasion of serial murder—”

“Hold on, hold on. You yourself have seen corpses slow to decompose?”

“It is the first stage, yes.”

Eph said, “The first stage.”

The landing curled to an end at a locked door. Setrakian produced a key, separate from the rest, hanging from a chain around his neck. The old man’s crooked fingers worked the key into two padlocks, one large, one small. The door opened inward, hot lights coming on automatically, and they followed him inside the humming basement room, bright and deep.

The first thing to catch Eph’s eye was a wall of battle armor, ranging from full knight’s wear to chain mail to Japanese samurai torso and neck plates, and cruder gear made of woven leather for protecting the neck, chest, and groin. Weapons also: mounted swords and knives, their blades fashioned of bright, cold steel. More modern-looking devices were arranged on an old, low table, their battery packs in chargers. He recognized night-vision goggles and modified nail guns. And more mirrors, mostly pocket-size, arranged so that he could see himself staring in bewilderment at this gallery of … of what?

“The shop”—the old man gestured to the floor above them—“gave me a fair living, but I did not come to this line of business because of an affinity for transistor radios and heirloom jewelry.”

He closed the door behind them, the lights around the door frame going dark. The installed fixtures ran the height and length of the door—purple tubes Eph recognized as ultraviolet lamps—arranged around the door like a force field of light.

To prohibit germs from entering the room? Or to keep something else out?

“No,” he continued, “the reason I chose it as my profession was because it afforded me ready access to an underground market of esoteric items, antiquities, and tomes. Illicit, though not usually illegal. Acquired for my personal collection, and my research.”

Eph looked around again. This looked less like a museum collection than a small arsenal. “Your research?”

“Indeed. I was for many years a professor of Eastern European Literature and Folklore at the University of Vienna.”

Eph appraised him again. He sure dressed like a Viennese professor. “And you retired to become a Harlem pawnbroker-slash-curator?”

“I did not retire. I was made to leave. Disgraced. Certain forces aligned against me. And yet, as I look back now, going underground at that time most certainly saved my life. It was in fact the best thing I could have done.” He turned to face them, folding his hands behind his back, professorially. “This scourge we are now witnessing in its earliest stages has existed for centuries. Over millennia. I suspect, though cannot prove, it goes back to the most ancient of times.”

Eph nodded, not understanding the man, only glad to finally be making some progress. “So we are talking about a virus.”

“Yes. Of sorts. A strain of disease that is a corruption of both the flesh and the spirit.” The old man was positioned in such a way that, from Eph’s and Nora’s perspective, the array of swords on the wall fanned out on either side of him like steel-bladed wings. “So, a virus? Yes. But I should also like to introduce you to another v word.”

“What’s that?” he said.

“Vampire.”

A word like that, spoken in earnestness, hangs in the air for a while.

“You are thinking,” said Setrakian, the former professor, “of a moody overactor in a black satin cape. Or else a dashing figure of power, with hidden fangs. Or some existential soul burdened with the curse of eternal life. Or—Bela Lugosi meets Abbott and Costello.”

Nora was looking around the room again. “I don’t see any crucifixes or holy water. No strings of garlic.”

“Garlic has certain interesting immunological properties, and can be useful in its own right. So its presence in the mythology is biologically understandable, at any rate. But crucifixes and holy water?” He shrugged. “Products of their time. Products of one Victorian author’s fevered Irish imagination, and the religious climate of the day.”

Setrakian had expected their expressions of doubt.

“They have always been here,” he continued. “Nesting, feeding. In secret and in darkness, because that is their nature. There are seven originals, known as the Ancients. The Masters. Not one per continent. They are not solitary beings as a rule, but clannish. Until very recently—‘recently’ considering their open-ended life span—they were all spread throughout the greatest landmass, what we know today as Europe and Asia, the Russian federation, the Arabian peninsula, and the African continent. Which is to say, the Old World. There was a schism, a clash among their kind. The nature of this disagreement, I do not know. Suffice it to say, this rift preceded the discovery of the New World by centuries. Then the founding of the American colonies opened the door to a new and fertile land. Three remained behind in the Old World, and three went ahead to the New. Both sides respected the other’s domain, and a truce was agreed upon and upheld.

“The problem was that seventh Ancient. He is a rogue who turned his back on both factions. While I cannot prove it at this time, the abrupt nature of this act leads me to believe that he is behind this.”

“This,” said Nora.

“This incursion into the New World. Breaking the solemn truce. This upsetting of the balance of their breed’s existence. An act, essentially, of war.”

Eph said, “A war of vampires.”

Setrakian’s smile was for himself. “You simplify because you cannot believe. You reduce; you diminish. Because you were raised to doubt and debunk. To reduce to a small set of knowns for easy digestion. Because you are a doctor, a man of science, and because this is America—where everything is known and understood, and God is a benevolent dictator, and the future must always be bright.” He clasped his gnarled hands, as best as he could, touching his bare fingertips to his lips in a pensive moment. “This is the spirit here, and it is beautiful. Truly—I don’t mock. Wonderful to believe only in what you wish to believe in, and to discount all else. I do respect your skepticism, Dr. Goodweather. And I say this to you in the hope that you will in turn respect my experience in this matter, and allow my observations into your highly civilized and scientific mind.”

Eph said, “So you’re saying, the airplane … one of them was on it. This rogue.”

“Exactly.”

“In the coffin. In the cargo hold.”

“A coffin full of soil. They are of the earth, and like to return to that from which they arose. Like worms. Vermis. They burrow to nest. We would call it sleep.”

“Away from daylight,” said Nora.

“From sunlight, yes. It is in transit that they are most vulnerable.”

“But you said this is a war of vampires. But isn’t it vampires against people? All those dead passengers.”

“This too will be difficult for you to accept. But to them we are not enemies. We are not worthy foes. We don’t even rise to that level in their eyes. To them we are prey. We are food and drink. Animals in a pen. Bottles upon a shelf.”

Eph felt a chill, but then just as quickly rejected his own shivery response. “And to someone who would say this sounds like so much science fiction?”

Setrakian pointed to him. “That device in your pocket. Your mobile telephone. You punch in a few numbers, and immediately you are in conversation with another person halfway around the world. That is science fiction, Dr. Goodweather. Science fiction come true.” Here Setrakian smiled. “Do you require proof?”

Setrakian went to a low bench set against the long wall. There was a thing there covered in a drape of black silk and he reached for it in an odd way, his arm outstretched, pinching the nearest edge of fabric while keeping his body as far away from it as possible, and then drawing the cover off.

A glass container. A specimen jar, available from any medical supply house.

Inside, suspended in a dusky fluid, was a well-preserved human heart.

Eph stooped to regard it from a few feet away. “Adult female, judging by the size. Healthy. Fairly young. A fresh specimen.” He looked back at Setrakian. “Where’d you get it?”

“I cut it out of the chest of a young widow in a village outside Shkodër, in northern Albania, in the spring of 1971.”

Eph smiled at the strangeness of the old man’s tale, leaning in for a closer look at the jar.

Something like a tentacle shot out of the heart, a sucker at its tip grabbing the glass where Eph’s eye was.

Eph straightened fast. He froze, staring at the jar.

Nora, next to him, said, “Um … what the hell was that?”

The heart began moving in the serum.

It was throbbing.

Beating.

Eph watched the flattened, mouthlike sucker head scour the glass. He looked at Nora, next to him, staring at the heart. Then he looked at Setrakian, who hadn’t moved, hands resting inside his pockets.

Setrakian said, “It animates whenever human blood is near.”

Eph stared in pure disbelief. He edged closer again, this time to the right of the sucker’s pale, lipless receptor. The outgrowth detached from the interior surface of the glass—then suddenly thrust itself toward him again.

“Jesus!” exclaimed Eph. The beating organ floated in there like some meaty, mutant fish. “It lives on without …” There was no blood supply. He looked at the stumps of its severed veins, aorta, and vena cava.

Setrakian said, “It is neither alive nor dead. It is animate. Possessed, you might say, but in the literal sense. Look closely and you will see.”

Eph watched the throbbing, which he found to be irregular, not like a true heartbeat at all. He saw something moving around inside it. Wriggling.

“A … worm?” said Nora.

Thin and pale, lip-colored, two or three inches in length. They watched it make its rounds inside the heart, like a lone sentry dutifully patrolling a long-abandoned base.

“A blood worm,” said Setrakian. “A capillary parasite that reproduces in the infected. I suspect, though have no proof, that it is the conduit of the virus. The actual vector.”

Eph shook his head in disbelief. “What about this … this sucker?”

“The virus mimics the host’s form, though it reinvents its vital systems in order to best sustain itself. In other words, it colonizes and adapts the host for its survival. The host being, in this case, a severed organ floating in a jar, the virus has found a way to evolve its own mechanism for receiving nourishment.”

Nora said, “Nourishment?”

“The worm lives on blood. Human blood.”

“Blood?” Eph squinted at the possessed heart. “From whom?”

Setrakian pulled his left hand out of his pocket. The wrinkled tips of his fingers showed at the end of the glove. The pad of his middle finger was scarred and smooth.

“A few drops every few days is enough. It will be hungry. I’ve been away.”

He went to the bench and lifted the lid off the jar—Eph stepping back to watch—and, with the point of a little penknife from his keychain, pricked the tip of his finger over the jar. He did not flinch, the act so routine that it no longer hurt him.

His blood dripped into the serum.

The sucker fed on the red drops with lips like that of a hungry fish.

When he was done, the old man dabbed a bit of liquid bandage on his finger from a small bottle on the bench, returning the lid to the jar.

Eph watched the feeder turn red. The worm inside the organ moved more fluidly and with increased strength. “And you say you’ve kept this thing going in here for …?”

“Since the spring of 1971. I don’t take many vacations …” He smiled at his little joke, looking at his pricked finger, rubbing the dried tip. “She was a revenant, one who was infected. Who had been turned. The Ancients, who wish to remain hidden, will kill immediately after feeding, in order to prevent any spread of their virus. One got away somehow, returned home to claim its family and friends and neighbors, burrowing into their small village. This widow’s heart had not been turned four hours before I found her.”

“Four hours? How did you know?”

“I saw the mark. The mark of the strigoi.”

Eph said, “Strigoi?”

“Old World term for vampire.”

“And the mark?”

“The point of penetration. A thin breach across the front of the throat, which I am guessing you have seen by now.”

Eph and Nora were nodding. Thinking about Jim.

Setrakian added, “I should say, I am not a man who is in the habit of cutting out human hearts. This was a bit of dirty business I happened upon quite by accident. But it was absolutely necessary.”

Nora said, “And you’ve kept this thing going ever since then, feeding it like a … a pet?”

“Yes.” He looked down at the jar, almost fondly. “It serves as a daily reminder. Of what I am up against. What we are now up against.”

Eph was aghast. “In all this time … why haven’t you shown this to anyone? A medical school. The evening news?”

“Were it that easy, Doctor, the secret would have become known years ago. There are forces aligned against us. This is an ancient secret, and it reaches deep. Touches many. The truth would never be allowed to reach a mass audience, but would be suppressed, and myself with it. Why I’ve been hiding here—hiding in plain sight—all these years. Waiting.”

This kind of talk raised the hair on the back of Eph’s neck. The truth was right there, right in front of him: the human heart in a jar, housing a worm that thirsted for the old man’s blood.

“I’m not very good with secrets that imperil the future of the human race. No one else knows about this?”

“Oh, someone does. Yes. Someone powerful. The Master—he could not have traveled unaided. A human ally must have arranged for his safeguarding and transportation. You see—vampires cannot cross bodies of flowing water unless aided by a human. A human inviting them in. And now the seal—the truce—has been broken. By an alliance between strigoi and human. That is why this incursion is so shocking. And so fantastically threatening.”

Nora turned to Setrakian. “How much time do we have?”

The old man had already run the numbers. “It will take this thing less than one week to finish off all of Manhattan, and less than a month to overtake the country. In two months—the world.”

“No way,” said Eph. “Not going to happen.”

“I admire your determination,” said Setrakian. “But you still don’t quite know what it is you are up against.”

“Okay,” Eph said. “Then tell me—where do we start?”

Park Place, Tribeca

VASILIY FET pulled up in his city-marked van outside an apartment building down in Lower Manhattan. It didn’t look like much from the outside, but had an awning and a doorman, and this was Tribeca after all. He would have double-checked the address were it not for the health department van parked illegally out in front, yellow dash light twirling. Ironically, in most buildings and homes in most parts of the city, exterminators were welcomed with open arms, like police arriving at the scene of a crime. Vasiliy didn’t think that would be the case here.

His own van said BPCS-CNY on the back, standing for Bureau of Pest Control Services, City of New York. The health department inspector, Bill Furber, met him on the stairs inside. Billy had a sloping blond mustache that rode out the face waves caused by his constant jawing of nicotine-replacement gum. “Vaz,” he called him, which was short for Vasya, the familiar diminutive form of his given Russian name. Vaz, or, simply, V, as he was often called, second-generation Russian, his gruff voice all Brooklyn. He was a big man, filling most of the stairway.

Billy clapped him on the arm, thanked him for coming. “My cousin’s niece here, got bit on the mouth. I know—not my kinda building, but what can I do, they married into real estate money. Just so you know—it’s family. I told them I was bringing in the best rat man in the five boroughs.”

Vasiliy nodded with the quiet pride characteristic of exterminators. An exterminator succeeds in silence. Success means leaving behind no indication of his success, no trace that a problem ever existed, that a pest had ever been present or a single trap laid. It means that order has been preserved.

He pulled his wheeled case behind him like a computer repairman’s tool kit. The interior of the loft opened to high ceilings and wide rooms, an eighteen-hundred-square-foot condo that cost three million easily in New York real estate dollars. Seated on a short, firm, basketball-orange sofa inside a high-tech room done in glass, teak, and chrome, a young girl clutched a doll and her mother. A large bandage covered the girl’s upper lip and cheek. The mother wore her hair buzzed short; eyeglasses with narrow, rectangular frames; and a nubby, green knee-length wool skirt. She looked to Vasiliy like a visitor from a very hip, androgynous future. The girl was young, maybe five or six, and still frightened. Vasiliy would have attempted a smile, but his was the sort of face that rarely put children at ease. He had a jaw like the flat back of an ax blade and widely spaced eyes.

A panel television hung on the wall like a wide, glass-framed painting. On it, the mayor was speaking into a bouquet of microphones. He was trying to answer questions about the missing dead from the airplane, the bodies that had disappeared from the city’s morgues. The NYPD was on high alert, and actively stopping all refrigerated trucks at bridges and tunnels. A TIPS line had been set up. The victims’ families were outraged, and funerals had been put on hold.

Bill led Vasiliy to the girl’s bedroom. A canopy bed, a gem—encrusted Bratz television and matching laptop, and an animatronic butterscotch pony in the corner. Vasiliy’s eyes went immediately to a food wrapper near the bed. Toasted crackers with peanut butter inside. He liked those himself.

“She was in here taking a nap,” said Billy. “Woke up feeling something gnawing on her lip. The thing was up on her pillow, Vaz. A rat in her bed. Kid won’t sleep for a month. You ever heard of this?”

Vasiliy shook his head. There were rats in and around every building in Manhattan—no matter what landlords say or tenants think—but they didn’t like to make their presence known, especially in the middle of the day. Rat attacks generally involve children, most often around the mouth, because that’s where the food smell is. Norway rats—Rattus norvegicus, city rats—have a highly defined sense of smell and taste. Their front incisors are long and sharp, stronger than aluminum, copper, lead, and iron. Gnawing rats are responsible for one-quarter of all electric-cable breaks in the city, and the likely culprit behind the same percentage of fires of unknown origin. Their teeth are comparable in pure hardness to steel, and the alligator-like structure of their jaw allows for thousands of pounds of biting pressure. They can chew through cement and even stone.

Vasiliy said, “Did she see the rat?”

“She didn’t know what it was. She screamed and flailed and it ran off. The emergency room told them it was a rat.”

Vasiliy went to the window that was open a few inches to let in a breeze. He pushed it open farther and looked down three stories to a narrow cobblestone alley. The fire escape was ten or twelve feet from the window, but the centuries-old brick facing was uneven and craggy. People think of rats as squat and waddling, when in fact they move with squirrel-like agility. Especially when motivated by food or by fear.

Vasiliy pulled the girl’s bed away from the wall and shed its bedding. He moved a dollhouse, a bureau, and a bookcase in order to look behind them, but he did not expect to find the rat still in the bedroom. He was merely eliminating the obvious.

He stepped out into the hallway, pulling his wheeled cart along the smooth, varnished wood. Rats have poor eyesight and move largely by feel. They get about quickly by repetition, wearing paths along low walls, rarely traveling more than sixty feet from their nest. They don’t trust unfamiliar settings. This rat would have found the door and turned the corner, hugging the right-hand wall, his coarse fur gliding against the floorboard. The next open door led into a bathroom, the young daughter’s own, decorated with a strawberry-shaped bath mat, a pale pink shower curtain, and a basket of bath bubbles and toys. Vasiliy scanned the room for hiding places, then sniffed the air. He nodded to Billy, who then closed the door on him.

Billy lingered a minute, listening, then decided to head back out to reassure the mother. He was almost there when he heard, from the hallway bathroom, a terrific BANG!—the sound of bottles falling into the bathtub—and a loud grunt and Vasiliy’s voice, grown fierce, spurting Russian invective.

The mother and daughter looked stricken. Billy held out a hand to them in a gesture of patience—having accidentally swallowed his gum—then rushed back down the hall.

Vasiliy opened the bathroom door. He was wearing Kevlar-sleeved trapping gloves and holding a large sack. Something in the sack was writhing and pawing. And that something was big.

Vasiliy nodded once and handed the sack to Billy.

Billy couldn’t do anything other than take it, otherwise the sack would fall and the rat would escape. He hoped the fabric was as sturdy as it seemed, the big rat twisting and fighting inside. Billy held the sack out as far from his body as his arm would reach while still allowing him to hold the flailing rat aloft. Vasiliy was, meanwhile, calmly—but too slowly—opening his cart. He removed a sealed package, a sponge prepared with halothane. Vasiliy took back the sack, and Billy was only too happy to relinquish it. He opened the top just long enough to drop the anesthetic inside, then closed it again. The rat struggled just as violently at first. Then it began to slow down. Vasiliy shook the sack to speed up the process.

He waited a few more moments after the fighting stopped, then opened the sack and reached inside, pulling the rat out tail first. It was sedated but not unconscious, its pink-digited front paws still digging their sharp nails into the air, its jaw snapping, its shiny black eyes open. This was a good-size one, maybe eight inches of body, the tail another eight. Its tough fur was dark gray on top, dirty white below. Nobody’s escaped pet, this was a wild city rat.

Billy had moved many steps back. He had seen plenty of rats in his day, yet he never got used to them. Vasiliy seemed to be okay with it.

“She’s pregnant,” he said. Rats gestate for just twenty-one days and can birth a litter of up to twenty pups. One healthy female can breed two hundred and fifty pups each year—with half of that litter more females ready to mate. “Want me to bleed her for the lab?”

Billy shook his head, showing almost as much disgust as though Vasiliy had asked if he wanted to eat it. “The girl had her shots at the hospital. Look at the size, Vaz. In the good name of Christ. I mean, this isn’t”—Billy lowered his voice—“this isn’t some tenement in Bushwick, you catch my drift?”

Vasiliy did catch his drift. Intimately. Vasiliy’s parents had first settled in Bushwick after they came over. Bushwick had seen waves of émigrés since the mid-1800s: the Germans, the English, the Irish, the Russians, the Polish, the Italians, the African Americans, the Puerto Ricans. Now it was Dominicans, Guyanese, Jamaicans, Ecuadorians, Indians, Koreans, Southeast Asians. Vasiliy spent a lot of time in the poorest neighborhoods of New York. He knew of families who used couch cushions, books, and furniture to wall off parts of their apartments every night, trying to keep out rats.

But this attack, indeed, was different. Daylight. The boldness. Usually it is only the weakest rats, forced out of the colony, who surface in search of food. This was a strong, healthy female. Highly unusual. Rats coexist in a fragile balance with man, exploiting the vulnerabilities of civilization, living off the larger breed’s waste and refuse, lurking just out of sight, behind the walls or beneath the floorboards. The appearance of a rat symbolizes human anxiety and fear. Any incursion beyond the usual nocturnal scavenging indicates an alteration in the environment. Like man, rats are not accustomed to taking unnecessary risks: they have to be forced from the underground.

“Want me to comb it for fleas?”

“Christ, no. Just bag it and get rid of it. Whatever you do, don’t show it to the girl. She’s traumatized enough as it is.”

Vasiliy pulled a large plastic bag from his kit and sealed the rat inside it with another sponge of halothane, this one a fatal dose. He stuffed the bag inside the sack to hide the evidence, then continued about his business, starting in the kitchen. He pulled out the heavy, eight-burner stove and the dishwasher. He checked the pipe holes under the sink. He saw no droppings, no burrows, but he seeded a little bait behind the cabinets anyway, because he was there. He did so without telling the occupants. People get nervous about poison, especially parents, but the truth is that rat poison is all over every building and street in Manhattan. Anything you see that resembles berry blue Pop Rocks or green kibble, you know rats have been spotted nearby.

Billy followed him down into the basement. It was neat and orderly, with no evident trash or soft refuse for nesting. Vasiliy scanned the space, sniffing for droppings. He had a good nose for rats, just as rats had a good nose for humans. He switched off the light, much to Bill’s discomfort, and switched on the flashlight he wore clipped to the belt of his light blue overalls, shining purple instead of white. Rodent urine shows up indigo blue under black light, but here he saw none. He baited the crawl spaces with rodenticide and put down corner “motel”-type traps, just in case, then followed Billy back up to the lobby.

Billy thanked Vasiliy and told him he owed him one, and they went their separate ways at the door. Vasiliy was still puzzled though, and, after returning his kit and the dead rat to the back of his van, lit a Dominican corona and started walking. He went down the street and around to the cobblestone alley he had looked down upon from the girl’s window. Tribeca was the sole remaining neighborhood in Manhattan with any alleys left.

Vasiliy hadn’t gone more than a few steps before he saw his first rat. Skittering along the edge of a building, feeling its way around. He then saw another on the branch of a small, struggling tree grown up alongside a short brick wall. And a third, squatting in the stone gutter, drinking brown effluent flowing from some unseen garbage or sewage source.

As he stood there watching, rats started appearing out of the cobblestones. Literally, clawing up from between the worn-down stones, surfacing from the underground. Rats’ skeletons are collapsible, allowing them to squeeze through holes no larger than the size of their skulls, about three-quarters of an inch in width. They were coming up through the gaps in twos and threes, and quickly scattering. Using the twelve-by-three stones as a ruler, Vasiliy estimated that these rats ranged from eight to ten inches in body length, doubled by their tail. In other words, fully grown adults.

Two garbage bags near him were twitching and bulging, rats eating their way through their insides. A small rat tried to dart past him to a trash barrel, and Vasiliy kicked out with his work boot, punting the muncher back fifteen feet. It landed in the middle of the alley, not moving. Within seconds, the other rats were greedily upon it, long, yellow incisors biting through fur. The most effective and efficient way to exterminate rats is to remove the food source from their environment and then let them eat one another.

These rats were hungry, and they were on the run. Such daytime surface activity was practically unheard of. This kind of mass displacement only happened in the wake of an event such as an earthquake or a building collapse.

Or, occasionally, a large construction project.

Vasiliy continued another block south, crossing Barclay Street to where the city opened up to the sky above, a sixteen-acre job site.

He stepped up to one of the viewing platforms overlooking the location of the former World Trade Center. They were nearing completion of the deep underground basin meant to support the new construction, the cement and steel columns now starting to rise out of the ground. The site existed like a gouge in the city—like the gnaw in the little girl’s face.

Vasiliy remembered that apocalyptic September of 2001. A few days after the Twin Towers’ collapse, he had gone in with the health department, starting with the shuttered restaurants around the perimeter of the site, clearing away abandoned food. Then down into the basements and underground rooms, never once seeing a live rat, but plenty of evidence of their presence, including miles of rat tracks enshrined in the settled dust. He remembered most vividly a Mrs. Fields cookie shop, almost entirely eaten through. The rat population was exploding at the site, the concern being that the rats would spill out of the ruins in search of new food sources, swarming into the surrounding streets and neighborhoods. So a massive, federally funded containment program was undertaken. Thousands of bait stations and steel-wire traps were set down in and around Ground Zero, and, thanks to Vasiliy’s vigilance and that of others like him, the feared invasion never did materialize.

Vasiliy remained on a government contract to this day, his department overseeing a rat-control study in and around Battery Park. So he was pretty well caught up on local infestations, and had been throughout the beginnings of the construction project. And until now everything had been business as usual.

He looked down at the trucks pouring cement and the cranes moving rubble. He waited three minutes for a young boy to finish with one of the mounted viewfinders—the same kind they have on the top of the Empire State Building—then dropped in his two quarters and scanned the work site.

In a moment, he saw them, their little brown bodies scuttling out from corners, racing around stone piles, a few scampering hell bent for leather up the access road toward Liberty Street. Racing around rebar spikes marking the foundation of the Freedom Tower as though running a goddamned obstacle course. He looked for the breaks where the new construction would connect underground with the PATH subway. Then he turned the viewfinder higher and followed a line of them scrambling up the underpinnings of a steel platform along the east corner, clambering out onto strung wires. They were racing out of the basin, a mass exodus, following any escape route they could find.

Isolation Ward, Jamaica Hospital Medical Center

BEHIND THE SECOND DOOR of the isolation ward, Eph pulled on latex gloves. He would have insisted that Setrakian do the same, but another look at his crooked fingers made Eph wonder if it would even be possible.

They walked inside Jim Kent’s bay, the only occupied station in the otherwise empty ward. Jim lay sleeping now, still in his street clothes, wires from his chest and hand leading to machines whose readings were quiet. The attending nurse had said his levels were dipping so low that all the automatic alarms—low heart rate, blood pressure, respiration, oxygen levels—had to be muted, because they kept going off.

Eph pushed past the hanging curtains of clear plastic, feeling Setrakian grow tense beside him. As they got close, Kent’s vitals rose on all the readout screens—which was highly irregular.

“Like the worm in the jar,” said Setrakian. “He senses us. He senses that blood is near.”

“Can’t be,” said Eph.

He advanced farther. Jim’s vitals and brainwave activity increased.

“Jim,” said Eph.

His face was slack in sleep, his dark skin turning a putty gray color. Eph could see his pupils moving fast beneath his eyelids in a kind of manic REM sleep.

Setrakian drew back the last intervening layer of clear curtain with the silver wolf’s head of his tall walking staff. “Not too close,” he warned. “He is turning.” Setrakian reached into his coat pocket. “Your mirror. Take it out.”

The inside-front pocket of Eph’s jacket was weighed down by a four-inch-by-three-inch silver-framed mirror, one of the many items the old man had collected from his basement vampire armory.

“You see yourself in there?”

Eph saw his reflection in the old glass. “Sure.”

“Please use it to look at me.”

Eph turned it at an angle, so as to view the old man’s face. “Okay.”

Nora said, “Vampires have no reflection.”

Setrakian said, “Not quite. Please now—with caution—use it to look at his face.”

Because the mirror was so small, Eph needed to step closer to the bed, his arm outstretched, holding the glass at an angle over Jim’s head.

He couldn’t pick up Jim’s reflection at first. The image looked as though Eph’s hand were violently shaking. But the background, the pillow and bed frame, were still.

Jim’s face was a blur. It looked as though his head was shaking with tremendous speed, or vibrating with such force that his features were imperceptible.

He pulled his arm back fast.

“Silver backing,” said Setrakian, tapping his own mirror. “That is the key. Today’s mass-produced mirrors, with their chrome-sprayed backing, they won’t reveal anything. But silver-backed glass always tells the truth.”

Eph looked at himself in the mirror again. Normal. Except for the slight trembling of his own hand.

He angled the glass over Jim Kent’s face again, trying to hold it still—and saw the tremulous blur that was Jim’s reflection. As though his body were in the throes of something furious, his being vibrating too hard and too fast to be visibly rendered.

Yet to the naked eye he lay still and serene.

Eph handed it to Nora, who shared his astonishment, and his fear. “So this means … he’s turning into a thing … a thing like Captain Redfern.”

Setrakian said, “Following normal infection, they can complete their transformation and activate to feeding after just one day and night. It takes seven nights for one to fully turn, for the disease to consume the body and reshape it to its own end—its new parasitic state. Then about thirty nights to total maturity.”

Nora said, “Total maturity?”

The old man said, “Pray we don’t see that phase.” He gestured toward Jim. “The arteries of the human neck offer the quickest access point, though the femoral artery is another direct route into our blood supply.”

The neck breach was so neat it was not visible at the moment. Eph said, “Why blood?”

“Oxygen, iron, and many other nutrients.”

“Oxygen?” asked Nora.

Setrakian nodded. “Their host bodies change. Part of the turning is that the circulatory and digestive systems merge, becoming one. Similar to insects. Their own blood substance lacks the iron-and-oxygen combination that accounts for the red color of human blood. Their product turns white.”

“And the organs,” Eph said. “Redfern’s looked almost like cancers.”

“The body system is being consumed and transformed. The virus takes over. They no longer breathe. They respire, merely as a vestigial reflex, but they don’t oxygenate anymore. The unneeded lungs eventually shrivel and are readapted.”

Eph said, “Redfern, when he attacked, exhibited a highly developed growth in his mouth. Like a well-developed muscular stinger underneath the tongue.”

Setrakian nodded as though agreeing with Eph about the weather. “It engorges as they feed. Their flesh flushes almost crimson, their eyeballs, their cuticles. This stinger, as you call it, is in fact a reconversion, a repurposing of the old pharynx, trachea, and lung sacs with the newly developed flesh. Something like the sleeve of a jacket being reversed. The vampire can expel this organ from its own chest cavity, shooting out well over four and up to even six feet. If you anatomize a mature victim, you would find a muscular tissue, a sack that propels this for feeding. All they require is the regular ingestion of pure human blood. They are maybe like diabetics in that way. I don’t know. You are the doctor.”

“I thought I was,” mumbled Eph. “Until now.”

Nora said, “I thought vampires drank virgin blood. They hypnotize … they turn into bats …”

Setrakian said, “They are much romanticized. But the truth is more … how should I say?”

“Perverse,” said Eph.

“Disgusting,” said Nora.

“No,” said Setrakian. “Banal. Did you find the ammonia?”

Eph nodded.

“They have a very compact digestive system,” Setrakian continued. “No room for storing the food. Any undigested plasma and any other residues have to be expelled to make room for incoming nourishment. Much like a tick—excreting as it feeds.”

Suddenly the temperature inside the bay changed. Setrakian’s voice dropped to an icy whisper.

“Strigoi,” he hissed. “Here.”

Eph looked at Jim. Jim’s eyes were open, his pupils dark, the sclera around them turning grayish orange, almost like an uncertain sky at dusk. He was staring at the ceiling.

Eph felt a spike of fear. Setrakian stiffened, his gnarled hand poised near the wolf’s-head handle of his walking stick—ready to strike. Eph felt the electricity of his intent, and was shocked by the deep, ancient hatred he saw in the old man’s eyes.

“Professor …” said Jim, on a slight groan escaping from his lips.

Then his eyelids fell closed again, Jim lapsing back into a REM-like trance.

Eph turned to the old man. “How did he … know you?”

“He doesn’t,” said Setrakian, still on alert, poised to strike. “He is like a drone now, becoming part of a hive. A body of many parts but one single will.” He looked at Eph. “This thing must be destroyed.”

“What?” said Eph. “No.”

“He is no longer your friend,” said Setrakian. “He is your enemy.”

“Even if that is true—he is still my patient.”

“This man is not ill. He has moved into a realm beyond illness. In a matter of hours, no part of him will remain. Apart from all that—it is supremely dangerous, keeping him here. As with the pilot, you will be placing the people in this building at great risk.”

“What if … what if he doesn’t get blood?”

“Without nourishment, he will begin caving. After forty-eight hours without feeding, his body will begin to fail, his system cannibalizing his body’s human muscle and fat cells, slowly and painfully consuming itself. Until only the vampiric systems prevail.”

Eph was shaking his head, hard. “What I need to do is formulate some protocol for treatment. If this disease is caused by a virus, I need to work toward finding a cure.”

Setrakian said, “There is only one cure. Death. Destruction of the body. A merciful death.”

Eph said, “We’re not veterinarians here. We can’t just put down people who are too ill to survive.”

“You did so with the pilot.”

Eph stuttered, “That was different. He attacked Nora and Jim—he attacked me.”

“Your philosophy of self-defense, if truly applied, absolutely holds in this situation.”

“So would a philosophy of genocide.”

“And if that is their goal—total subjugation of the human race—what is your answer?”

Eph didn’t want to get tangled up in abstractions here. He was looking at a colleague. A friend.

Setrakian saw that he was not going to change their minds here, not just yet. “Take me to the pilot’s remains, then. Perhaps I can convince you.”

No one spoke on the elevator ride down to the basement. There, instead of finding the locked morgue room, they found the door open and the police and the hospital administrator huddling around it.

Eph went up to them. “What do you think you’re doing …?”

He saw that the doorjamb was scratched, the metal door frame dented and jimmied, the lock broken from the outside.

The administrator hadn’t opened the door. Someone else had broken in.

Eph quickly looked inside.

The table was bare. Redfern’s body was gone.

Eph turned to the administrator, wanting more information, but to his surprise found her retreating a few steps down the hall, glancing back at him as she spoke with the cops.

Setrakian said, “We should go now.”

Eph said, “But I have to find out where his remains are.”

“They are gone,” said Setrakian. “They will never be recovered.” The old man gripped Eph’s arm with surprising strength. “I believe they have served their purpose.”

“Their purpose? What is that?”

“Distraction, ultimately. For they are no more dead than their fellow passengers who once lay in the morgues.”

Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn

NEWLY WIDOWED Glory Mueller, while searching online about what to do when a spouse dies without leaving a will, noticed a news report about the missing corpses from Flight 753. She followed the link, reading a dispatch labeled DEVELOPING. The Federal Bureau of Investigation was due to hold a press conference within the hour, it said, to announce a new and larger reward for any information about the disappearance from the morgue of the bodies of the victims of the Regis Air tragedy.

This story struck a deep note of fear. For some reason she now remembered, that previous night, awaking from a dream and hearing sounds in her attic.

Of the dream that had awakened her, she remembered only that Hermann, her newly deceased husband, had come back to her from the dead. There had been a mistake, and the strange tragedy that was Flight 753 had never actually occurred, and Hermann had arrived at the back door of their home in Sheepshead Bay with a you-thought-you-were-rid-of-me smile, wanting his supper.

In public, Glory had played the part of the quietly grieving widow, as she would continue to do so throughout whatever inquest and court cases might come her way. But she was perhaps alone in considering the tragic circumstances that claimed the life of her husband of thirteen years a great gift.

Thirteen years of marriage. Thirteen years of unrelenting abuse. Escalating throughout their years together, occurring more and more in front of their boys, ages nine and eleven. Glory lived in constant fear of his mood swings, and had even allowed herself—a daydream only, too risky to attempt in reality—to consider what it would be like to pack up the boys and leave while he was away this past week, visiting his dying mother in Heidelberg. But where could she go? And, more important—what would he do to her and the boys if he caught up with them, as she knew he would?

But God was good. He had finally answered her prayers. She—and her boys—had been delivered. This dark pall of violence had been lifted from their home.

She went to the bottom of the stairs, looking up to the second floor and the trapdoor in the ceiling there, its rope pull hanging down.

The raccoons. They were back. Hermann, he’d first trapped one in the attic. He’d taken the fear-crazed intruder out into the backyard and made an example of it in front of her boys …

No more. She had nothing to be afraid of now. The boys wouldn’t be home for at least another hour, and she decided to go up there now. She had planned to start going through Hermann’s things anyway. Trash day was Tuesday, and she wanted to have it all gone by then.

She needed a weapon, and the first one that came to mind was Hermann’s own machete. He had brought it home some years ago, and kept it wrapped in oilcloth in the locked plastic toolshed against the side of the house. When she asked him why he would ever want such a thing—a jungle tool here in Sheepshead Bay, of all places—he’d just sneered at her, “You never know.”

These constant little insinuated threats were part of his daily menacing. She pulled the key from the hook behind the pantry door, and went outside and sprang the lock. She found the oilcloth buried under yard tools and an old, splintered croquet set they had received as a wedding gift (which she would use for kindling now). She took the package into the kitchen and set it on the table, pausing before she unwrapped it.

She had always ascribed evil to this object. Had always imagined it would be somehow significant in the fate of this household, possibly as an instrument of Glory’s own demise at Hermann’s hands. Accordingly, she unwrapped it with great care, as though unswaddling a sleeping baby demon. Hermann had never liked her touching his special things.

The blade was long, wide, and flat. The grip was formed of wrapped leather straps worn to a soft brown by the hand of the former owner. She lifted it, turning it over, feeling the weight of this strange object in her hand. She caught sight of her reflection in the microwave door, and it scared her. A woman standing with a machete in her kitchen.

He had made her crazy.

She walked upstairs with it in her hand. She stopped beneath the ceiling door and reached for the bottom knot of the dangling white rope handle. It opened down to a forty-five-degree angle on groaning springs. That noise should have scared any lurking critters. She listened for scattering sounds, but there were none.

She reached for the high wall switch, but no light came on above. She flicked it a couple of times, but still nothing. She hadn’t been up here since after Christmas, and the bulb could have burned out at any time between now and then. There was a small skylight cut into the rafters. That would provide enough light.

She unfolded the hinged stairs and started up. Three steps brought her eye line above the attic floor. It was unfinished, with foil-backed pink fiberglass insulating blankets unrolled between the exposed joists. Plywood was laid out north – south and east – west, in a cross pattern, creating a walking path to each of the four quadrants of storage space.

The space was darker than she had expected, and then she saw that two of her old clothes racks had been moved, effectively blocking the low skylight. Clothes from her life before Hermann, zipped up in plastic and left in storage for thirteen years. She followed the plywood and moved the racks to allow more light in, with the idea of maybe sorting through the clothes and revisiting her old self. But then she saw, beyond the plywood walkway, a bare lane of floor between two long joists where the insulation had, for some reason, been pulled up.

Then she noticed another bare lane.

And another.

She froze there. She sensed something at her back suddenly. She was afraid to turn—but then she remembered the machete in her hand.

Behind her, against the vertical edge of the attic, farthest from the skylight, the missing strips of insulation had been piled up into a lumpy mound. Some of the fiberglass had been shredded, as though by an animal feathering an enormous nest.

Not a raccoon. Something bigger. Much bigger.

The mound was completely still, arranged as though to hide something. Had Hermann been tending to some strange project without her knowing? What dark secret had he stored under here?

With the machete raised in her right hand, she pulled on the end of a strip, drawing it away from the mound in a long trail that revealed …

… nothing.

She dragged away a second strip then—stopping when it revealed a man’s hairy arm.

Glory knew that arm. She also knew the hand it was connected to. Knew them both intimately.

She could not believe what she was seeing.

With the machete raised in front of her, she pulled away another length of insulation.

His shirt. One of the short-sleeved button-ups he favored, even in winter. Hermann was a vain man, proud of his hairy arms. His wristwatch and wedding ring were gone.

Glory stood riveted by the sight, melting with dread. Still, she had to see. She reached for another strip which, when drawn away, made most of the rest of the insulation slide off to the floor.

Her dead husband, Hermann, lay asleep in her attic. On a bed of shredded pink fiberglass, fully dressed except for his feet, which were filthy, as though from walking.

She could not process this shock. She could not deal with it. The husband she had thought she was rid of. The tyrant. The batterer. The rapist.

She stood over his sleeping body, the machete a sword of Damocles, ready to fall if he offered the slightest move.

Then, by degrees, she lowered her arm, the machete blade coming to rest at her side. He was a ghost now, she realized. A man returned from the dead, a presence, meaning to haunt her forever. She would never be free of him.

As she was thinking this, Hermann opened his eyes.

The lids rose on his eyeballs, staring straight up.

Glory froze. She wanted to run and she wanted to scream and she could do neither.

Hermann’s head rotated until his staring eyes fixed on her. That same taunting look, as always. That sneer. The look that always preceded the bad things.

And then something clicked inside her head.

At that same moment, four houses down the street, three-year-old Lucy Needham stood in her driveway feeding a doll named Baby Dear from a snack-size bag of Cheez-Its. Lucy stopped munching the loud crackers, and instead listened to the muffled screams and hard, chopping thwacks coming from … somewhere nearby. She looked up at her own house, then north, her nose scrunched up toward her eyes in innocent confusion. She stood very still, an orange tongue of half-chewed, cheese-baked crackers sticking out of her open mouth, listening to some of the strangest noises she had ever heard. She was going to tell Daddy when he came back outside with the telephone, but by then her bag of Cheez-Its had spilled and she was squatting and eating them off the driveway, and after getting yelled at she forgot the whole thing.

Glory stood there gasping in her attic, retching, the machete gripped in both hands. Hermann lay in pieces among the sticky pink insulation, the attic wall splattered in dripping white.

White?

Glory trembled, soul sick. She surveyed the damage she had done. Twice, the blade had become lodged in the wood joist, and in her mind it was Hermann trying to wrench the machete away from her, and she’d had to rock it back and forth violently to get it free again and keep swinging at his flesh.

She backed away one step. She was experiencing an out-of-body sensation. It was shocking what she had done.

Hermann’s sneering head had rolled off between two joists, facedown now, a fluffy pinch of pink fiberglass stuck to his cheek like cotton candy. His torso was gouged and gored, his thighs sliced to the femur, his groin bubbling up white.

White?

She felt something poking her slipper, tap-tap-tap. She saw blood there—red blood—and realized she had nicked herself somehow, her left arm, though she felt no pain. She raised it for inspection, dripping fat, red plops onto the plywood.

White?

She saw something dark and small, slithering. She was bleary-eyed and blinking, still in the grip of a homicidal rage. She couldn’t trust her sight.

She felt an itch on her ankle, underneath her bloody slipper. The itch crawled up her leg and she swatted at her thigh with the flat side of the sticky white blade.

Then—another tickle on the front of her other leg. And—separately—her waist. She realized she was having some sort of hysterical reaction, as if bugs were attacking her. She stumbled back another step, and almost tumbled off the plywood walkway.

There was then a most unnerving wriggling sensation around her crotch—and then a sudden, twisting discomfort in her rectum. An intrusive slithering that made her jump and clench her buttocks, as though she were about to soil herself. Her sphincter dilated and she stood that way for a long moment, paralyzed, until the feeling started to fade. She allowed herself to unclench, to relax. She needed to get to a bathroom. Another wriggle distracted her, inside her blouse sleeve now. And she felt a burning itch over the cut in her arm.

Then a wrenching pain, from deep within her bowels, doubled her over fast. The machete fell to the plywood and a scream that was a shriek of anguish and violation came out of Glory’s mouth. She felt something rippling up her arm—beneath her flesh now, her skin crawling—and while her mouth was open and still screaming, another thin capillary worm slithered from behind her neck and across her jaw to her lip, darting inside the wall of her cheek, wriggling down the back of her throat.

Freeburg, New York

NIGHT WAS FAST approaching as Eph drove east, over the Cross Island Parkway, into Nassau County.

Eph said, “So you’re telling me that the passengers from the city morgues, the ones the entire city is looking for—they all just went home?”

The old professor sat in the backseat with his hat on his lap. “Blood wants blood,” he said. “Once turned, the revenants first seek out family and friends still uninfected. They return, by night, to those with whom they share an emotional attachment. Their ‘Dear Ones.’ Like a homing instinct, I suppose. The same animal impulse that guides lost dogs hundreds of miles back to their owners. As their higher brain function falls away, their animal nature takes over. These are creatures driven by urges. To feed. To hide. To nest.”

“Returning to the people who are mourning them,” said Nora, sitting next to Eph in the front passenger seat. “To attack and infect?”

“To feed. It is the nature of the undead to torment the living.”

Eph exited the highway in silence. This vampire business was the mental equivalent of eating bad food: his mind refused to digest it. He chewed and chewed but could not get it down.

When Setrakian had asked him to pick a passenger from the list of Flight 753 victims, the first one who came to mind was the young girl Emma Gilbarton. The one he had found still holding hands with her mother in the airplane. It seemed a good test for Setrakian’s hypothesis. How could an eleven-year-old dead girl journey at night from a Queens morgue all the way out to her family home in Freeburg?

But now, as he pulled up outside the Gilbartons’ address—a stately looking Georgian on a broad side street of widely spaced properties—Eph realized that, were they wrong, he was about to wake up a man grieving for the end of his family, the loss of his wife and only child.

This was something Eph knew a little bit about.

Setrakian stepped out of the Explorer, fixing his hat on his head, carrying the long walking stick that he did not need for support. The street was quiet at that evening hour, lights glowing inside some of the other houses, but no people out and about, no cars driving past. The windows of the Gilbartons’ house were all dark. Setrakian handed them each a battery-powered light with dark bulbs that looked like their Luma lamps, only heavier.

They went to the door and Setrakian rang the doorbell by using the head of the walking stick. He tried the doorknob when no one answered, using the gloved part of his hand only, keeping his bare fingertips off the knob. Not leaving any fingerprints.

Eph realized that the old man had done this sort of thing before.

The front door was firmly locked. “Come,” said Setrakian.

They went back down the stairs, and started around the house. The backyard was a wide clearing set on the edge of an old wood. The early moon provided decent light, enough to cast faint shadows of their bodies over the grass.

Setrakian stopped and pointed with his walking stick.

A bulkhead rose out at an angle from the cellar, its doors wide open to the night.

The old man continued to the bulkhead, Eph and Nora following. Stone steps led down into a dark cellar. Setrakian scanned the high trees buffering the backyard.

Eph said, “We can’t just go inside.”

“This is exceedingly unwise after sundown,” Setrakian said. “But we do not have the luxury of waiting.”

Eph said, “No, I mean—this is trespassing. We should call the police first.”

Setrakian took Eph’s lamp from him with a scolding look. “What we have to do here … they would not understand.”

He switched on the lamp, two purple bulbs emitting black light. It was similar to the medical-grade wands Eph used, but brighter and hotter, and fitted with bigger batteries.

“Black light?” said Eph.

“Black light is merely long-wave ultraviolet, or UVA. Revealing, but harmless. UVB is medium wave, can cause sunburn or skin cancer. This”—he took care to aim the beam away from them, as well as himself—“is short-wave UVC. Germicidal, used for sterilization. Excites and smashes DNA bonds. Direct exposure is very harmful to human skin. But to a vampire—this is weapons grade.”

The old man started down the steps with the lamp, his walking stick in his other hand. The ultraviolet spectrum provides little real illumination, the UVC light adding to the gloom of the situation rather than alleviating it. Over the stone walls on the sides of the stairs, as they passed from the chill of the night into the cool of a cement-foundation cellar, moss glowed a spectral white.

Inside, Eph made out the dark outline of stairs going up to the first floor. A laundry area and an old-fashioned pinball machine.

And a body lying on the floor.

A man laid out in plaid pajamas. Eph started toward him with the impulse of a trained physician—then stopped himself. Nora groped the wall opposite the inside door, flipping the switch there, but no light came on.

Setrakian moved toward the man, thrusting the lamp close to his neck. The weird indigo glow revealed a small, perfectly straight fissure in glowing blue, just left of the center of his throat.

“He is turned,” said Setrakian.

The old man pushed the Luma lamp back into Eph’s hands. Nora turned on hers and shone it over the man’s face, revealing a mad subcutaneous being, a scowling, deathlike mask shifting and writhing, looking indefinably, yet undoubtedly, evil.

Setrakian went and found, leaning against a corner workbench, a new ax with a glossy wooden handle and a shiny red-and-silver steel blade. He returned with it in his gnarled hands.

“Wait,” said Eph.

Setrakian said, “Please stand back, Doctor.”

“He’s just lying here,” said Eph.

“He will soon arise.” The old man gestured to the stone steps leading up to the open bulkhead doors, his eyes never leaving the man on the floor. “The girl is out there now. Feeding on others.” Setrakian readied the ax. “I don’t ask that you condone this, Doctor. All I ask right now is that you step aside.”

Eph saw the determination in Setrakian’s face and knew the old man would swing whether or not he was in his way. Eph stepped back. The blade was heavy for Setrakian’s size and age, the old man bringing both arms up over his head, the flat of the blade almost at the back of his waist.

Then his arms relaxed. His elbows lowered.

His head turned toward the open bulkhead doors, listening.

Eph heard it then too. The crunching of dry grass being flattened.

He imagined it was an animal, at first. But no. The crunching had the simple cadence of a biped.

Footsteps. Human—or once-human. Approaching.

Setrakian lowered the ax. “Stand by the door. Silently. Close it behind her once she enters.” He took the lamp back from Eph, pressing the ax into his hands in trade. “She must not escape.”

He withdrew to where his walking stick stood against the wall, on the opposite side of the door—then switched off the hot lamp, disappearing into total darkness.

Eph stood beside the open cellar door, his back to the wall, flat up against it. Nora was next to him, both of them shivering in the basement of a stranger’s house. The footsteps were closer, light and soft on the ground.

They stopped at the top of the steps. A faint shadow fell over the moonlight on the cellar floor: a head and shoulders.

The footsteps started coming down.

At the bottom, just before the door, they stopped. Eph—not three yards away, the ax hugged to his chest—was transfixed by the girl’s profile. Small and short, blonde hair falling over the shoulders of a modest, shin-length nightgown. Barefoot, arms hanging straight and loose, standing with a peculiar stillness. Her chest rose and fell, but no steam came out of her mouth into the moonlight.

Later, he would learn much more. That her senses of hearing and smell had become greatly enhanced. That she could hear blood pulsing through his and Nora’s and the professor’s bodies, and could smell the carbon dioxide emitted by their breath. He would learn that sight was the least acute of her senses. She was now at the stage where she was losing her color vision, and yet her thermal imaging—the ability to “read” heat signatures as monochromatic halos—had not yet fully matured.

She took a few steps forward, moving out of the rectangle of faint moonlight and into the full darkness of the cellar. A ghost had entered the room. Eph should have shut the door, but the girl’s very presence here froze him.

She turned toward where Setrakian stood, fixing on his position. The old man switched on his lamp. The girl looked at it with no expression. Then he started toward her with it. She felt its heat, and turned toward the cellar door to escape.

Eph swung it shut. The heavy door slammed hard, reverberating throughout the entire foundation. Eph imagined that the house was going to fall in on them.

The young girl, Emma Gilbarton, saw them now. She was lit purple from the side, and Eph saw glowing traces of indigo along her lips and on her small, pretty chin. Odd, like a ravegoer wearing fluorescent paint.

He remembered: blood glows indigo under ultraviolet light.

Setrakian held the bright lamp in front of him, using it to drive her back. Her reaction was animalistic and confused, recoiling as though confronted with a flaming torch. Setrakian pursued her cruelly, backing her up against a wall. From deep in her throat came a low, guttural noise, a groan of distress.

“Doctor.” Setrakian was calling to Eph. “Doctor, come. Now!”

Eph went closer to the girl, taking the Luma lamp from Setrakian and handing him the ax—all the while keeping the light trained on the girl.

Setrakian stepped back. He tossed the ax away, sending it clanking along the hard floor. He held his tall walking stick in his gloved hands, gripping it beneath the wolf’s-head handle. With one firm twist of his wrist, he separated the top handle from the rest.

From its wooden sheath, Setrakian withdrew a sword blade fashioned of silver.

“Hurry,” said Eph, watching the girl writhe against the wall, trapped there by the lamp’s killing rays.

The girl saw the old man’s blade, glowing nearly white, and something like fear came into her face. Then the fear went fierce.

“Hurry!” said Eph, wanting it to be over. The girl hissed and he saw the dark shade inside her, beneath her skin, a demon snarling to be let out.

Nora was watching the father, lying on the floor. His body began to stir, his eyes opening. “Professor?” said Nora.

But the old man was locked in on the girl.

Nora watched Gary Gilbarton sit up, then rise to his bare feet, a dead man standing in his pajamas, eyes open.

“Professor?” said Nora again, switching on her lamp.

The lamp crackled. She shook it, smacking the bottom, where the battery went. The purple light fizzled on, then off—then on again.

“Professor!” she yelled.

The fluttering lamplight had gotten Setrakian’s attention. He turned on the revenant man, who looked confused and unsteady on his feet. With skill rather than agility, Setrakian doubled Gilbarton up with jabbing thrusts to the gut and chest, opening white-bleeding wounds in his pajama top.

Eph, alone with the girl now, watching this demon assert itself inside her, and not knowing what was happening behind him, said, “Professor Setrakian!”

Setrakian directed thrusts at the father’s armpits in order to bring his hands down by his sides, then slashed at the tendons behind his knees, collapsing the revenant onto all fours. With Gilbarton’s head up and his neck extended, Setrakian raised his sword and uttered some words in a foreign language—like a solemn pronouncement—and then his blade sang through the man’s neck, separating his head from his trunk, the revenant’s lower quarters collapsing to the floor.

“Professor!” said Eph, pressing the lamplight on the girl, torturing her—a girl about Zack’s age, her wild eyes filling with indigo coloring—bloody tears—while the being inside her raged.

Her mouth opened as though to speak. Almost as though to sing. Her mouth kept opening and the thing emerged, the stinger from the soft palate beneath her tongue. The appendage swelled as the girl’s eyes changed from sad to hungry, almost glowing in anticipation.

The old man returned to her, sword first. “Back, strigoi!” he said.

The girl turned to the old man, her eyes still flaring. Setrakian’s silver blade was now slick with white blood. He intoned the same words as before, his sword poised two-handedly over one shoulder. Eph backed out of the way just as the blade swept through.

She had raised her hand in protest at the last moment, and the blade lifted it from her wrist before separating her head from her neck. The cut was clean and perfectly flat. White blood splattered against the wall—not in an arterial spray, but with more of a sickening splatch—and her body collapsed to the floor, head and hand dropping against it, the head tumbling away.

Setrakian lowered his sword and pulled the lamp from Eph’s hands, holding the fading beam close to the girl’s open neck wound, almost in a gesture of triumph. But triumph it was not: Eph saw things wriggling in the seeping pool of thick white blood.

The parasitic worms. They curled tight and went still when the light hit them. The old man was irradiating the scene.

Eph heard footfalls on the stone steps. Nora, racing out through the bulkhead. He ran after her, nearly tripping over the decapitated body of the girl’s father, surfacing onto the grass and the night air.

Nora was running to the swaying, dark trees. He caught up to her before she reached them, pulling her close, wrapping her up tight. She screamed into his chest, as though afraid to allow her cry to escape into the night, and he held her until Setrakian surfaced onto the yard.

The old man’s breath steamed into the cool night, chest pumping from exertion. He pressed his fingers to his heart. His white hair was mussed and shiny in the moonlight, making him appear—as did everything to Eph, at that moment—quite mad.

He cleaned his blade on the grass before returning it to the sheath end of the walking stick. He fixed the two pieces together with a firm twist, and the overlong walking stick was as it had been before.

“She is released now,” he said. “The girl and her father are at peace.”

He was checking his shoes and pants cuffs for vampire blood in the moonlight. Nora viewed him through wild eyes. “Who are you?” she said.

“Just a pilgrim,” he answered. “Same as you.”

They walked back to Eph’s Explorer. Eph felt all jittery and exposed out in the front yard. Setrakian opened the passenger door and pulled out a spare battery pack. He swapped batteries with the one in Eph’s lamp, then checked the purple light briefly against the side of the truck.

Setrakian said, “You wait here please.”

“For what?” said Eph.

“You saw the blood on her lips, her chin. She was flushed. She had fed. This is not done yet.”

The old man set off toward the next house. Eph watched him, Nora leaving Eph’s side in order to lean against the truck. She swallowed hard, as though about to be sick. “We just killed two people in the cellar of their own home.”

“This thing is spread by people. By un-people.”

“Vampires, my God …”

Eph said, “Rule number one is always—fight the disease, not its victims.”

“Don’t demonize the sick,” said Nora.

“But now … now the sick are demons. Now the infected are active vectors of the disease, and have to be stopped. Killed. Destroyed.”

“What will Director Barnes say about that?”

Eph said, “We can’t wait for him. We’ve already waited too long.”

They fell silent. Soon Setrakian returned carrying his walking stick/vampire sword and the still warm lamp.

“It is done,” he said.

“Done?” Nora said, still appalled by what she had seen. “Now what? You do realize there were some two hundred other passengers aboard that plane.”

“It is much worse than that. The second night is upon us. The second wave of infection is happening now.”

THE SECOND NIGHT

Patricia ran a hand vigorously back through her hair, as though shaking out the lost hours of another day gone by. She found herself actually looking forward to Mark coming home, and not just for the satisfaction of throwing the kids at him and saying, “Here.” She wanted to fill him in on the only real news of the day, the Lusses’ nanny—who Patricia spied through the sheers of the front-facing dining room windows—racing out of the Lusses’ house not five minutes after arriving, children nowhere in sight, the old black woman running as if she was being chased.

Oooh, the Lusses. How neighbors can get under your skin. Whenever she thought of skin-and-bones Joanie tossing off a description of her “European-style pure-soil wine cellar,” Patricia shot an automatic middle finger in the general direction of the Luss house. She was dying to find out what Mark knew about Roger Luss, if he was still overseas. She wanted to compare notes. The only time she and her husband seemed to get on the same page was when they were tearing down friends, family, and neighbors. Maybe because savoring others’ marital problems and family misfortunes somehow made hers and Mark’s seem less troublesome.

Scandal always went better with a glass of pinot, and she finished off her second with a flourish. She checked the kitchen clock, with sincere thoughts of pacing herself, given Mark’s predictable impatience whenever he arrived home to find her two drinks ahead of him. Screw him, snug in his office in the city all day, doing his lunches, walking about at his leisure, hobnobbing on the late train home. Meanwhile, she was stuck here with the baby and Marcus and the nanny and the gardener …

She poured herself another glass, wondering how long it would be until Marcus, that jealous little demon, went in to wake up his napping sister. The nanny had put Jacqueline down before she left, and the little baby hadn’t woken up yet. Patricia checked the clock again, remarking at this extended period of quiet in the house. Wow—sleeping like a champ. Fortified with another swallow of pinot, and mindful of her impish little four-year-old terrorist, she pushed back the ad-crammed Cookie magazine and started up the back steps.

She looked in on Marcus first, finding him lying facedown on the New York Rangers rug next to his sleigh bed, his portable game-unit thingy still turned on near his outstretched hand. Worn out. Of course, they would pay dearly for this late nap when the whirling dervish wouldn’t settle down at bedtime—but by then it would be Mark’s turn to deal.

She went down the hall—puzzled by and frowning at a few clumps of dark soil on the runner (that little demon)—to the closed door with the SH-SH-SH!—ANGEL SLEEPING heart-shaped silk pillow hanging from the doorknob on a frilly lace ribbon. She eased it open on the dim, warm nursery, and was startled to see an adult sitting in the rocking chair next to the crib, swaying back and forth. A woman, holding a little bundle in her arms.

The stranger was cradling baby Jacqueline. But in the quiet warmth of the room, under the softness of the recessed lighting, and feeling the high pile of the rug underfoot, everything still seemed okay.

“Who …?” As Patricia ventured in farther, something in the rocking woman’s posture clicked. “Joan? Joan—is that you?” Patricia stepped closer. “What are you …? Did you come in through the garage?”

Joan—it was her—stopped her slow rocking and stood up from the chair. With the pink-shaded lamp behind her, Patricia barely made out the odd expression on Joan’s face—in particular, the strange twist of her mouth. She smelled dirty, and Patricia’s mind went immediately to her own sister, and that horrible, horrible Thanksgiving last year. Was Joan having a similar breakdown?

And why was she here now, holding baby Jacqueline?

Joan extended her arms to hand the infant back to Patricia. Patricia cradled her baby, and in a moment knew that something wasn’t right. Her daughter’s stillness went beyond the limpness of infant sleep.

With two anxious fingers, Patricia pinched back the blanket covering Jackie’s face.

The baby’s rosebud lips were parted. Her little eyes were dark and fixed and staring. The blanket was wet around her little neck. Patricia’s two fingers came away sticky with blood.

The scream that rose in Patricia’s throat never reached its destination.

Ann-Marie Barbour was literally at her wits’ end. Standing in her kitchen, whispering prayers and gripping the edge of the sink as though the house she had lived in all her married life were a small boat caught in a swirling black sea. Praying endlessly for guidance, for relief. For a glimmer of hope. She knew that her Ansel was not evil. He was not what he seemed. He was just very, very sick. (But he killed the dogs.) Whatever illness he had would pass like a bad fever and everything would return to normal.

She looked out at the locked shed in the dark backyard. It was quiet now.

The doubts returned, as they had when she saw the news report about the dead people from Flight 753 who had disappeared from the morgues. Something was happening, something awful (He Killed the Dogs)—and her overwhelming sensation of dread was alleviated only by repeated trips to the mirrors and her sink. Washing and touching, worrying and praying.

Why did Ansel bury himself under the dirt during the day? (He killed the dogs.) Why did he look at her with such craving? (He killed them.) Why wouldn’t he say anything, but only grunt and yowl (like the dogs he killed)?

Night had again taken the sky—the thing she had dreaded all day.

Why was he so quiet out there now?

Before she could think about what she was doing, before she could lose her reserve, she went out the door and down the porch stairs. Not looking at the dogs’ graves in the corner of the yard—not giving in to that madness. She had to be the strong one now. For just a little while longer …

The shed doors. The lock and the chain. She stood there, listening, her fist pressed hard against her mouth until her front teeth started to hurt.

What would Ansel do? Would he open the door if it were she inside? Would he force himself to face her?

Yes. He would.

Ann-Marie undid the lock with the key from around her neck. She threaded out the thick chain, and this time stepped back to where she knew he could not reach her—past the length of the runner leash fixed to the dog pole—as the doors fell open.

An awful stink. A godless fetor. The stench alone brought tears to her eyes. That was her Ansel in there.

She saw nothing. She listened. She would not be drawn inside.

“Ansel?”

Barely a whisper on her part. Nothing came in return.

“Ansel.”

A rustling. Movement in the dirt. Oh, why hadn’t she brought a flashlight?

She reached forward just enough to nudge one door open more widely. Enough to let in a little more of the moonlight.

There he was. Lying half in a bed of soil, his face raised to the doors, eyes sunken and fraught with pain. She saw at once that he was dying. Her Ansel was dying. She thought again of the dogs who used to sleep here, Pap and Gertie, the dear Saint Bernards she had loved more than mere pets, whom he had killed and whose place he had willingly taken … yes … in order to save Ann-Marie and the children.

And then she knew. He needed to hurt someone else in order to revive himself. In order to live.

She shivered in the moonlight, facing the suffering creature her husband had become.

He wanted her to give herself over to him. She knew that. She could feel it.

Ansel let out a guttural groan, voiceless, as though from deep in the pit of his empty stomach.

She couldn’t do it. Ann-Marie wept as she closed the shed doors on him. She pressed her shoulder to them, shutting him up like a corpse neither quite alive nor yet quite dead. He was too weak to charge the doors now. She heard only another moan of protest.

She was running the first length of chain back through the door handles when she heard a step on the gravel behind her. Ann-Marie froze, picturing that police officer returning. She heard another step, then spun around.

He was an older man, balding, wearing a stiff-collared shirt, open cardigan, and loose corduroys. Their neighbor from across the street, the one who had called the police: the widower, Mr. Otish. The kind of neighbor who rakes his leaves into the street so that they blow into your yard. A man they never saw or heard from unless there was a problem that he suspected them or their children of having caused.

Mr. Otish said, “Your dogs have found increasingly creative ways to keep me awake at night.”

His presence, like a ghostly intrusion upon a nightmare, mystified Ann-Marie. The dogs?

He was talking about Ansel, the noises he made in the night.

“If you have a sick animal, you need to take it to a veterinarian and have it treated or put down.”

She was too stunned even to reply. He walked closer, coming off the driveway and onto the edge of the backyard grass, eyeing the shed with contempt.

A hoarse moan rose from inside.

Mr. Otish’s face shriveled in disgust. “You are going to do something about those curs or else I am going to call the police again, right now.”

“No!” Fear escaped before she could hold it in.

He smiled, surprised by her trepidation, enjoying the sense of control over her that it gave him. “Then what is it you plan to do?”

Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t think of anything to say. “I … I’ll take care of it … I don’t know how.”

He looked at the back porch, curious about the light on in the kitchen. “Is the man of the house available? I would prefer to speak with him.”

She shook her head.

Another pained groan from the shed.

“Well, you had damn well better do something about those sloppy creatures—or else I will. Anybody who grew up on a farm will tell you, Mrs. Barbour, dogs are service animals and don’t need coddling. Far better for them to know the sting of the switch than the pat of a hand. Especially a clumsy breed such as the Saint Bernard.”

Something he’d said got through to her. Something about her dogs …

Sting of the switch.

The whole reason they’d built the chain-and-post contraption in the shed in the first place was because Pap and Gertie had run off a few times … and once, not too long ago … Gertie, the sweetheart of the two, the trusting one, came home with her back and legs all ripped up …

… as though someone had taken a stick to her.

The normally shy and retiring Ann-Marie Barbour forgot all of her fear at that moment. She looked at this man—this nasty little shriveled-up excuse for a man—as though a veil had been lifted from her eyes.

“You,” she said. Her chin trembled, not from timidity anymore but from rage. “You did that. To Gertie. You hurt her …”

His eyes flickered for a moment, unused to being confronted—and simultaneously betraying his guilt.

“If I did,” he said, regaining his usual condescension, “I am sure he had it coming.”

Ann-Marie burst with hatred suddenly. Everything she had been bottling up over these past few days. Sending away her children … burying her dead dogs … worrying about her afflicted husband …

“She,” Ann-Marie said.

“What?”

“She. Gertie. Is a she.”

Another tremulous groan from within the shed.

Ansel’s need. His craving …

She backed up, shaking. Intimidated, not by him, but by these new feelings of rage. “You want to see for yourself?” she heard herself say.

“What is that?”

The shed crouched behind her like some beast itself. “Go ahead, then. You want a chance to tame them? See what you can do.”

He stared, indignant. Challenged by a woman. “You aren’t serious?”

“You want to fix things? You want peace and quiet? Well, so do I!” She wiped a bit of saliva off her chin and shook her wet finger at him. “So do I!”

Mr. Otish looked at her for one long moment. “The others are right,” he said. “You are crazy.”

She flashed him a wild, nodding grin, and he walked to a low branch of the trees bordering their yard. He pulled at a thin switch, twisting it, tugging hard until it finally tore free. He tested it, listening for the rapierlike swish as he sliced it through the air, and, satisfied, stepped to the doors.

“I want you to know,” said Mr. Otish, “I do this for your benefit more than mine.”

Ann-Marie trembled as she watched him run the chain through the shed door handles. The doors started to swing open, Mr. Otish standing near enough to the opening for the pole chain to reach him.

“Now,” he said, “where are these beasts?”

Ann-Marie heard the inhuman growl, and the chain leash moving fast, sounding like spilled coins. Then the doors flew open, Mr. Otish stepped up, and in an instant his stupefied cry was cut short. She ran and threw herself against the shed doors, fighting to close them as the struggling Mr. Otish batted against them. She forced the chain through and around the handles, clasping the lock tight … then fled into her house, away from the shuddering backyard shed and the merciless thing she had just done.

Mark Blessige stood in the foyer of his home with his BlackBerry in hand, not knowing which way to turn. No message from his wife. Her phone was in her Burberry bag, the Volvo station wagon in the driveway, the baby bucket in the mudroom. No note on the kitchen island, only a half-empty glass of wine abandoned on the counter. Patricia, Marcus, and baby Jackie were all gone.

He checked the garage, and the cars and strollers were all there. He checked the calendar in the hallway—nothing was listed. Was she pissed at him for being late again and had decided to do a little passive-aggressive punishment? Mark tried to flip on the television and wait it out, but then realized his anxiety was real. Twice he picked up the telephone to call the police, but didn’t think he could live down the public scandal of a cruiser coming to his house. He went out his front door and stood on the brick step overlooking his lawn and lush flower beds. He looked up and down the street, wondering if they could have slipped over to a neighbor’s—and then noticed that almost every house was dark. No warm yellow glow from heirloom lamps shining on top of polished credenzas. No computer monitor lights or plasma TV screens flashing through hand-sewn lace.

He looked at the Lusses’ house, directly across the street. Its proud patrician face and aged white brick. Nobody home there either, it seemed. Was there some looming natural disaster he didn’t know about? Had an evacuation order been issued?

Then he saw someone emerge from the high bushes forming an ornamental fence between the Lusses’ property and the Perrys’. It was a woman, and in the dappling shadow of the oak leaves overhead she appeared disheveled. She was cradling what looked to be a sleeping child of five or six in her arms. The woman walked straight across the driveway, obscured for a moment by the Lusses’ Lexus SUV, then entered the side door next to the garage. Before entering, her head turned and she saw Mark standing out on his front step. She didn’t wave or otherwise acknowledge him, but her glance—brief though it was—put a block of ice against his chest.

She wasn’t Joan Luss, he realized. But she might have been the Lusses’ housekeeper.

He waited for a light to come on inside. None did. Superstrange, but whatever the case, he hadn’t seen anyone else out and about this fine evening. So he started out across the road—first down his walk to the driveway, avoiding stepping on the lawn grass—and then, hands slipped casually into his suit pants pockets, up the Lusses’ drive to the same side door.

The storm door was shut but the interior door was open. Rather than ring the bell, he gave the glass a jaunty knock and entered, calling, “Hello?” He crossed the tiled mudroom to the kitchen, flipping on the light. “Joan? Roger?”

The floor was streaked all over with dirty footprints, apparently from bare feet. Some of the cabinets and the counter edges were marked with soil-smudged handprints. Pears were rotting in a wire bowl on their kitchen island.

“Anybody home?”

He wagered that Joan and Roger were gone, but he wanted to speak to the housekeeper anyway. She wouldn’t go around blabbing how the Blessiges didn’t know where their children were, or that Mark Blessige couldn’t keep track of his boozy wife. And if he was wrong and Joanie was here, well then he’d ask her about his family as though he had a tennis racket on his shoulder. The kids are sooo busy, how do you keep track? And if he ever heard anything from anyone else about his wayward brood, he’d have to bring up the horde of barefoot peasants the Lusses’ evidently had stampeding through their kitchen.

“It’s Mark Blessige from across the street. Anybody home?”

He hadn’t been in their house since the boy’s birthday party in May. The parents had bought him one of those electric kiddie race cars, but because it didn’t come with a pretend trailer hitch—the kid was obsessed with trailer hitches, apparently—he drove the car straight into the cake table just after the hired help in the SpongeBob SquarePants costume had filled all the cups with juice. “Well,” Roger had said, “at least he knows what he likes.” Cue forced laughter and a fresh round of juice.

Mark ducked through a swinging door into a sitting room where, through the front windows, he got a good look at his own house. He savored the view for a moment, as he didn’t often get a neighbor’s perspective. Damn fine house. Although that stupid Mexican had clipped the west hedges unevenly again.

Footsteps came up the basement stairs. More than one set—more even than a few sets. “Hello?” he said, wondering about those barefoot hordes, and supposing he had gotten too comfortable in the neighbors’ house. “Hi, there. Mark Blessige, from across the way.” No voices answered. “Sorry to barge in like this, but I was wondering—”

He pushed back the swinging door and stopped. Some ten people stood facing him. Two of them were children who stepped out from behind the kitchen island—neither of them were his. Mark recognized a few of the people by face, fellow Bronxville residents, people he saw at Starbucks or the train station or the club. One of them, Carole, was the mother of a friend of Marcus’s. Another was just a UPS delivery man, wearing the trademark brown shirt and shorts. Quite a random assortment for a get-together. Among them was nary a Luss nor a Blessige.

“I’m sorry. Am I interrupting …?”

Now he really started to see them, their complexions and their eyes as they stared at him without speaking. He had never been stared at like that by people before. He felt a heat from them that was separate from their gaze.

Behind them stood the housekeeper. She looked flushed, her complexion red and her staring eyes scarlet, and there was a red stain on the front of her blouse. Her hair was stringy and unwashed and her clothes and skin couldn’t have been dirtier if she had been sleeping in real dirt.

Mark flipped a forelock of hair out of his eyes. He felt his shoulders come up against the swinging door and realized he was backing up. The rest of them moved toward him, with the exception of the housekeeper, who merely stood and watched. One of the children, a twitchy boy with jagged black eyebrows, stepped up on an open drawer to climb onto the kitchen island, so that he stood a head taller than anyone else. He took a running start off the granite countertop and launched himself into the air toward Mark Blessige, who had no choice but to put out his arms and catch him. The boy’s mouth opened as he leaped, and by the time he grabbed Mark’s shoulders his little stinger was out. Like a scorpion’s tail, it flexed up before shooting straight out, piercing Mark’s throat. It split skin and muscle to anchor in his carotid artery, and the pain was like that of a hot skewer rammed halfway into his neck.

He fell backward through the door, crashing to the floor with the boy holding fast, tethered to his throat, sitting astride his chest. Then the pulling began. The drawing out. The sucking. The draining.

Mark tried to speak, tried to scream, but the words clotted in his throat and he choked on them. He was paralyzed. Something in his pulse changed—was interrupted—and he couldn’t utter a sound.

The boy’s chest pressed against his, and he could feel the faint thumping of its heart—or something—against his own. As the blood rushed out of Mark’s body, he felt the boy’s rhythm accelerate and become stronger—thump-thump-thump—reaching a frenzied, intimate gallop that was close to pleasure.

The boy’s stinger engorged as he fed, and the whites of his eyes, as he stared at Mark, flushed crimson. Methodically, the boy kept twining his crooked, bony fingers through Mark’s hair. Tightening his grip on his prey …

The others burst through the door, setting upon the victim, tearing at his clothes. As their stingers pierced his flesh, Mark felt a renewed pressure change inside his body, not decompression but compression. Vacuum collapse, like a juice pack being consumed.

And at the same time, a scent overpowered him, rising into his nose and eyes like a cloud of ammonia. He felt an eruption of wetness over his chest, warm, like freshly made soup, and his hands gripping the little fiend’s body felt a sudden, hot dampness. The boy had soiled himself, defecating over Mark as he fed—though the excretion seemed more chemical than human.

Pain like a motherfucker. Corporeal, all over, his fingertips, his chest, his brain. The pressure went away from his throat, and Mark hung there like a bright white star of effulgent pain.

Neeva pushed open the bedroom door just a sliver, to see that the children were finally asleep. Keene and Audrey Luss lay in sleeping bags on the floor next to her own granddaughter Narushta’s bed. The Luss children were all right most of the time—Neeva, after all, had been their sole daytime caretaker since Keene was four months old—but they had both cried tonight. They missed their beds. They wanted to know when they could go home, when Neeva would take them back. Sebastiane, Neeva’s daughter, was constantly asking how long until the police came and knocked down their door. But it was not the police coming for them that concerned Neeva.

Sebastiane had been born in the United States, educated in United States schools, stamped with an American arrogance. Neeva took her daughter back to Haiti once each year, but it was not home to her. She rejected the old country and its old ways. She rejected old knowledge because new knowledge was so shiny and neat. But Sebastiane making her mother out to be a superstitious fool was almost more than Neeva could take. Especially since, by acting as she had, saving these two spoiled yet potentially redeemable children, she had placed the members of her own family at risk.

Though she had been raised a Roman Catholic, Neeva’s maternal grandfather was Vodou and a village bokor, which is a kind of houngan, or priest—some call them sorcerers—who practices magic, both the benevolent kind and the dark kind. Though he was said to bear a great ashe (wield much spiritual power), and dabbled often with healing zombi astrals—that is, capturing a spirit in a fetish (an inanimate object)—he never attempted the darkest art, that of reanimating a corpse, raising a zombie from a dead body whose soul has departed. He never did so because he said he had too much respect for the dark side, and that crossing that infernal border was a direct affront to the loa, or the spirits of the Vodou religion, akin to saints or angels who act as intermediaries between man and the indifferent Creator. But he had participated in services that were a kind of back-country exorcism, righting the wrongs of other wayward houngan, and she had accompanied him, and had seen the face of the undead.

When Joan had shut herself away in her room that first night—her richly appointed bedroom as nice as any of the hotel suites Neeva used to clean in Manhattan when she first arrived in America—and the moaning finally stopped, Neeva had peeked in to check on her. Joan’s eyes looked dead and faraway, her heart was racing, the sheets were soaked and putrid with sweat. Her pillow was stained with whitish, coughed-up blood. Neeva had nursed the ill and the dying alike, and she knew, looking at Joan Luss, that her employer was sinking not merely into sickness but into evil. That was when she took the children and left.

Neeva went around checking the windows again. They lived on the first floor of a three-family house and could view the street and the neighbors’ houses only through iron bars. Security bars were a good deterrent for burglars, but beyond that, Neeva wasn’t sure. That afternoon, she had gone around the outside of the house, pulling on them, and they felt strong. As an extra precaution, she had (without Sebastiane’s knowledge, saving Neeva a lecture on fire safety) nailed the frames to the sills, and then blocked the children’s window view with a bookshelf as a makeshift barricade. She had also (smartly telling no one) smeared garlic on each of the iron bars. She kept a quart bottle of holy water from her church, consecrated by the parish priest—though she remained mindful of how ineffectual her crucifix had been inside the Lusses’ basement.

Nervous but confident, she drew all the shades and put on every light, then took to her chair and put up her feet. She left her thick-heeled black shoes on (they were orthopedic—bad arches) in case she had to rush somewhere, had to be ready to stand watch for another night. She put the TV on low, just for company. It drew more electricity out of the wall than attention from Neeva.

She was more bothered by her daughter’s condescension than perhaps she should have been. It is the concern of every immigrant that their offspring will grow to embrace their adoptive culture at the expense of their natural heritage. But Neeva’s fear was much more specific: she was afraid that her Americanized daughter’s overconfidence would end up hurting her. To Sebastiane, the dark of night was merely an inconvenience, a deficient amount of light, which immediately went away when you flipped a switch. Night was leisure time to her, playtime, time to relax. When she let her hair down, and her guard. To Neeva, electricity existed as little more than a talisman against the dark. Night is real. Night is not an absence of light, but in fact, it is daytime that is a brief respite from the looming darkness …

The faint sound of scratching awoke her with a start. Her chin bobbed off her chest and she saw that the television was showing an infomercial for a sponge mop that was also a vacuum. She froze and listened. It was a clicking coming from the front door. At first she thought Emile was coming home—her nephew drove a taxi nights—but if he had forgotten his key again, he would have rung the bell.

Somebody was outside the front door. But they didn’t knock or press the bell.

Neeva got to her feet as quickly as she could. She crept down the hallway and stood before the door, listening, only a slab of wood separating her from whoever—whatever—was on the outside.

She felt a presence. She imagined that, if she touched the door—which she did not—she would feel heat.

It was a plain exterior door with a security dead-bolt lock, no screen outside, no windows in the wood. Only an old-fashioned mail slot was centered near the bottom, one foot above the floor.

The hinge on the mail slot creaked. The brass flap moved—and Neeva rushed back down the hall. She stood there for a moment—out of sight, in a panic—then rushed to the bathroom and the basket of bath toys. She grabbed her granddaughter’s water gun and uncapped the bottle of holy water and poured it into the tiny aperture, spilling much of it as she filled the plastic barrel.

She took the toy to the door. It was quiet now, but she felt the presence. She knelt down clumsily on her swollen knee, snagging her stocking on the roughened wood of the floor. She was near enough to feel the whisper of cool night air through the brass flap—and see a shadow along its edge.

The toy gun had a long front nozzle. Neeva remembered to slide back the underside pump action to prime the pressure, then used the very end of the muzzle to tip up the flap. When the hinge emitted a plaintive squeak, she put the gun in, thrusting the nozzle through and squeezing the trigger.

Neeva aimed blindly, up, down, and from side to side, squirting holy water in all directions. She imagined Joan Luss being burned, the acid-like water cutting through her body like Jesus’ own golden sword—yet she heard no wailing.

Then a hand came through the slot. It grabbed at the gun muzzle, trying to take it away. Neeva pulled it back, reflexively, and got a good look at the fingers. They were gravedigger dirty. The nail beds were bloodred. The holy water spilled down the skin, merely smearing the dirt, with no steaming or burning.

No effect at all.

The hand pulled hard on the muzzle, jamming it inside the mail slot. Now Neeva realized the hand was trying to get at her. So she let go of the gun, the hand pulling and twisting until the plastic toy cracked, loosening a final splash of water. Neeva pushed away from the slot, on her hands and her bottom, as the visitor began ramming the door. Throwing her entire body against it, rattling the knob. The hinges trembled and the adjoining walls shook, the picture of the man and the boy hunting fell off its nail, shattering the protective glass. Neeva kicked her way to the end of the short entrance hall. Her shoulder knocked over the umbrella stand with the baseball bat in it, and Neeva grabbed the bat and gripped the black-taped handle, sitting there on the floor.

The wood held. The old door she hated for swelling and sticking to the frame in the summer heat was solid enough to withstand the blows, as was the dead bolt and even the smooth iron doorknob. The presence behind the door eventually went silent. Maybe even went away altogether.

Neeva looked at the puddle of Christ’s tears on the floor. When the power of Jesus fails you, then you know you truly are shit out of luck.

Wait for daylight. That was all she could do.

“Neeva?”

Keene, the Luss boy, stood behind her in sweatpants and a T-shirt. Neeva moved faster than she imagined she ever could, clamping a hand over the young boy’s mouth and sweeping him away around the corner. Neeva stood there with her back against the wall, the boy wrapped in her arms.

Had the thing at the door heard its son’s voice?

Neeva tried to listen. The boy squirmed against her, trying to speak.

“Hush, child.”

Then she heard it. The squeak again. She grasped the boy even more tightly as she leaned to her left, risking a look around the corner.

The mail slot was propped open by a dirty finger. Neeva whipped back around the corner again, but not before she glimpsed a pair of glowing red eyes looking inside.

Gabriel Bolivar’s manager, Rudy Wain, cabbed over to his town house from Hudson Street after a late dinner meeting at Mr. Chow’s with the BMG people. He hadn’t been able to get Gabe on the phone, but there were whispers about his health now, following the Flight 753 thing and a paparazzi picture of him in a wheelchair and Rudy had to see for himself. When he showed up at the door on Vestry Street, there were no paparazzi in sight, only a few dopey-looking Goth fans sitting around on the sidewalk smoking.

They stood up rather expectantly when Rudy walked up the front-stoop stairs. “What’s up?” asked Rudy.

“We heard he’s been letting people in.”

Rudy looked straight up, but there were no lights on anywhere in the twin town houses, not even in the penthouse. “Looks like the party’s over.”

“It’s no party,” said one chubby kid with colored elastic bands hanging from a pin through his cheek. “He let the paparazzi in too.”

Rudy shrugged and punched in his key code, entered, and closed the door behind him. At least Gabe was feeling better. Rudy entered, past the black marble panthers and into the dark foyer. The construction lights were all dark, and the light switches still weren’t connected to anything. Rudy thought for a moment, then brought out his BlackBerry, changing the display to ALWAYS ON. He shone the blue light around, noticing, at the foot of the winged angel by the stairs, a heap of high-end digital SLRs and video cameras, weapons of the paparazzi. All piled there like shoes outside a swimming pool.

“Hello?”

His voice echoed dully through the unfinished first few floors. Rudy started up the curling marble stairs, following his BlackBerry’s pool of electronic blue light. He needed to motivate Gabe for his Roseland show next week, and there were scattered U.S. dates around Halloween to prepare for.

He reached the top floor, Bolivar’s bedroom suite, and all the lights were off.

“Hey, Gabe? It’s me, man. Don’t let me walk in on anything.”

Too quiet. He pushed into the master bedroom, scanning it with his phone light, finding the bedsheets tossed but no hungover Gabe. Probably out night crawling as usual. He wasn’t here.

Rudy popped into the master bathroom to take a leak. He saw an open prescription bottle of Vicodin on the counter, and a crystal cocktail glass that smelled of booze. Rudy deliberated a moment, then dealt himself two Vikes, rinsing out the glass in the sink and washing the pills down with tap water.

As he was replacing the glass on the counter, he caught sight of movement somewhere behind him. He turned fast, and there was Gabe, coming out of the darkness and into the bathroom. The mirrored walls on both sides made it seem as though there were hundreds of him.

“Gabe, Jesus, you scared me,” said Rudy. His genial smile faded as Gabe stood there staring at him. The blue phone light was indirect and faint, but Gabe’s skin looked dark, his eyes tinged red. He wore a thin black robe, to his knees, with no shirt underneath. His arms hung straight, and he offered his manager no indication of greeting. “What’s wrong, man?” His hands and chest were dirty. “You spend the night in a coal bin?”

Gabe just stood there, multiplied in the mirrors out to infinity.

“You really stink, man,” said Rudy, holding his hand to his nose. “What the hell you been into?” Rudy felt a strange heat coming off Gabe. He held his phone closer to Gabe’s face. His eyes didn’t do anything in the light. “Dude, you left your makeup on way too long.”

The Vikes were starting to kick in. The room, with its facing mirrors, expanded like an unpacked accordion. Rudy moved the phone light, and the entire bathroom flickered.

“Look, man,” said Rudy, unnerved by Gabe’s lack of reaction, “if you’re tripping, I can come back.”

He tried to glide out on Gabe’s left, but Gabe didn’t stand aside. He tried again, but Gabe would not give way. Rudy stood back, holding his phone light out on his longtime client. “Gabe, man, what the—?”

Bolivar opened his robe then, spreading his arms wide, like wings, before allowing the garment to fall to the floor.

Rudy gasped. Gabe’s body was gray and gaunt throughout, but the sight that made him dizzy was Gabe’s groin.

It was hairless and doll-smooth, lacking any genitalia.

Gabe’s hand covered Rudy’s mouth, hard. Rudy started to struggle, but much too late. Rudy saw Gabe grinning—and then that grin fell away, something like a whip writhing inside his mouth. By the trembling blue light of his phone—as he frantically and blindly felt for the numerals 9, 1, and 1—he saw the stinger emerge. Vaguely defined appendages inflated and deflated along its sides, like twin spongy sacs of flesh, flanked by gill-like vents that flared open and closed.

Rudy saw all of this in the instant before it shot into his neck. His phone fell to the bathroom floor beneath his kicking feet, the SEND button never pressed.

Nine-year-old Jeanie Millsome wasn’t tired at all on her way home with her mother. Seeing The Little Mermaid on Broadway was so awesome, she believed she was the most awake she had ever been in her life. Now she truly knew what she wanted to be when she grew up. No more ballet school instructor (after Cindy Veeley broke two toes on a leap). No more Olympic gymnast (pommel horse too scary). She was going to be (drumroll, please … ) a Broadway Actress! And she was going to dye her hair coral red and star in The Little Mermaid in the lead role of Ariel, and at the end take the biggest and most graceful curtain curtsy of all time, and after the thunderous applause she was going to greet her young theater-going fans after the show and sign all their programs and smile for camera-phone pictures with them—and then, one very special night, she was going to select the most polite and sincere nine-year-old girl in the audience and invite her to be her understudy and Best Friend Forever. Her mother was going to be her hairstylist, and her dad, who stayed home with Justin, would be her manager, just like Hannah Montana’s dad. And Justin … well, Justin could just stay home and be himself.

And so she sat, chin in hand, turned around in the seat on the subway running south underneath the city. She saw herself reflected in the window, saw the brightness of the car behind her, but the lights flickered sometimes, and in one of those dark blinks she found herself looking out into an open space where one tunnel fed into another. Then she saw something. No more than a subliminal flash of an image, like a single disturbing frame spliced into an otherwise monotonous strip of film. So fast that her nine-year-old conscious mind didn’t have time to process it, this image she did not understand. She couldn’t even say why she burst into tears, which woke up her nodding mother, so pretty in her theater coat and dress next to her, who comforted her and tried to draw out what had prompted the sobbing. Jeanie could only point to the window. She rode the rest of the way home cuddled beneath her mother’s arm.

But the Master had seen her. The Master saw everything. Even—especially—while feeding. His night vision was extraordinary and nearly telescopic, in varying shades of gray, and registered heat sources in a glowing spectral white.

Finished, though not satiated—never satiated—he let his prey slide limply down his body, his great hands releasing the turned human to the gravel floor. The tunnels around him whispered with winds that fluttered his dark cloak, trains screaming in the distance, iron clashing against steel, like the scream of a world suddenly aware of his coming.

EXPOSURE

Canary Headquarters, Eleventh Avenue and Twenty-seventh Street

On the third morning following the landing of Flight 753, Eph took Setrakian to the office headquarters of the CDC Canary project on the western edge of Chelsea, one block east of the Hudson. Before Eph started Canary, the three-room office had been the local site for the CDC’s World Trade Center Worker and Volunteer Medical Screening Program, investigating links between the 9/11 recovery effort and persistent respiratory ailments.

Eph’s heart lifted as they pulled up at Eleventh Avenue. Two police cars and a pair of unmarked sedans with government license plates were parked outside the entrance. Director Barnes had come through finally. They were going to get the help they needed. There was no way Eph, Nora, and Setrakian could fight this scourge on their own.

The third-floor office door was open when they got there, and Barnes was conferring with a plainclothes man who identified himself as an FBI special agent. “Everett,” said Eph, relieved to find him personally involved. “Your timing is perfect. Just the man I wanted to see.” He moved to a small refrigerator near the door. Test tubes clinked as he reached for a quart of whole milk, uncapping it and drinking it down fast. He needed the calcium the same way he had once needed booze. We trade off our dependencies, he realized. For instance, just last week Eph had been fully dependent upon the laws of science and nature. Now his fix was silver swords and ultraviolet light.

He brought the half-empty bottle away from his lips with the realization that he had just slaked his thirst with the product of another mammal.

“Who is this?” asked Director Barnes.

“This,” said Eph, swiping the milk mustache from his upper lip, “is Professor Abraham Setrakian.” Setrakian was holding his hat, his alabaster hair bright under the low ceiling lights. “So much has happened, Everett,” said Eph, swallowing more milk, putting out the fire in his belly. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

Barnes said, “Why don’t we start with the bodies missing from the city morgues.”

Eph lowered the bottle. One of the cops had edged closer to the door behind him. A second FBI man was sitting at Eph’s laptop, pecking away. “Hey, excuse me,” said Eph.

Barnes said, “Ephraim, what do you know about the missing corpses?”

Eph was a moment trying to read the CDC director’s face. He glanced back at Setrakian, but the old man offered him nothing, standing very still with his hat in his gnarled hands.

Eph turned back to his boss. “They have gone home.”

“Home?” said Barnes, turning his head as though trying to hear him better. “To heaven?”

“To their families, Everett.”

Barnes looked at the FBI agent who kept looking at Eph.

“They are dead,” said Barnes.

“They aren’t dead. At least, not in the way we understand it.”

“There is only one way to be dead, Ephraim.”

Eph shook his head. “Not anymore.”

“Ephraim.” Barnes took one sympathetic step forward. “I know you have been under a keen amount of stress recently. I know you have had family troubles …”

Eph said, “Hold on. I don’t think I understand what the hell this is.”

The FBI agent said, “This is about your patient, Doctor. One of the pilots of Regis Air Flight 753, Captain Doyle Redfern. We have a few questions about his care.”

Eph hid a chill. “Get a court order and I’ll answer your questions.”

“Maybe you’d like to explain this.”

He opened a portable video player on the edge of the desk and pressed play. It showed a security-camera view of a hospital room. Redfern was seen from behind, staggering, his johnny open in back. He looked wounded and confused rather than predatory and enraged. The camera angle did not show the stinger swirling out of his mouth.

It did however show Eph facing him with the whirling trephine, jabbing at Redfern’s throat with the circular blade.

There was the flicker of a jump cut, and now Nora was in the background, covering her mouth as Eph stood by the doorway with his chest heaving, Redfern in a heap on the floor.

Then another sequence began. A different camera farther along the same basement hallway, set at a higher angle. It showed two people, a man and a woman, forcing their way into the locked morgue room where Redfern’s body was being held. Then it showed them leaving with a heavy body bag.

The two people looked very much like Eph and Nora.

Playback stopped. Eph looked at Nora—who was shocked—and then at the FBI agent and Barnes. “That was … that attack was edited to look bad. There was a cut there. Redfern had—”

“Where are Captain Redfern’s remains?”

Eph couldn’t think. He couldn’t get past the lie he had just seen. “That wasn’t us. The camera was too high to—”

“So are you saying that was not you and Dr. Martinez?”

Eph looked at Nora, who was shaking her head, both of them too mystified to mount any immediate coherent defense.

Barnes said, “Let me ask you one more time, Ephraim. Where are the missing bodies from the morgues?”

Eph looked back to Setrakian, standing near the door. Then at Barnes. He couldn’t come up with anything to say.

“Ephraim, I am shutting Canary down. As of this moment.”

“What?” said Eph, coming around. “Wait, Everett—”

Eph moved fast, toward Barnes. The other cops started toward him as though he was dangerous, their reaction stopping Eph, alarming him even more.

“Dr. Goodweather, you have to come with us,” said the FBI agent. “All of you … hey!”

Eph turned. Setrakian was gone.

The agent sent two cops out to get him.

Eph looked back toward Barnes. “Everett. You know me. You know who I am. Listen to what I am about to tell you. There is a plague spreading throughout this city—a scourge unlike anything we’ve ever seen.”

The FBI agent said, “Dr. Goodweather, we want to know what you injected into Jim Kent.”

“What I … what?”

Barnes said, “Ephraim, I have made a deal with them. They will spare Nora if you agree to cooperate. Spare her the scandal of arrest and preserve her professional reputation. I know that you two … are close.”

“And how exactly do you know that?” Eph looked around at his persecutors, moving past bewilderment and into anger. “This is bullshit, Everett.”

“You are on video attacking and murdering a patient, Ephraim. You have been reporting fantastic test results, unexplained by any rational measurement, unsubstantiated and most likely doctor-manipulated. Would I be here if I had a choice? If you had a choice?”

Eph turned to Nora. She would be spared. She could perhaps fight on.

Barnes was right. For the moment at least, in a room full of lawmen, he had no choice.

“Don’t let this slow you down,” Eph told Nora. “You may be the only one left who knows what’s really happening.”

Nora shook her head. She turned to Barnes. “Sir, there is a conspiracy here, whether you are willingly a part of it or not—”

“Please, Dr. Martinez,” said Barnes. “Don’t embarrass yourself any further.”

The other agent packed up Eph’s and Nora’s laptops. They started walking Eph down the stairs.

At the second-floor hallway, they met the two cops who had gone after Setrakian. They were standing side by side, almost back to back. Handcuffed together.

Setrakian appeared behind the group with his sword drawn. He held its point at the lead FBI agent’s neck. There was a smaller dagger in his other hand, also fashioned of silver. He held that one near Director Barnes’s throat.

The old professor said, “You gentlemen are pawns in a scheme well beyond your comprehension. Doctor, take this dagger.”

Eph took the weapon’s handle, holding the point at his boss’s throat.

Barnes said, breathlessly, “Good Christ, Ephraim. Have you lost your mind?”

“Everett, this is bigger than you can know. This goes beyond the CDC—beyond regular law enforcement even. There is a catastrophic disease outbreak in this city, the likes of which we have never seen. And that’s just the half of it.”

Nora came up beside him, reclaiming hers and Ephraim’s laptops from the other FBI agent. She said, “I got everything else we need from the office. Looks like we won’t be coming back.”

Barnes said, “For God’s sake, Ephraim, come to your senses.”

“This is the job you hired me to do, Everett. To sound the alarm when a public health crisis warrants. We are on the verge of a worldwide pandemic. An extinction event. And somebody somewhere is pulling out all the stops to make damn sure it succeeds.”

Stoneheart Group, Manhattan

ELDRITCH PALMER switched on a bank of monitors, showing six television news channels. The one in the lower-left-hand box interested him most. He angled his chair up a few degrees and isolated the channel, raising its volume.

The reporter was posted outside the 17th Precinct headquarters on East Fifty-first Street, getting a “No comment” from a police official concerning a rash of missing persons reports being filed throughout the New York area in the past few days. They showed the line of people waiting outside the precinct house, too many to be allowed inside, filling out forms on the sidewalk. The reporter noted that other seemingly unexplained incidents, such as house break-ins in which nothing appeared to have been stolen and no one appeared to be home, were being reported also. Strangest of all was the fact of the failure of modern technology to assist in the search for the missing persons: mobile phones, almost all of which contain traceable GPS technology, had apparently gone missing with their owners. This led some to speculate that people were perhaps willfully abandoning families and jobs, and noted that the spike in disappearances seemed to have coincided with the recent lunar occultation, suggesting a link between the two occurrences. A psychologist then commented on the potential for low-grade mass hysteria in the wake of certain startling celestial events. The story ended with the reporter giving airtime to a teary woman holding up a JCPenney portrait of a missing mother of two.

The program then went to a commercial for an “age-defying” cream designed to “help you live longer and better.”

The congenitally ill tycoon then switched off the audio, so that the only sound, other than the dialysis machine, was the humming behind his avaricious smile.

On another screen was a graphic showing the financial markets declining while the dollar continued its fall. Palmer himself was moving the markets, steadily divesting himself of equities and buying into metals: gold, silver, palladium, and platinum bullion.

The commentator went on to suggest that the recent recession represented opportunities in futures trading. Palmer strongly disagreed. He was shorting futures. Everybody’s except his own.

A telephone call was forwarded to his chair through Mr. Fitzwilliam. A sympathetic member of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, calling to inform him that the epidemiologist with the Canary project, Dr. Ephraim Goodweather, had escaped.

“Escaped?” said Palmer. “How is that possible?”

“He had an elderly man with him who apparently was more wily than he’d seemed. He carried a long silver sword.”

Palmer was silent for one full respiration. Then, slowly, he smiled.

Forces were aligning against him. All well and good. Let them come together. It would be easier to clear them all away.

“Sir?” said the caller.

“Oh—nothing,” said Palmer. “I was just thinking of an old friend.”

Knickerbocker Loans and Curios, East 118th Street, Spanish Harlem

EPH AND NORA stood with Setrakian behind the locked doors of his pawnshop, the two epidemiologists still shaken up.

“I gave them your name,” said Eph, looking outside the window.

“The building is in my late wife’s name. We should be safe here for the moment.”

Setrakian was anxious to get downstairs to his basement armory, but the two doctors were still rattled. “They are coming after us,” said Eph.

“Clearing the way for infection,” said Setrakian. “The strain will move faster through an orderly society than one on high alert.”

“They who?” said Nora.

“Whoever had the influence to get that coffin loaded onto a transatlantic flight in this age of terrorism,” said Setrakian.

Eph said, pacing, “They’re framing us. Sending someone in there to steal Redfern’s remains … who looked like us?”

“As you said, you are the lead authority to sound the general alarm for disease control. Be thankful they only tried to discredit you.”

Nora said, “Without the CDC behind us, we have no authority.”

Setrakian said, “We must continue on our own now. This is disease control at its most elemental.”

Nora looked over at him. “You mean—murder.”

“What would you want? To become like that … or to have someone release you?”

Eph said, “It’s still a polite euphemism for murder. And easier said than done. How many heads do we have to cut off? There are three of us here.”

Setrakian said, “There are ways other than severing the spinal column. Sunlight, for example. Our most powerful ally.”

Eph’s phone trembled inside his pocket. He pulled it out, wary, checking the display.

An Atlanta exchange. CDC headquarters. “Pete O’Connell,” he said to Nora, and took the call.

Nora turned to Setrakian. “So where are they all right now, during the day?”

“Underground. Cellars and sewers. The dark bowels of buildings, such as maintenance rooms, in the heating and cooling systems. In the walls sometimes. But usually in dirt. That is where they prefer to make their nests.”

“So—they sleep during the day, right?”

“That would be most convenient, wouldn’t it? A handful of coffins in a basement, full of dozing vampires. But no, they don’t sleep at all. Not as we understand it. They will shut down for a while if they are sated. Too much blood digestion fatigues them. But never for long. They go underground during daylight hours solely to escape the killing rays of the sun.”

Nora appeared quite pale and overwhelmed, like a little girl who’d been told that dead people do not in fact grow wings and fly straight up to heaven to be angels, but instead stay on earth and grow stingers under their tongues and turn into vampires.

“That thing you said,” she said. “Before you cut them down. Something in another language. Like a pronouncement, or a kind of curse.”

The old man winced. “Something I say only to calm myself. To steady my hand for the final blow.”

Nora waited to hear what it was. Setrakian saw that, for whatever reason, she needed to know.

“I say, ‘Strigoi, my sword sings of silver.’” Setrakian winced again, uncomfortable saying this now. “Sounds better in the old language.”

Nora saw that this old vampire killer was essentially a modest man. “Silver,” she said.

“Only silver,” he said. “Renowned throughout the ages for its antiseptic and germicidal properties. You can cut them with steel or shoot them with lead, but only silver really hurts them.”

Eph had his free hand over his other ear, trying to hear Pete, who was driving in a car just outside Atlanta. Pete said, “What’s going on up there?”

“Well … what have you heard?”

“That I’m not supposed to be talking to you. That you’re in trouble. That you’ve gone off the reservation or some such.”

“It’s a mess here, Pete. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Well, I had to call anyway. I’ve been putting in time on the samples you sent me.”

Eph felt another stone fall into his gut. Dr. Peter O’Connell was one of the heads of the Unexplained Deaths Project at the CDC’s National Center for Zoonotic, Vector-Borne, and Enteric Diseases. UNEX was an interdisciplinary group made up of virologists, bacteriologists, epidemiologists, veterinarians, and clinicians from inside and outside the CDC. A great many naturally occurring deaths go unexplained in the United States each year, and a fraction of these—about seven hundred per annum—are referred to UNEX for further investigation. Of those seven hundred, merely 15 percent are satisfactorily resolved, with samples from the rest being banked for possible future reexamination.

Every UNEX researcher holds another position within the CDC, and Pete was the chief of Infectious Disease Pathology, an expert on how and why a virus affects its host. Eph had forgotten sending him early biopsies and blood samples from Captain Redfern’s preliminary examination.

“It’s a viral strain, Eph. No doubt about that. A remarkable bit of genetic acid.”

“Pete, wait, listen to me—”

“The glycoprotein has amazing binding characteristics. I’m talking skeleton key. Astonishing. This little bugger doesn’t merely hijack the host cell, tricking it into reproducing more copies of itself. No—it fuses to the RNA. Melds with it. Consumes it … yet somehow doesn’t use it up. What it’s doing is, it’s making a copy of itself mated with the host cell. And taking only the parts it needs. I don’t know what you’re seeing with your patient, but theoretically, this thing could replicate and replicate and replicate, and many millions of generations later—and this thing is fast—it could reproduce its own organ structure. Systemically. It could change its host. Into what, I don’t know—but I sure would like to find out.”

“Pete.” Eph’s head was swimming. It made too much sense. The virus overwhelmed and transformed the cell—just as the vampire overwhelmed and transformed the victim.

These vampires were viruses incarnate.

Pete said, “I’d like to do the genetics on this one myself, really see what makes it tick—”

“Pete, listen to me. I want you to destroy it.”

Eph heard Pete’s windshield wipers working in the silence. “What?”

“Save your findings, hang on to those, but destroy that sample right away.”

More windshield wipers, metronomes of Pete’s uncertainty. “Destroy the one I was working on, you mean? Because you know that we always bank some, just in case—”

“Pete, I need you to drive straight to the lab and destroy that sample.”

“Eph.” Eph heard Pete’s blinker, Pete pulling off the road to finish the conversation. “You know how careful we are with any potential pathogens. We’re clean and we’re safe. And we have a very strict laboratory protocol that I can’t just break for your—”

“I made a terrible mistake letting it out of New York City. I didn’t know then what I know now.”

“Exactly what kind of trouble are you in, Eph?”

“Bleach it. If that doesn’t work, use acid. Set it on fire if you have to, I don’t care. I’ll take full responsibility—”

“It’s not about responsibility, Eph. It’s about good science. You need to be straight with me now. Someone said they saw something about you on the news.”

Eph had to end this. “Pete, do as I ask—and I promise I will explain everything to you when I can.”

He hung up. Setrakian and Nora had listened to the end of his conversation.

Setrakian said, “You sent the virus somewhere else?”

“He’s going to destroy it. Pete will err on the side of caution—I know him too well.” Eph looked at the televisions for sale along the wall. Something about you on the news … “Any of these work?”

They found one that did. It wasn’t long before the story rolled around.

They showed Eph’s photograph from his CDC identification card. Then a blurry snippet of his encounter with Redfern, and one of the two look-alikes carrying a body bag from the hospital room. It said that Dr. Ephraim Goodweather was being sought as “a person of interest” in the disappearance of the corpses of the Flight 753 airline passengers.

Eph stood motionless. He thought of Kelly watching this. Of Zack.

“Those bastards,” he hissed.

Setrakian switched off the television. “The only good news about this is that they still consider you a threat. That means there is still time. Still hope. A chance.”

Nora said, “You sound like you have a plan.”

“Not a plan. A strategy.”

Eph said, “Tell us.”

“Vampires have their own laws, both savage and ancient. One such commandment that endures is that a vampire cannot cross moving water. Not without human assistance.”

Nora shook her head. “Why not?”

“The reason perhaps lies in their very creation, so long ago. The lore has existed in every known culture on the planet, for all time. Mesopotamians, Ancient Greeks and Egyptians, Hebrews, the Romans. Old as I am, I am not old enough to know. But the prohibition holds even today. Giving us something of an advantage here. Do you know, what is New York City?”

Nora got it right away. “An island.”

“An archipelago. We are surrounded on all sides by water right now. The airline passengers, they went to morgues in all five boroughs?”

“No,” said Nora. “Only four. Not Staten Island.”

“Four, then. Queens and Brooklyn are both separated from the mainland, by the East River and the Long Island Sound respectively. The Bronx is the only borough connected to the United States.”

Eph said, “If only we could seal off the bridges. Set up fire lines north of the Bronx, east of Queens at Nassau …”

“Wishful thinking at this point,” said Setrakian. “But, can you see, we do not have to destroy every one of them individually. They are all of one mind, operating in a hive mentality. Controlled by a single intelligence. Who is very likely landlocked somewhere here in Manhattan.”

“The Master,” said Eph.

“The one who came over in the belly of the airplane. The owner of the missing coffin.”

Nora said, “How do you know he’s not back near the airport? If he can’t cross the East River on his own.”

Setrakian smiled flatly. “I feel very confident that he did not journey all the way to America to hide out in Queens.” He opened the rear door, the steps leading to his basement armory. “What we have to do now is hunt him down.”

Liberty Street, the World Trade Center Site

VASILIY FET, the exterminator with the New York City Bureau of Pest Control, stood at the construction fence above the great “bathtub” foundation at the site of the former World Trade Center complex. He had left his handcart in his van, parked over on West Street, in a Port Authority lot with the other construction vehicles. In one hand he carried rodenticide and light tunnel gear in a red-and-black Puma sport bag. In his other he held his trusty length of rebar, found at a job site once, a one-meter-long steel rod perfect for probing rat burrows and pushing bait inside—and occasionally beating back aggressive or panicked vermin.

He stood between the Jersey barriers and the construction fence at the corner of Church and Liberty, among the orange-and-white caution barrels along the wide pedestrian walkway. People walked past, striding toward the temporary subway entrance at the other end of the block. There was a sense of new hope in the air here, warm, like the abundant sunshine that blessed this destroyed part of the city. The new buildings were starting to go up now, after years of planning and excavation, and it was as though this terrible black bruise was finally starting to heal.

Only Fet noticed the oily smears discoloring the vertical edges of the curb. The droppings around the parking barriers. The gnaw marks scoring the lid of the corner garbage can. Telltale signs of surface rat presence.

One of the sandhogs took him down the haul road and into the basin. He pulled up at the foot of the structure that would become the new underground WTC PATH station, with five tracks and three underground platforms. For now, the silver trains entered through daylight and open air as they made their way along the bottom of the bathtub toward the temporary platforms.

Vasiliy stepped out of the pickup, down among the concrete footings, looking up seven stories to the street above him. He was in the pit where the towers had fallen. It was enough to take his breath away.

Vasiliy said, “This is a holy place.”

The sandhog had a bushy, gray-flecked mustache, and wore a loose flannel shirt over a tucked-in flannel shirt—both heavy with soil and sweat—and blue jeans with muddy gloves tucked into the belt. His hard hat was covered with stickers. “I always thought so,” he said. “Recently I’m not so sure.”

Fet looked at him. “Because of the rats?”

“There’s that, sure. Gushing out of the tunnels the past few days, like we’ve struck rat oil. But that’s fallen off now.” He shook his head, looking up at the slurry wall erected beneath Vesey Street, seventy sheer feet of concrete studded with tiebacks.

Fet said, “Then what?”

The guy shrugged. Sandhogs are a proud lot. They built New York City, its subways and sewers, every tunnel, pier, skyscraper, and bridge foundation. Every glass of clean water comes out of the tap thanks to a sandhog. A family job, different generations working together on the same sites. Dirty work done right. So the guy was reluctant to sound reluctant. “Everyone’s in kind of a funk. We had two guys walk off, disappear. Clocked in for a shift, went down into the tunnels, but never clocked out. We’re twenty-four/seven here, but nobody wants night shifts anymore. Nobody wants to be underground. And these are young guys, my daredevils.”

Fet looked ahead to the tunnel openings where the subterranean structures would be joined beneath Church Street. “So no new construction these past few days? Breaking new ground?”

“Not since we got the basin hollowed out.”

“And all this started with the rats?”

“Around then. Something’s come over this place, just in the past few days.” The sandhog shrugged, shaking it off. He had a plain white hard hat for Vasiliy. “And I thought I had a dirty job. What makes someone want to become a rat catcher anyway?”

Vasiliy put on the hat, feeling the wind change near the mouth of the underground passage. “I guess I’m addicted to the glamour.”

The sandhog looked at Vasiliy’s boots, his Puma bag, the steel rod. “Done this before?”

“Gotta go where the vermin are. There’s a lot of city under this city.”

“Tell me about it. You got a flashlight, I hope? Some bread crumbs?”

“Think I’m good.”

Vasiliy shook the sandhog’s hand, then started inside.

The tunnel was clean at first, where it had been shored up. He followed it out of the sunlight, yellow lights strung every ten or so yards, marking his way. He was under where the original concourse had been located. This big burrow would, when all was said and done, connect the new PATH station to the WTC transportation hub located between towers two and three, a half block away. Other feed tunnels connected to city water, power, and sewer.

Deeper in, he couldn’t help but notice fine, powdery dust still coating the walls of the original tunnel. This was a hallowed place, still very much a graveyard. Where bodies and buildings were pulverized, reduced to atoms.

He saw burrows, he saw tracks and scat, but no rats. He picked away at the burrows with his rod, and listened. He heard nothing.

The strung-up work lights ended at a turn, a deep, velvety blackness lying ahead. Vasiliy carried a million-candlepower spot lamp in his bag—a big yellow Garrity with a bullhorn grip—as well as two backup mini Maglites. But artificial light in a dark enclosure wiped out one’s night vision altogether, and for rat hunting he liked to stay dark and quiet. He pulled out a night-vision monocular instead, a handheld unit with a strap that attached nicely to his hard hat, coming down over his left eye. Closing his right eye turned the tunnel green. Rat vision, he called it, their beady eyes glowing in the scope.

Nothing. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, the rats were gone. Driven off.

That stumped him. It took a lot to displace rats. Even once you removed their food source, it could be weeks before seeing a change. Not days.

The tunnel was joined by older passages, Vasiliy coming across filth-covered rail tracks unused for many years. The quality of the ground soil had changed, and he could tell by its very texture that he had crossed over from “new” Manhattan—the landfill that had been brought in to build up Battery Park out of sludge—into “old” Manhattan, the original dry island bedrock.

He stopped at a junction to make certain he had his bearings. As he looked down the length of the crossing tunnel, he saw, in his rat vision, a pair of eyes. They glowed back at him like rat eyes, but bigger, and high off the ground.

The eyes were gone in a flash, turning out of sight.

“Hey?” yelled Vasiliy, his call echoing. “Hey up there!”

After a moment, a voice answered him, echoing back off the walls. “Who goes there?”

Vasiliy detected a note of fear in the voice. A flashlight appeared, its source down at the end of the tunnel, well beyond where Vasiliy had seen the eyes. He flipped up the monocular just in time, saving his retina. He identified himself, pulling out a little Maglite to shine back as a signal, then moved forward. At the point where he estimated seeing the eyes, the old access tunnel ran up alongside another tunnel track that appeared to be in use. The monocular showed him nothing, no glowing eyes, so he continued around the bend to the next junction.

He found three sandhogs there, in goggles and sticker-covered hard hats, wearing flannels, jeans, and boots. A sump pump was running, channeling out a leak. The halogen bulbs of their high-powered work-light tripods lit up the new tunnel like a space-creature movie. They stood close together, tense until they could fully see Vasiliy.

“Did I just see one of you back there?” he asked.

The three guys looked at one another. “What’d you see?”

“Thought I saw someone.” He pointed. “Cutting across the track.”

The three sandhogs looked at one another again, then two of them started packing up. The third one said, “You the guy looking for rats?”

“Yeah.”

The sandhog shook his head. “No more rats here.”

“I don’t mean to contradict you, but that’s almost impossible. How come?”

“Could be they’ve got more sense than us.”

Vasiliy looked down the lit tunnel, in the direction of the sump hose. “The subway exit down there?”

“That’s the way out.”

Vasiliy pointed in the opposite direction. “What’s this way?”

The sandhog said, “You don’t want to go that way.”

“Why not?”

“Look. Forget about rats. Follow us out. We’re done here.”

Water was still trickling into the troughlike puddle. Vasiliy said, “I’ll be right along.”

The guy dead-eyed him. “Suit yourself,” he said, switching off a tripod lamp and then hoisting a pack onto his back, starting after the others.

Vasiliy watched them go, lights playing far down the tunnel, darkening along a gradual turn. He heard the screeching of subway car wheels, near enough to concern him. He went on, crossing to the newer track, waiting for his eyes to acclimate themselves to the darkness again.

He switched on his monocular, everything going subterranean green. The echoing of his footfalls changed as the tunnel broadened to a trash-strewn exchange near a convergence of tracks. Rivet-studded steel beams stood at regular intervals, like pillars in an industrial ballroom. An abandoned maintenance shack stood to Vasiliy’s right, defaced by vandalism. The shack’s crumbling brick walls featuring some artless graffiti tags around a depiction of the twin towers in flames. One was labeled “Saddam,” the other “Gamera.”

On an old support, an ancient track sign had once warned workers:

WARNING
LOOK OUT FOR TRAINS

It had since been defaced, the T and the N in TRAINS blotted out, and electric tape stuck atop the I to turn it into a T, so that it now read:

WARNING
LOOK OUT FOR RAT S

Indeed, this godforsaken place should have been rat central. He decided to go to black light. He pulled the small wand from his Puma bag and switched it on, the bulb burning cool blue in the dark. Rodent urine fluoresces under black light, due to its bacterial content. He ran it over the ground near the supports, a moonlike landscape of dry trash and filth. He noticed some duller, older, piddling stains but nothing fresh. Not until he waved it near a rusted oil barrel lying on its side. The barrel and the floor beneath it lit up bigger and brighter than any rat piss he had ever seen. A huge splash. Factored out from what he normally found, this trace would indicate a six-foot rat.

It was the recent bodily waste of some larger animal, possibly a man.

The drip-dripping of the water over the old track echoed down the breezy tunnels. He sensed rustling, some distant movement, or else maybe this place was getting to him. He put away the black light and scanned the area with his monocular. Behind one of the steel supports, he again saw a pair of shining eyes reflecting back at him—then turning away and vanishing.

He couldn’t tell how near. Given his one-eyed view scope and the geometrical pattern of the identical beams, his depth perception was shot.

He did not call out a hello this time. He did not say anything but gripped his rebar a bit more tightly. The homeless, when you encountered them, were rarely combative—but this felt like something different. Put it down to an exterminator’s sixth sense. The way he could sniff out rat infestations. Vasiliy suddenly felt outnumbered.

He pulled out his bright bullhorn spot lamp and scanned the chamber. Before retreating, he reached back into his bag, broke open the cardboard spout on a box of tracking powder, and shook out a fair amount of rodenticide over the area. Tracking powder worked more slowly than pure edible bait, but also more surely. It had the added advantage of showing the intruders’ tracks, making follow-up nest baiting easier.

Vasiliy hastily emptied three cartons, then turned with his lamp and made his way back through the tunnels. He came across active tracks with the boxed-over third rail, and then the sump pump, and followed the long hose. At one point he felt the tunnel wind change, and turned to see the curve brightening behind him. He quickly stepped back into a wall recess, bracing himself, the roar deafening. The train squealed past and Vasiliy glimpsed commuters in the windows before shielding his eyes from the smoky swirl of grit and dust.

It passed, and he followed the tracks until he reached a lighted platform. He surfaced with bag and rod, pulling himself up off the track onto the mostly empty platform, next to a sign that read, IF YOU SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING. Nobody did. He walked up the mezzanine stairs and moved through the turnstiles, resurfacing on the street into the warming sun. He moved to a nearby fence and found himself back above the World Trade Center construction site. He lit a cheroot with his blue flame butane Zippo and sucked in the poison, chasing the fear he’d felt under the streets. He walked back across the street to the World Trade Center site, coming upon two handmade fliers stapled to the fence. They were scanned color photographs of two sandhogs, one with his helmet still on and dirt on his face. The blue heading over both photographs read: MISSING.

FINAL INTERLUDE

The Ruins

IN THE INTERVENING DAYS AFTER THE FALL OF Treblinka, most of the escapees were tracked down and executed. Yet Setrakian managed to survive in the woods, remaining within range of the stench of the death camp. He gobbled up roots and whatever small prey he could catch with his broken hands, while from the bodies of other corpses he scavenged an imperfect wardrobe and raggedy, mismatched shoes.

He avoided the search patrols and the barking dogs by the day—while at night, he searched.

He had heard of the Roman ruins through camp hearsay from native Poles. It took him almost a week of roaming, until late one afternoon, in the dying light of dusk, he found himself at the mossy steps at the top of the ancient rubble.

Most of what remained was underground, with only a few overgrown stones visible from the outside. A large pillar still stood at the top of a mound of stones. He could make out a few letters, but they had faded so long ago that it was impossible to discern any meaning.

It was also impossible to stand there at the dark mouth of these catacombs and not shudder.

Abraham was certain: down there was the lair of Sardu. He knew. Fear overcame him, and he felt the burning hole growing in his chest. But purpose was stronger in his heart. Because he knew that it was his calling to find that thing, that hungry thing, and kill it. Make it cease. The camp rebellion had scuttled his killing plan—after weeks and months of procuring raw white oak for shaping—but not his need for vengeance. Of everything that was wrong in the world, this was the thing he could do right. That could give his existence meaning. And now he was about to do it.

Using a broken rock, he had fashioned a crude new stake, chosen from the hardest branch he could find, not pure white oak, but it would have to do. He did this with mangled fingers, further ruined his aching hands for all time. His footsteps echoed in the stone chamber that formed the catacomb. Its ceiling was quite low—surprising, given the Thing’s unnatural height—and roots had upset the stones that precariously held the structure together. The first chamber led to a second, and, amazingly, a third. Each one smaller than the other.

Setrakian had nothing with which to light his way, but the crumbling structure allowed for faint columns of late-day light to seep through the darkness. He moved cautiously through the chambers, pulse racing, stricken at the threshold of murder. His crude wooden stake seemed wholly inadequate as a weapon to fight with in the dark, with the hungry Thing. Especially with broken hands. What was he doing? How would he kill this monster?

As he entered the last chamber, an acid pang of surging fear burned his throat. For the rest of his life, he would be afflicted by acid reflux. The room was vacant, but there, at its center, Setrakian the woodworker saw clearly in the dirt floor—as though inscribed there—the outline marking of a coffin. A huge box, two and a half yards by one and a quarter yards, and one that could only have been removed from this lair by the hands of a Thing with monstrous will.

Then—from behind him—he heard the scratch of footsteps along the stony floor. Setrakian whirled with the wooden stake outstretched, trapped within the Thing’s innermost chamber. The beast had come home to nest, only to find prey lurking in its sleeping place.

The faintest shadow preceded it, but the footfalls were light and dragging. It was not the Thing who appeared at the stone turn to menace Setrakian, but a man of normal human size. A German officer, his uniform tattered and soiled. Its eyes were crimson and watery, brimming with a hunger that had grown into pure manic pain. Setrakian recognized him: Dieter Zimmer, a young officer not much older than he, a true sadist, a barracks officer who bragged of polishing his boots every night in order to scrub away the crust of Jewish blood.

Now it longed for it—for Setrakian’s blood. Any blood. To gorge itself.

Setrakian would not be taken here. He was outside the camp walls now, and so resolved that he had not endured such hell only to fall here, to succumb to the unholy might of this cursed Nazi-Thing.

He ran at it with the point of his stake, but the Thing was faster than anticipated, grasping the wooden weapon and wrenching it from Setrakian’s useless hands, snapping the radius and the ulna in Setrakian’s forearm. He cast the stick aside, and it clacked against a stone wall and fell to the dirt.

The Thing started for Setrakian, wheezing with excitement. He backed up until he realized he was in the center of the rectangular coffin impression. Then, with unexplained strength, he ran at the Thing, forcing it hard against the wall. Dirt crumbled out from around the exposed stones, falling like wisps of smoke. The Thing tried to grab for his head, but Setrakian again lunged at him, shoving his broken arm up under the demon’s chin, forcing its sneering face upward so that it could not sting him and drink.

The Thing improved its leverage and flung Setrakian aside. He landed next to his stake. He gripped it, but the Thing stood smiling, ready to take it away again. Setrakian jabbed it beneath the supporting wall stones instead. He wedged it beneath a loose stone and used his legs to pry out the stone, just as the Thing’s mouth began to open.

Stones gave way, the side wall of the chamber entrance collapsing as Setrakian crawled away. The roar was loud but brief, the chamber filling with dust, smothering the remaining light. Setrakian crawled blindly over the stones, and a hand grabbed him, its grip strong. The dust parted enough for Setrakian to see that a large stone had crushed the Thing’s head from crown to jaw—and yet it was still functioning. Its dark heart, or whatever it was, still throbbed hungrily. Setrakian kicked at its arm until he escaped the Thing’s grip, and in doing so dislodged the stone. The top half of the head was split, the skull slightly cracked, like a soft-boiled egg.

Setrakian grabbed a leg and dragged the body with his one good arm. He hauled it back to the surface and out of the ruins, into the very last vestiges of daylight filtering in through the tree cover. The dusk was orange and dim—but it was enough. The Thing writhed in pain as it quickly cooked, settling into the ground.

Setrakian raised his face to the dying sun and let loose an animal howl. An unwise act, as he was still on the run from the fallen camp—an outpouring of his anguished soul, from the slaughter of his family, to the terrors of his captivity, to the new horrors he had found … and, finally, to the God who had abandoned him and his people.

Next time he met one of these creatures, he would have the proper tools at his disposal. He would give himself better than a fighting chance. He knew then, as surely as he was still alive, that he would follow the tracks of that vanished coffin for years to come. For decades, if necessary. It was this certainty that gave him a newfound direction and sent him forward in the quest that would occupy him for the rest of his life.

REPLICATION

Jamaica Hospital Medical Center

Eph and Nora swept their badges through security and got Setrakian through the emergency room entrance without attracting any undue attention. On the stairs going up to the isolation ward, Setrakian said, “This is unreasonably risky.”

Eph said, “This man, Jim Kent—he and Nora and I have worked side by side for a year now. We can’t just abandon him.”

“He is turned. What can you do for him?”

Eph slowed. Setrakian was huffing and puffing behind them, and appreciated the stop, leaning on his walking stick. Eph looked at Nora, and they were agreed.

“I can release him,” said Eph.

They exited the stairwell and eyed the isolation ward entrance down the hallway.

“No police,” Nora said.

Setrakian was looking around. He was not so sure.

“There is Sylvia,” said Eph, noticing Jim’s frizzy-haired girlfriend sitting in a folding chair near the ward entrance.

Nora nodded to herself, ready. “Okay,” she said.

She went to Sylvia alone, who rose out of her chair when she saw her coming. “Nora.”

“How is Jim?”

“They haven’t told me anything.” Sylvia looked past her. “Eph isn’t with you?”

Nora shook her head. “He went away.”

“It isn’t true what they say, is it?”

“Never. You look worn out. Let’s get you something to eat.”

While Nora was asking for directions to the cafeteria, distracting the nurses, Eph and Setrakian slipped inside the doors to the isolation ward. Eph passed the glove-and-gown station like a reluctant assassin, moving through layers of plastic to Jim’s bay.

His bed was empty. Jim was gone.

Eph quickly checked the other bays. All vacant.

“They must have moved him,” said Eph.

Setrakian said, “His lady friend would not be outside if she knew he was gone.”

“Then …?”

“They have taken him.”

Eph stared at the empty bed. “They?”

“Come,” said Setrakian. “This is very dangerous. We have no time.”

“Wait.” He went to the bedside table, seeing Jim’s earpiece hanging from the drawer below. He found Jim’s phone and checked to make sure that it was charged. He pulled out his own phone and realized it was like a homing device now. The FBI could close in on his location through GPS.

He dropped his phone into the drawer, swapping it for Jim’s.

“Doctor,” said Setrakian, growing impatient.

“Please—call me Eph,” he said, slipping Jim’s phone into his pocket on the way out. “I don’t feel much like a doctor these days.”

West Side Highway, Manhattan

GUS ELIZALDE sat in the back of the NYPD prisoner transport van, his hands cuffed around a steel bar behind him. Felix sat diagonally across from him, head down, rocking with the motion, growing paler by the minute. They had to be on the West Side Highway to be moving this fast in Manhattan. Two other prisoners sat with them, one across from Gus, one to his left, across from Felix. Both asleep. The stupid can sleep through anything.

Gus smelled cigarette smoke from the cab of the windowless van, through the closed partition. It had been near dusk when they were loaded in. Gus kept his eye on Felix, sagging forward off the handcuff bar. Thinking about what the old pawnbroker had said. And waiting.

He didn’t have to wait long. Felix’s head started to buck, then turn to the side. At once he sat erect and surveyed his surroundings. Felix looked at Gus, stared at him, but nothing in Felix’s eyes showed Gus that his lifelong compadre recognized him.

A darkness in his eyes. A void.

A blaring car horn woke up the dude next to Gus then, startling him awake. “Shit,” said the guy, rattling his cuffs behind him. “Fuck we headed?” Gus didn’t answer. The dude was looking across at Felix, who was looking at him. He kicked Felix’s foot. “I said where the fuck we headed, junior?”

Felix looked at him for an instant with a vacant, almost idiotic stare. His mouth opened as though to answer—and the stinger shot out, piercing the helpless guy’s throat. Right across the entire width of the van, and the dude couldn’t do anything about it except stomp and kick. Gus started to do the same, trapped as he was in back there with the former Felix, yelling and rattling and waking up the prisoner across from him. They all yelled and screamed and stomped as the dude next to Gus went limp, Felix’s stinger flushing from translucent to bloodred.

The partition opened between the prisoner area and the front cab. A head with a cop hat on it twisted around from the passenger’s seat. “Shut the fuck up back there or else I will—”

He saw Felix drinking the other prisoner. Saw the engorging appendage reaching across the van, the first messy feeding, Felix disengaging and his stinger coming back into his mouth. Blood spilling out of the dude’s neck and dribbling down Felix’s front.

The passenger cop yelped and turned away.

“What is it?” yelled the driver, trying to get a look in the back.

Felix’s stinger shot out through the partition, latching onto the van driver’s throat. Screaming rang from the cab as the van lurched, out of control. Gus grabbed the handcuff rail with his fingers just in time to keep his hands from being broken at the wrists, and the van veered right and then left, hard—before crashing on its side.

The van scraped along until it hit a guardrail, bouncing off, spinning to a stop. Gus was on his side, the prisoner across from him now dangling from broken arms, yelping in pain and fear. Felix’s bar latch had broken, his stinger hanging down and twitching like a live electrical cable dripping human blood.

His dead eyes came up and looked at Gus.

Gus found his pole broken and slid his manacles fast along its length, kicking at the crumpled door until it opened. He tumbled out fast, onto the side of the road, ears roaring as though a bomb had exploded.

His hands were still cuffed behind him. Headlights went past, cars slowing to inspect the wreckage. Gus rolled away fast, quickly bringing his wrists underneath his feet, getting his hands in front of him. He eyed the busted-open cargo door of the van, waiting for Felix to climb out after him.

Then Gus heard a scream. He looked around for some kind of weapon, and had to settle for a dented hubcap. He went up with it, edging to the open door of the tipped-over van.

There was Felix, drinking the wide-eyed prisoner still strung up on the handcuff bar.

Gus swore, sickened by the sight. Felix disengaged and without any hesitation, shot his stinger at Gus’s neck. Gus just got the hubcap up in time, deflecting the blow before spinning away, out of sight of the rear of the van.

Again, Felix did not follow him. Gus stood there a moment, regaining his senses—wondering why—and then noticed the sun. It was floating between two buildings across the Hudson, bloodred and almost gone, sinking fast.

Felix was hiding in the van, waiting for sundown. In three minutes he was going to be free.

Gus looked around wildly. He saw broken windshield glass on the road, but that wouldn’t do it. He climbed up the chassis of the van, onto the side that was the top now. He scooted over to the driver’s-side door and kicked at the hinge of the side mirror. It cracked off, and he was pulling at the wires to get it free when the cop inside yelled at him.

“Hold it!”

Gus looked at him, the driver cop, bleeding from the neck, holding on to the top handle of the roof, his gun out. Then Gus pulled the mirror free with one hard yank and jumped back down onto the road.

The sun was melting away like a punctured egg yolk. Gus went to figure out the angle, holding the mirror over his head to catch its last rays. He saw the reflection shimmer on the ground. It looked vague, too dim to do anything. So he cracked the planar glass with his knuckles, breaking it up but keeping the pieces adhered to the mirror backing. He tried it again and the reflected rays now had some distinction.

“I said hold it!”

The cop came down from the van with his gun still out. His free hand was holding his neck where Felix had gotten him, his ears bleeding from the impact. He came around and looked in the van.

Felix was crouched inside, handcuffs dangling from one hand. The other hand was gone, severed at the wrist by the cuffs at the force of impact. Its absence didn’t seem to bother him. Nor did the white blood spilling from the open stump.

Felix smiled and the cop opened up on him. Rounds pierced Felix’s chest and legs, ripping away flesh and chips of bone. Seven, eight shots, and Felix fell backward. Two more shots into his body. The cop lowered the gun and then Felix sat upright, still smiling.

Still thirsty. Forever thirsty.

Gus shoved the cop aside then, and held up his mirror. The last vestiges of the dying orange sun were just poking over the building across the river. Gus called Felix’s name one last time, as though saying his name would snap him out of it, would miraculously bring Felix back …

But Felix was no longer Felix. He was a vampire motherfucker. Gus reminded himself of this as he angled the mirror so that the blazing orange shafts of reflected sunlight shot into the overturned van.

Felix’s dead eyes went to horror as the beams of sun shot through him. They impaled him with the force of lasers, burning holes and igniting his flesh. An animal howl arose from deep inside him, like the cry of a man shattered at the atomic level, as the rays ravaged his body.

The sound etched itself into Gus’s mind, but he kept working the reflection around until all that was left of Felix was a charred mass of smoking ash.

The light rays faded and Gus lowered his arm.

He looked across the river.

Night.

Gus felt like crying—all kinds of anguish and pain mixed together in his heart—and his pain was turning into rage. Fuel was pooled beneath the van, almost at his feet. Gus went to the cop who was still staring from the roadside at what had happened. He riffled through his pockets, finding a Zippo lighter. Gus popped the top and scratched the wheel and the flame jumped up dutifully.

“Lo siento, ’mano.”

He touched off the fuel spill and the van went up with a boom, knocking back both Gus and the cop.

“Chingado—he stung you,” Gus said to the cop who still held his neck. “You’ll become one of them now.”

He took the cop’s gun and pointed it at him. Now the sirens were coming.

The cop looked up at Gus, and then a second later his head was gone. Gus kept the smoking gun aimed at the body until he was off the side of the highway. Then he tossed away the gun and thought about the handcuff keys, but too late. Flashing lights were approaching. He turned and ran off the side of the highway, into the new night.

Kelton Street, Woodside, Queens

KELLY WAS STILL in her teaching clothes, a dark tank shirt beneath a soft wraparound top and a long, straight skirt. Zack was up in his room, supposedly doing his homework, and Matt was home, having only worked a half day because he had a store inventory that night.

This news about Eph on the television had Kelly horrified. And now she couldn’t get him on his cell phone.

“He finally did it,” said Matt, the tails of his denim Sears shirt pulled out for the time being. “He finally cracked.”

“Matt,” said Kelly, only half scolding. But—had Eph cracked? And what did this mean for her?

“Delusions of grandeur, the big virus hunter,” said Matt. “He’s like those firefighters who set blazes in order to be the hero.” Matt sank deeply into his easy chair. “Wouldn’t surprise me if he was doing all this for you.”

“Me?”

“The attention, or whatnot. ‘Look at me, I’m important.’”

She shook her head fast, as if he was wasting her time. Sometimes it confounded her that Matt could be so wrong about people.

The doorbell rang, and Kelly stopped her pacing. Matt sprang up from his chair, but Kelly was at the door first.

It was Eph, with Nora Martinez behind him, and an old man in a long tweed coat behind her.

“What are you doing here?” said Kelly, looking up and down the street.

Eph pushed inside. “I’m here to see Zack. To explain.”

“He doesn’t know.”

Eph looked around, completely ignoring Matt, who was standing right there. “Is he upstairs doing homework on his laptop?”

“Yes,” said Kelly.

“If he has Internet access, then he knows.”

Eph went to the stairs, taking the steps two at a time.

Leaving Nora there at the door with Kelly. Nora exhaled, soaking in awkwardness. “Sorry,” she said. “Barging in on you like this.”

Kelly shook her head gently, looking her over with just a hint of appraisal. She knew that there was something going on between Nora and Eph. For Nora, Kelly Goodweather’s house was the last place she wanted to be.

Kelly then turned her attention to the old man with the wolf-head walking stick. “What is going on?”

“The ex – Mrs. Goodweather, I presume?” Setrakian offered his hand with the courtly manners of a lost generation. “Abraham Setrakian. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“The same,” said Kelly, taken aback, casting an uncertain glance at Matt.

Nora said, “He needed to see you guys. To explain.”

Matt said, “Doesn’t this little visit make us criminal accomplices to something?”

Kelly had to counter Matt’s rudeness. “Would you like a drink?” she asked Setrakian. “Some water?”

Matt said, “Jesus—we could both get twenty years for that glass of water …”

Eph sat on the edge of Zack’s bed, Zack at his desk with his laptop open.

Eph said, “I’m caught up in something I don’t really understand. But I wanted you to hear it from me. None of it is true. Except for the fact that there are people after me.”

Zack said, “Won’t they come here looking for you?”

“Maybe.”

Zack looked down, troubled, working through it. “You gotta get rid of your phone.”

Eph smiled. “Already did.” He clasped his conspiratorial son on the shoulder. He saw, next to the boy’s laptop, the video recorder Eph had bought him for Christmas.

“You still working on that movie with your friends?”

“We’re kind of in the editing stage.”

Eph picked it up, the camera small and light enough to fit into his pocket. “Think I could borrow this for a little while?”

Zack nodded slowly. “Is it the eclipse, Dad? Turning people into zombies?”

Eph reacted with surprise—realizing the truth was not much more plausible than that. He tried to see this thing from the point of view of a very perceptive and occasionally sensitive eleven-year-old. And it drew something up in him, from a deep reservoir of feeling. He stood and hugged his boy. An odd moment, fragile and beautiful, between a father and son. Eph felt it with absolute clarity. He ruffled the boy’s hair, and there was nothing more to be said.

Kelly and Matt were having a whispered conversation in the kitchen, leaving Nora and Setrakian alone in the glassed-in sunroom off the back of the house. Setrakian stood with his hands in his pockets, looking out at the glowing sky of early night, the third since the landing of the accursed airplane, his back to her.

A clock on the shelf went tick-tick-tick.

Setrakian heard pick-pick-pick.

Nora sensed his impatience. She said, “He, uh, he’s got a lot of issues with his family. Since the divorce.”

Setrakian moved his fingers into the small pocket on his vest, checking on his pillbox. The pocket was near his heart, as there were circulatory benefits to be gleaned just from placing nitroglycerin close to his aged pump. It beat steadily if not robustly. How many more beats did he have in him? Enough, he hoped, to get the job done.

“I have no children,” he said. “My wife, Anna, gone seventeen years now, and I were not so blessed. You would assume that the ache for children fades over time, but in fact it deepens with age. I had much to teach, yet no student.”

Nora looked at his walking stick, stood up against the wall near her chair. “How did you … how did you first come to this?”

“When did I discover their existence, you mean?”

“And devote yourself to this, over all these years.”

He was silent for a moment, summoning the memory. “I was a young man then. During World War Two, I found myself interred in occupied Poland, very much against my own wishes. A small camp northeast of Warsaw, named Treblinka.”

Nora shared the old man’s stillness. “A concentration camp.”

“Extermination camp. These are brutal creatures, my dear. More brutal than any predator one could ever have the misfortune of encountering in this world. Rank opportunists who prey on the young and the infirm. In the camp, myself and my fellow prisoners were a meager feast set unknowingly before him.”

“Him?”

“The Master.”

The way he said the word chilled Nora. “He was German? A Nazi?”

“No, no. He has no affiliation. He is loyal to no one and nothing, belonging not to one country or another. He roams where he likes. He feeds where there is food. The camp to him was like a fire sale. Easy prey.”

“But you … you survived. Couldn’t you have told someone …?”

“Who would have believed an emaciated man’s ravings? It took me weeks to accept what you are processing now, and I was a witness to this atrocity. It is more than the mind will accept. I chose not to be judged insane. His food source interrupted, the Master simply moved on. But I made a pledge to myself in that camp, one I have never forgotten. I tracked the Master for many years. Across central Europe and the Balkans, through Russia, central Asia. For three decades. Close on his heels at times, but never close enough. I became a professor at the University of Vienna, I studied the lore. I began to amass books and weapons and tools. All the while preparing myself to meet him again. An opportunity I have waited more than six decades for.”

“But … then who is he?”

“He has had many forms. Currently, he has taken the body of a Polish nobleman named Jusef Sardu, who went missing during a hunting expedition in the north country of Romania, in the spring of 1873.”

“1873?”

“Sardu was a giant. At the time of the expedition, he already stood nearly seven feet tall. So tall that his muscles could not support his long, heavy bones. It was said that his pants pockets were the size of turnip sacks. For support, he had to lean heavily on a walking stick whose handle bore the family heraldic symbol.”

Nora looked over again at Setrakian’s oversize walking stick, its silver handle. Her eyes widened. “A wolf’s head.”

“The remains of the other Sardu men were found many years later, along with young Jusef’s journal. His account detailed their stalking of their hunting party by some unknown predator, who abducted and killed them, one by one. The final entry indicated that Jusef had discovered the dead bodies inside the opening to an underground cave. He buried them before returning to the cave to face the beast, to avenge his family.”

She could not take her eyes off the wolf’s-head grip. “How ever did you get it?”

“I tracked this walking stick to a private dealer in Antwerp in the summer of 1967. Sardu eventually returned to his family’s estate in Poland, many weeks later, though alone and much changed. He carried his cane, but no longer leaned on it, and in time ceased carrying it altogether. Not only had he apparently been cured of the pain of his gigantism, he was now rumored to possess great strength. Villagers soon began to go missing, the town was said to be cursed, and eventually it died away. The house of Sardu fell into ruin and the young master was never seen again.”

Nora sized up the walking stick. “At fifteen he was that tall?”

“And still growing.”

“The coffin … it was at least eight by four.”

Setrakian nodded solemnly. “I know.”

She nodded. Then she said, “Wait—how do you know?”

“I saw, once—at least, the marks it left in the dirt. A long time ago.”

Kelly and Eph stood across from each other in the modest kitchen. Her hair was lighter and shorter, more businesslike now. Maybe more Mom-like. She gripped the edge of the countertop, and he noticed little paper cuts on her knuckles, a hazard of the classroom.

She had gotten him an unopened pint of milk from the fridge. “You still keep whole milk?” he said.

“Z likes it. Wants to be like his father.”

Eph drank some, and the milk cooled him but didn’t give him that usual calming sensation. He saw Matt lurking on the other side of the pass-through, sitting in a chair, pretending not to look their way.

“He is so much like you,” she said. She was referring to Zack.

“I know,” said Eph.

“The older he gets. Obsessive. Stubborn. Demanding. Brilliant.”

“Tough to take in an eleven-year-old.”

Her face broke into a broad smile. “I’m cursed for life, I guess.”

Eph smiled also. It felt strange, exercise his face hadn’t gotten in days.

“Look,” he said, “I don’t have much time. I just … I want things to be good. Or at least, to be okay between us. The custody thing, that whole mess—I know it did a job on us. I’m glad it’s over. I didn’t come here to make a speech, I just … now seems like a good time to clear the air.”

Kelly was stunned, searching for words.

Eph said, “You don’t have to say anything, I just—”

“No,” she said, “I want to. I am sorry. You’ll never know just how sorry I am. Sorry that everything has to be this way. Truly. I know you never wanted this. I know you wanted us to stay together. Just for Z’s sake.”

“Of course.”

“You see, I couldn’t do that—I couldn’t. You were sucking the life out of me, Eph. And the other part of it was … I wanted to hurt you. I did. I admit it. And that was the only way I knew I could.”

He exhaled deeply. She was finally admitting to something he’d always known. But there was no victory for him in that.

“I need Zack, you know that. Z is … he’s it. I think, without him, there would be no me. Unhealthy or not, that’s just the way it is. He’s everything to me … as you once were.” She paused to let that sink in, for both of them. “Without him, I would be lost, I would be …”

She gave up on her rambling.

Eph said, “You would be like me.”

That froze her. They stood there looking at each other.

“Look,” Eph said, “I’ll take some blame. For us, for you and me. I know I’m not the … the whatever, the easiest guy in the world, the ideal husband. I went through my thing. And Matt—I know I’ve said some things in the past …”

“You once called him my ‘consolation life.’”

Eph winced. “You know what? Maybe if I managed a Sears, if I had a job that was just that, a job, and not another marriage entirely … maybe you wouldn’t have felt so left out. So cheated. So … second place.”

They were quiet for a bit then, Eph realizing how bigger issues tended to crowd out the little ones. How true strife caused personal problems to be set aside with alacrity.

Kelly said, “I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say we should have had this talk years ago.”

“We should have,” he agreed. “But we couldn’t. It wouldn’t have worked. We had to go through all this shit first. Believe me, I’d have paid any amount not to—not to have gone through one second of it—but here we are. Like old acquaintances.”

“Life doesn’t go at all the way you think it will.”

Eph nodded. “After what my parents went through, what they put me through, I always told myself, never, never, never, never.”

“I know.”

He folded in the spout on the milk carton. “So forget who did what. What we need to do now is make it up to him.”

“We do.”

Kelly nodded. Eph nodded. He swirled the milk around in the carton, feeling the coldness brush up against his palm.

“Christ, what a day,” he said. He thought again about the little girl in Freeburg, the one who had been holding hands with her mother on Flight 753. The one who was Zack’s age. “You know how you always told me, if something hit, some biological threat, that if I didn’t let you know first you’d divorce me? Well—too late for that.”

She came forward, reading his face. “I know you’re in trouble.”

“This isn’t about me. I just want you to listen, okay, and not flip out. There is a virus moving through the city. It’s something … extraordinary … easily the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”

“The worst?” She blanched. “Is it SARS?”

Eph almost smiled at the grand absurdity of it all. The insanity.

“What I want you to do is to take Zack and get out of the city. Matt too. As soon as possible—tonight, right now—and as far away as you can possibly go. Away from populated areas, I mean. Your parents … I know how you feel about taking things from them, but they have that place up in Vermont still, right? On top of that hill?”

“What are you saying?”

“Go there. For a few days at least. Watch the news, wait for my call.”

“Wait,” she said. “I’m the head-for-the-hills paranoiac, not you. But … what about my classroom? Zack’s school?” She squinted. “Why won’t you tell me what it is?”

“Because then you would not go. Just trust me, and go,” he said. “Go, and hope we can turn it back somehow, and this all passes quickly.”

“‘Hope?’” she said. “Now you’re really scaring me. What if you can’t turn it back? And—and what if something happens to you?”

He couldn’t stand there with her and address his own doubts. “Kelly—I gotta go.”

He tried to walk out, but she grabbed his arm, checking his eyes to see if it was okay, then put her arms around him. What started as just a make-up hug turned into something more, and by the end of it she was gripping him tightly. “I’m sorry,” she whispered into his ear, then left a kiss on the bristly side of his unshaven neck.

Vestry Street, Tribeca

ELDRITCH PALMER sat waiting on an uncushioned chair on the rooftop patio, bathed in night. The only direct light was that of an outdoor gas lamp burning in the corner. The terrace was on the top of the lower of the two adjoining buildings. The floor was made of square clay tiles, aged and blanched by the elements. One low step preceded a high brick wall at the northern end, with two door-size archways hung with ironwork. Fluted terracotta tiling topped the wall and the overhangs on each side. To the left, through wider decorative archways, were oversize doorways to the residence. Behind Palmer, centered before the southern white cement wall, was a headless statue of a woman in swirling robes, her shoulders and arms darkly weathered. Ivy slithered up the stone base. Though a few taller buildings were visible both north and east, the patio was reasonably private, as concealed a rooftop as one might hope to find in lower Manhattan.

Palmer sat listening to the sounds of the city rising off the streets. Sounds that would end so soon. If only they knew this down there, they would embrace this night. Every mundanity of life grows infinitely more precious in the face of impending death. Palmer knew this intimately. A sickly child, he had struggled with his health all his life. Some mornings he had awakened amazed to see another dawn. Most people didn’t know what it was to mark existence one sunrise at a time. What it was like to depend on machines for one’s survival. Good health was the birthright of most, and life a series of days to be tripped through. They had never known the nearness of death. The intimacy of ultimate darkness.

Soon Eldritch Palmer would know their bliss. An endless menu of days stretched out before him. Soon he would know what it was not to worry about tomorrow, or tomorrow’s tomorrow …

A breeze fluttered the patio trees and rustled through some of the plantings. Palmer, seated facing the taller residence, at an angle, next to a small smoking table, heard a rustling. A rippling, like the hem of a garment on the floor. A black garment.

I thought you wanted no contact until after the first week.

The voice—at once both familiar and monstrous—sent a dark thrill racing up Palmer’s crooked back. If Palmer hadn’t purposely been facing away from the main part of the patio—both out of respect as well as sheer human aversion—he would have seen that the Master’s mouth never moved. No voice went out into the night. The Master spoke directly into your mind.

Palmer felt the presence high above his shoulder, and kept his gaze trained on the arched doors to the residence. “Welcome to New York.”

This came out as more of a gasp than he would have liked. Nothing can unman you like an un-man.

When the Master said nothing, Palmer tried to reassert himself. “I have to say, I disapprove of this Bolivar. I don’t know why you should have selected him.”

Who he is matters not to me.

Palmer saw instantly that he was right. So what if Bolivar had been a makeup-wearing rock star? Palmer was thinking like a human, he supposed. “Why did you leave four conscious? It has created many problems.”

Do you question me?

Palmer swallowed. A kingmaker in this life, subordinate to no man. The feeling of abject servility was as foreign to him as it was overwhelming.

“Someone is on to you,” Palmer said quickly. “A medical scientist, a disease detective. Here in New York.”

What does one man matter to me?

“He—his name is Dr. Ephraim Goodweather—is an expert in epidemic control.”

You glorified little monkeys. Your kind is the epidemic—not mine.

“This Goodweather is being advised by someone. A man with detailed knowledge of your kind. He knows the lore and even a bit of the biology. The police are looking for him, but I think that more decisive action is warranted. I believe that this could mean the difference between a quick, decisive victory or a protracted struggle. We have many battles to come, on the human front as well as others—”

I will prevail.

As to that, Palmer harbored no doubts. “Yes, of course.” Palmer wanted the old man for himself. He wanted to confirm his identity before divulging any information to the Master. So he was actively trying not to think about the old man—knowing that, in the presence of the Master, one must protect one’s thoughts …

I have met this old man before. When he was not quite so old.

Palmer went cold with astonished defeat. “You will remember, it took me a long time to find you. My travels took me to the four corners of the world, and there were many dead ends and side roads—many people I had to go through. He was one of them.” He tried to make his change in topic fluid, but his mind felt clouded. Being in the presence of the Master was like being oil in the presence of a burning wick.

I will meet this Goodweather. And tend to him.

Palmer had already prepared a bulleted sheet containing background information on the CDC epidemiologist. He unfolded the sheet from his jacket pocket, laying it flat on the table. “Everything is there, Master. His family, known associates …”

There was a scrape along the tile top of the table, and the piece of paper was taken. Palmer glimpsed the hand only peripherally. The middle finger, crooked and sharp-nailed, was longer and thicker than the others.

Palmer said, “All we need now is a few more days.”

An argument, of sorts, had begun inside the rock star’s residence, the unfinished twin town houses that Palmer had had the unfortunate pleasure of walking through in order to get to the patio rendezvous. He showed particular distaste for the only finished part of the household, the penthouse bedroom, garishly overdecorated and reeking of primate lust. Palmer himself had never been with a woman. When he was young, it was because of illness, and the preaching of the two aunts who had raised him. When he was older, it was by choice. He came to understand that the purity of his mortal self should never be tainted by desire.

The interior argument grew louder, into the unmistakable clatter of violence.

Your man is in trouble.

Palmer sat forward. Mr. Fitzwilliam was inside. Palmer had expressly forbidden him to enter the patio area. “You said his safety here was guaranteed.”

Palmer heard the pounding of running feet. He heard grunting. A human yell.

“Stop them,” said Palmer.

The Master’s voice was, as ever, languid and unperturbed.

He is not the one they want.

Palmer rose in a panic. Did the Master mean him? Was this some sort of trap? “We have an agreement!”

For as long as it suits me.

Palmer heard another yell, close at hand—followed by two quick gun reports. Then one of the interior arched doors was thrown open, inward, and the ornamental gate was pushed out. Mr. Fitzwilliam, 260 pounds of ex-marine in a Savile Row suit, came racing through, his sidearm gripped in his right hand, eyes bright with distress. “Sir—they are right behind me …”

It was then that his vision moved from Palmer’s face to the impossibly tall figure standing behind him. The gun slipped from Mr. Fitzwilliam’s grip, clunking to the tile. Mr. Fitzwilliam’s face drained of color and he swayed there for a moment like a man swaying from a wire, then dropped to his knees.

Behind him came the turned. Vampires in various modes of civilian dress, from business suits to Goth wear to paparazzi casual. All stinking and scuffed from nesting in the dirt. They rushed onto the patio like creatures beckoned by an unheard whistle.

Leading them was Bolivar himself, gaunt and nearly bald, wearing a black robe. As a first-generation vampire, he was more mature than the rest. His flesh had a bloodless, alabaster-like pallor that was almost glowing and his eyes were dead moons.

Behind him was a female fan who had been shot in the face by Mr. Fitzwilliam in the midst of his panic. Her cheekbone was split open back to her lopsided ear, leaving her with one half of a garish, teeth-baring smile.

The rest staggered out into the new night, excited into action by the presence of their Master. They stopped, staring at him in black-eyed awe.

Children.

Palmer—standing right before them, between them and the Master—was completely ignored. The force of the Master’s presence held them in abeyance. They gathered before him like primitives before a temple.

Mr. Fitzwilliam remained on his knees, as though struck down.

The Master spoke in a way that Palmer believed exclusive to his own ears.

You brought me all this way. Aren’t you going to look?

Palmer had beheld the Master once before, in a darkened cellar on another continent. Not clearly, and yet—clearly enough. The image had never left him.

No way to avoid him now. Palmer closed his eyes to steel himself, then opened them and forced himself to turn. Like risking blindness by staring into the sun.

His eyes traveled up from the Master’s chest to …

… his face.

The horror. And the glory.

The impious. And the magnificent.

The savage. And the holy.

Unnatural terror stretched Palmer’s face into a mask of fear, eventually turning the corners of it into a triumphant, teeth-clenching smile.

The hideous transcendent.

Behold the Master.

Kelton Street, Woodside, Queens

KELLY WALKED FAST across the living room with clean clothes and batteries in her hands, past Matt and Zack, who were watching the television news.

“We’re going,” said Kelly, dumping the load into a canvas bag on a chair.

Matt turned to her with a smile but Kelly wanted none of it. “Come on, babe,” he said.

“Haven’t you been listening to me?”

“Yes. Patiently.” He stood up from his chair. “Look, Kel, your ex-husband is doing his thing again. Lobbing a grenade into our happy home life here. Can’t you see that? If this was something really serious, the government would tell us.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. Elected officials never lie.” She stomped off to the front closet, pulling out the rest of the luggage. Kelly kept a go bag also, as recommended by the New York City Office of Emergency Management, in the event of an emergency evacuation. It was a sturdy canvas bag packed with bottled water and granola bars, a Grundig hand-crank AM/FM/shortwave radio, a Faraday flashlight, a first-aid kit, $100 in cash, and copies of all their important documents in a waterproof container.

“This is a self-fulfilling prophesy with you,” continued Matt, following her. “Don’t you see? He knows you. He knows exactly which button to push. This is why you two were no good for each other.”

Kelly dug to the back of the closet, tossing out two old tennis rackets in her way, hitting Matt on the feet for talking like that in front of Zack. “It’s not like that. I believe him.”

“He’s a wanted man, Kel. He’s having some sort of breakdown, a collapse. All these so-called geniuses are basically fragile. Like those sunflowers you’re always trying to grow out along the back fence—heads too big, collapsing underneath their own weight.” Kelly sent a winter boot out, flying near his shins, but this one he dodged. “This is all about you, you know. He’s pathological. Can’t let go. This whole thing is about keeping you close.”

She stopped, turning on all fours, staring at him through the bottom of the coats. “Are you really that clueless?”

“Men don’t like to lose. They won’t give in.”

She backed out hauling her big American Tourister. “Is that why you won’t leave now?”

“I won’t leave because I have to go to work. If I thought I could use your daffy husband’s end-of-the-world excuse to get out of this floor-to-computer inventory, I would, believe me. But in the real world, when you don’t show up at your job, you lose it.”

She turned, burning at his obstinacy. “Eph said to go. He’s never acted that way before, never talked like that. This is real.”

“It’s eclipse hysteria, they were talking about it on TV. People freaking out. If I was going to flee New York because of all the crazies, I’d have been out of here years ago.” Matt reached for her shoulders. She shook him off at first, then let him hold her for a moment. “I’ll check in with the electronics department now and then, the TVs there, to see if anything’s happening. But the world keeps turning, all right? For those of us with real jobs. I mean—you’re just going to leave your classroom?”

Her students’ needs pulled on her, but everybody and everything else came second to Zack. “Maybe they’ll cancel school for a few days. Come to think of it, I had a lot of unexplained absences today—”

“These are kids, Kel. Flu.”

“I think it’s actually the eclipse,” said Zack, from across the room. “Fred Falin told me in school. Everyone who looked at the moon without glasses? It cooked their brains.”

Kelly said, “What is this fascination with you and zombies?”

“They’re out there,” he said. “Gotta be prepared. I’ll bet you don’t even know the two most important things you need in order to survive a zombie invasion.”

Kelly ignored him. Matt said, “I give up.”

“A machete and a helicopter.”

“Machete, huh?” Matt shook his head. “I think I’d rather have a shotgun.”

“Wrong,” said Zack. “You don’t have to reload a machete.”

Matt conceded the point, turning to Kelly. “This Fred Falin kid really knows his stuff.”

“Guys—I’ve HAD it!” Being ganged up on by them wasn’t something she was used to. Any other time, she might have been happy seeing Zack and Matt pulling together. “Zack—you’re talking nonsense. This is a virus, and it’s real. We need to get out of here.”

Matt stood there while Kelly carried the empty suitcase to the other bags. “Kel, relax. Okay?” He pulled his car keys out of his pocket, twirling them around his finger. “Take a bath, catch your breath. Be rational about this—please. Taking into account the source of your ‘inside’ info.” He went to the front door. “I’ll check in with you later.”

He went out. Kelly stood staring at the closed door.

Zack came over to her with his head cocked slightly to one side, the way he used to when he’d ask what death meant or why some men held hands. “What did Dad say to you about this?”

“He just … he wants the best for us.”

Kelly rubbed her forehead in a way that hid her eyes. Should she alarm Zack too? Could she pack up Zack and leave here solely on Eph’s word, without Matt? Should she? And—if she believed Eph, didn’t she have a moral obligation to warn others in turn?

The Heinsons’ dog started barking next door. Not her usual angry yipping, but a high-pitched noise, sounding almost scared. It was enough to bring Kelly into the back sunroom, where she found that the motion light over the backyard deck had come on.

She stood there with arms crossed, watching the yard for movement. Everything looked still. But the dog kept going, until Mrs. Heinson went out and brought it—still barking—inside.

“Mom?”

Kelly jumped, scared by her son’s touch, totally losing her cool.

“You okay?” Zack said.

“I hate this,” she said, walking him back into the living room. “Just hate it.”

She would pack, for her and for Zack and for Matt.

And she would watch.

And she would wait.

Bronxville

THIRTY MINUTES NORTH of Manhattan, Roger Luss sat poking at his iPhone inside the oak-paneled bar room of the Siwanoy Country Club, awaiting his first martini. He had instructed the Town Car driver to let him off at the club rather than take him straight home. He needed a little re-entry time. If Joan was sick, as the nanny’s voice mail message seemed to indicate, then the kids probably had it by now, and he could be walking into a real mess. More than enough reason to extend his business trip by one or two more hours.

The dining room overlooking the golf course was completely empty at the dinner hour. The server came with his three-olive martini on a tray covered in white linen. Not Roger’s usual waiter. He was Mexican, like the fellows who parked cars out in front. His shirt was shrugged up out of his waistband in the back, and he wore no belt. His nails were dirty. Roger would have a talk with the club manager first thing in the morning. “There she is,” said Roger, the olives sunk at the bottom of the V-shaped cocktail glass, like beady little eyeballs preserved in a pickling vinegar. “Where is everyone tonight?” he asked in his usual booming voice. “What is it, a holiday? The market closed today? President died?”

Shrug.

“Where are all the regular staff?”

He shook his head. Roger realized now that the man looked scared.

Then Roger recognized him. The barman’s uniform had thrown Roger off. “Groundskeeper, right? Usually out trimming the greens.”

The groundskeeper in the barman’s uniform nodded nervously and shambled off to the front lobby.

Damn peculiar. Roger lifted his martini glass and looked around, but there was nobody to toast or nod to, no town politicking to be done. And so, with no eyes on him, Roger Luss slurped the cocktail, downing half of it in two great swallows. It hit his stomach and he let go a low purr in greeting. He speared one of the olives, tapping it dry on the edge of the glass before popping it into his mouth, swishing it around for a thoughtful moment, then squishing it between his back molars.

On the muted television built into the wood above the bar mirror, he saw clips from a news conference. The mayor flanked by other grim-faced city officials. Then—file footage of the Regis Air Flight 753 plane on the tarmac at JFK.

The silence of the club made him look around again. Where in the hell was everyone?

Something was going on here. Something was happening and Roger Luss was missing out.

He took another quick sip of the martini—and then one more—then set down the glass and stood. He walked to the front, checking the pub room off to the side—also empty. The kitchen door was just to the side of the pub bar, padded and black with a porthole window in the upper center. Roger peeked inside and saw the barman/groundskeeper all alone, smoking a cigarette and grilling himself a steak.

Roger went out the front doors, where he had left his luggage. No valets were there to call him a taxi, so he reached for his phone, searched online, found the listing that was closest, and called for a car.

While waiting under the high lights of the pillared carport entrance, the taste of the martini going sour in his mouth, Roger Luss heard a scream. A single, piercing cry into the night, from not so far away. On the Bronxville side of things, as opposed to Mount Vernon. Perhaps coming from somewhere on the golf course itself.

Roger waited without moving. Without breathing. Listening for more.

What spooked him more than the scream was the silence that followed.

The taxi pulled up, the driver a middle-aged Middle Eastern man wearing a pen behind his ear, who smilingly dumped Roger’s luggage into the trunk and drove off.

On the long private road out from the club, Roger looked out onto the course and thought he saw someone out there, walking across the fairway in the moonlight.

Home was a three-minute drive away. There were no other cars on the road, the houses mostly dark as they passed. As they turned onto Midland, Roger saw a pedestrian coming up the sidewalk—an odd sight at night, especially without a dog to walk. It was Hal Chatfield, an older neighbor of his, one of the two club members who had sponsored Roger into Siwanoy when Roger and Joan first bought into Bronxville. Hal was walking funny, hands straight down at his sides, dressed in an open, flapping bathrobe and a T-shirt and boxer shorts.

Hal turned and stared at the taxi as it passed. Roger waved. When he turned back to see if Hal had recognized him, he saw that Hal was running, stiff-legged, after him. A sixty-year-old man with his bathrobe trailing like a cape, chasing a taxi down the middle of the street in Bronxville.

Roger turned to see if the driver saw this also, but the man was scribbling on a clipboard as he drove.

“Hey,” said Roger. “Any idea what’s going on around here?”

“Yes,” said the driver, with a smile and a curt nod. He had no idea what Roger was saying.

Two more turns brought them to Roger’s house. The driver popped the trunk and jumped out with Roger. The street was quiet, Roger’s house as dark as the rest.

“You know what? Wait here. Wait?” Roger pointed at the cobblestone curb. “Can you wait?”

“You pay.”

Roger nodded. He wasn’t even sure why he wanted him there. It had something to do with feeling very alone. “I have cash in the house. You wait. Okay?”

Roger left his luggage in the mudroom by the side entrance and moved into the kitchen, calling out, “Hello?” He reached for the light switch but nothing happened when he flipped it. He could see the microwave clock glowing green, so the power was still on. He felt his way forward along the counter, feeling for the third drawer and rooting around inside for the flashlight. He smelled something rotting, more pungent than leftovers moldering in the trash, heightening his anxiety and quickening his hand. He gripped the shaft of the flashlight and switched it on.

He swept the long kitchen with the beam, finding the island counter, the table beyond, the range and double oven. “Hello?” he called again, the fear in his voice shaming him, prompting him to move faster. He saw a dark spatter on the glass-front cabinets and trained his beam on what looked like the aftermath of a ketchup and mayonnaise fight. The mess brought a surge of anger. He saw the overturned chairs then, and dirty footprints (footprints?) on the center island granite.

Where was the housekeeper, Mrs. Guild? Where was Joan? Roger went closer to the spatter, bringing the light right up to the cabinet glass. The white stuff, he didn’t know—but the red was not ketchup. He couldn’t be certain … but he thought it might be blood.

He saw something moving in the reflection of the glass and whipped around with the flashlight. The back stairs behind him were empty. He realized he had just moved the cabinet door himself. He didn’t like his imagination taking over, and so ran upstairs, checking each room with the flashlight. “Keene? Audrey?” Inside Joan’s office, he found handwritten notes pertaining to the Regis Air flight. A timeline of sorts, though her penmanship failed over the last couple of incomprehensible sentences. The last word, scrawled in the bottom-right corner of the legal pad, read, “hummmmmm.”

In the master bedroom, the bedsheets were all kicked down, and inside the master bath, floating unflushed in the toilet, was what looked to him like curdled, days-old vomit. He picked a towel up off the floor and, letting it fall open, discovered dark clots of staining blood, as though the plush cotton had been used as a coughing rag.

He ran back down the front stairs. He picked up the wall phone in the kitchen and dialed 911. It rang once before a recording played, asking him to hold. He hung up and dialed again. One ring and the same recording.

He dropped the phone from his ear when he heard a thump in the basement beneath him. He threw open the door, about to call down into the darkness—but something made him stop. He listened, and heard … something.

Shuffling footsteps. More than one set, coming up the stairs, approaching the halfway point where the steps hooked ninety degrees and turned toward him.

“Joan?” he said. “Keene? Audrey?”

But he was already backpedaling. Falling backward, striking the door frame, then scrambling back through the kitchen, past the gunk on the walls and into the mudroom. His only thought was to get out of there.

He slammed through the storm door and out into the driveway, running to the street, yelling at the driver sitting behind the wheel, who didn’t understand English. Roger opened the back door and jumped inside.

“Lock the doors! Lock the doors!”

The driver turned his head. “Yes. Eight dollar and thirty.”

“Lock the goddamn doors!”

Roger looked back at the driveway. Three strangers, two women and one man, exited his mudroom and started across his lawn.

“Go! Go! Drive!”

The driver tapped the pay slot in the partition between the front and back seats. “You pay, I go.”

Four of them now. Roger stared, stupefied, as a familiar-looking man wearing a ripped shirt knocked the others aside to get to the taxi first. It was Franco, their gardener. He looked through the passenger-door window at Roger, his staring eyes pale in the center but red around the rims, like a corona of bloodred crazy. He opened his mouth as though to roar at Roger—and then this thing came out, punched the window with a solid whack, right at Roger’s face, then retracted.

Roger stared. What the hell did I just see?

It happened again. Roger understood—on a pebble level, deep beneath many mattresses of fear, panic, mania—that Franco, or this thing that was Franco, didn’t know or had forgotten or misjudged the properties of glass. He appeared confused by the transparency of this solid.

“Drive!” screamed Roger. “Drive!”

Two of them stood close, in front of the taxi now. A man and a woman, headlights brightening their waists. There were seven or eight in total, all around them, others coming out of the neighbors’ houses.

The driver yelled something in his own language, leaning on the horn.

“Drive!” screamed Roger.

The driver reached for something on the floor instead. He pulled up a small bag the size of a toiletry case and ran back the zipper, spilling out a few Zagnut bars before getting his hand on a tiny silver revolver. He waved the weapon at the windshield and hollered in fear.

Franco’s tongue was exploring the window glass. Except that the tongue wasn’t a tongue at all.

The driver kicked open his door. Roger yelled, “No!” through the partition glass, but the driver was already outside. He fired the handgun from behind the door, shooting it with a flick of his wrist, as though throwing bullets from it. He fired again and again, the pair in front of the car doubling up, struck by small-caliber rounds, but not dropping.

The driver kicked off two more wild shots and one of them struck the man in the head. His scalp flew backward and he stumbled to the ground.

Then another grabbed the driver from behind. It was Hal Chatfield, Roger’s neighbor, his blue bathrobe hanging off his shoulders.

“No!” Roger shouted, but too late.

Hal spun the driver to the road. The thing came out of his mouth and pierced the driver’s neck. Roger watched the howling driver through his window.

Another one rose up into the headlights. No, not another one—the same man who had been shot in the head. His wound was leaking white, running down the side of his face. He used the car to hold himself up, but he was still coming.

Roger wanted to run, but he was trapped. To the right, past Franco the gardener, Roger saw a man in UPS brown shirt and shorts come out of the garage next door with the head of a shovel on his shoulder, like the baseball bat of an on-deck hitter.

The head-wound man pulled himself around the driver’s open door and climbed into the front seat. He looked through the plastic partition at Roger, the front-right lobe of his head raised like a forelock of flesh. White ooze glazed his cheek and jaw.

Roger turned just in time to see the UPS guy swing the shovel. It clanged off the rear window, leaving a long scrape in the reinforced glass, light from the streetlamps glinting in the spiderweb cracks.

Roger heard the scrape on the partition. The head-wound man’s tongue came out, and he was trying to slip it through the ashtray-style pay slot. The fleshy tip poked through, straining, almost sniffing at the air as it tried to get at Roger.

With a scream, Roger kicked at the slot in a frenzy, slamming it shut. The man in front let out an ungodly squeal, and the severed tip of his … whatever it was, fell directly into Roger’s lap. Roger swatted it away as, on the other side of the partition, the man spurted white all over, gone wild either in pain or in pure castration hysteria.

Whamm! Another swing of the shovel crashed against the back window behind Roger’s head, the antishatter glass cracking and bending but still refusing to break.

Pown-pown-pown. Footsteps leaving craters on the roof now.

Four of them on the curb, three on the street side, and more coming from the front. Roger looked back, saw the deranged UPS man rear back to swing the shovel at the broken window again. Now or never.

Roger reached for the handle and kicked the street-side door open with all his might. The shovel came down and the back window was smashed away, raining chips of glass. The blade just missed Roger’s head as he slid out into the street. Someone—it was Hal Chatfield, his eyes glowing red—grabbed his arm, spinning him around, but Roger shed his suit jacket like a snake wriggling out of its skin and kept on going, racing up the street, not looking back until he reached the corner.

Some came in a hobbling jog, others moved faster and with more coordination. Some were old, and three of them were grinning children. His neighbors and friends. Faces he recognized from the train station, from birthday parties, from church.

All coming after him.

Flatbush, Brooklyn

EPH PRESSED THE DOORBELL at the Barbour residence. The street was quiet, though there was life in the other homes, television lights, bags of trash at the curb. He stood there with a Luma lamp in his hand and a Setrakian-converted nail gun hanging on a strap from his shoulder.

Nora stood behind him, at the foot of the brick steps, holding her own Luma. Setrakian brought up the rear, his staff in hand, its silver head glowing in the moonlight.

Two rings, no answer. Not unexpected. Eph tried the doorknob before looking for another entrance, and it turned.

The door opened.

Eph went in first, flicking on a light. The living room looked normal, slipcovered furniture and throw pillows set just so.

He called out, “Hello,” as the two others filed in behind him. Strange, letting himself into the house. Eph trod softly on the rug, like a burglar or an assassin. He wanted to believe he was still a healer, but that was becoming more difficult to believe by the hour.

Nora started up the stairs. Setrakian followed Eph into the kitchen. Eph said, “What do you think we will learn here? You said the survivors were distractions—”

“I said that was the purpose they served. As to the Master’s intent—I don’t know. Perhaps there is some special attachment to the Master. In any event, we must start somewhere. These survivors are our only leads.”

A bowl and spoon sat in the sink. A family Bible lay open on the table, stuffed with mass cards and photographs, turned to the final chapter. A passage was underlined in red ink with a shaky hand, Revelations 11:7–8:

… the beast that ascends from the bottomless pit will make war upon them and conquer them and kill them, and their dead bodies will lie in the street of the great city which is allegorically called Sodom …

Next to the open Bible, like instruments set out upon an altar, were a crucifix and a small glass bottle Eph presumed to be holy water.

Setrakian nodded at the religious articles. “No more reasonable than duct tape and Cipro,” he said. “And no more effective.”

They proceeded into the back room. Eph said, “The wife must have covered for him. Why wouldn’t she call a doctor?”

They explored a closet, Setrakian tapping the walls with the bottom of his staff. “Science has made many advances in my lifetime, but the instrument has yet to be invented that can see clearly into the marriage of a man and a woman.”

They closed the closet. Eph realized they were out of doors to open. “If there’s no basement?”

Setrakian shook his head. “Exploring a crawl space is many times worse.”

“Up here!” It was Nora, calling down from upstairs, urgency in her voice.

Ann-Marie Barbour was slumped over from a sitting position on the floor between her nightstand and her bed, dead. Between her legs was a wall mirror that she had shattered on the floor. She had selected the longest, most daggerlike shard and used it to sever the radial and ulnar arteries of her left arm. Wrist cutting is one of the least effective methods of suicide, with a success rate of less than 5 percent. It is a slow death, due to the narrowness of the lower arm, and the fact that only one wrist cut is possible: a deep slice severs nerves, rendering that hand useless. It is also extremely painful, and as such, generally successful only among the profoundly depressed or the insane.

Ann-Marie Barbour had cut very deeply, the severed arteries as well as the dermis pulled back, exposing both bones in the wrist. Tangled in the curled fingers of her immobilized hand was a bloodied shoelace, upon which was strung a round-headed padlock key.

Her spilled blood was red. Still, Setrakian produced his silver-backed mirror and held it at an angle to her down-turned face, just to be sure. No blurring—the image was true. Ann-Marie Barbour had not been turned.

Setrakian stood slowly, bothered by this development. “Strange,” he said.

Eph stood over her in such a way that her down-turned face—her expression one of bewildered exhaustion—was reflected in the pieces of shattered glass. He noticed, tucked beneath a twin frame containing photographs of a young boy and girl on the nightstand, a folded piece of notebook paper. He slid it out, paused a moment with it in his hand, then opened it carefully.

Her handwriting was shaky, in red ink, just like the notation in the kitchen Bible. Her lower case i’s were dotted with circles, giving the penmanship a juvenile appearance.

“‘To my dearest Benjamin and darling Haily,’” he began reading.

“Don’t,” interrupted Nora. “Don’t read it. It’s not for us.”

She was right. He scanned the page for pertinent information—“The children are with the father’s sister in Jersey, safe”—skipping down to the final passage, reading just that bit. “‘I am so sorry, Ansel … this key I hold I cannot use … I know now that God has cursed you to punish me, he has forsaken us and we are both damned. If my death will cure your soul, then He can have it …”

Nora knelt, reaching for the key, drawing the bloody shoelace away from Ann-Marie’s lifeless fingers. “So … where is he?”

They heard a low moan that almost passed for a growl. It was bestial, glottal, the kind of throaty noise that can only be made by a creature with no human voice. And it came from outside.

Eph went to the window. He looked down at the backyard and saw the large shed.

They went out silently into the backyard, to stand before the chained handles of the twin shed doors. There, they listened.

Scratching inside. Guttural noises, quiet and choked.

Then the doors banged. Something shoved against them. Testing the chain.

Nora had the key. She looked to see if anyone else wanted it, and then walked to the chain herself, inserting the key in the padlock and turning it gingerly. The lock clicked and the shackle popped free.

Silence inside. Nora lifted the lock out of the links, Setrakian and Eph ready behind her—the old man drawing his silver sword from its wooden sheath. She began unwinding the heavy chain. Threading it through the wooden handles … expecting the doors to burst open immediately …

But nothing happened. Nora pulled the last length free and stepped back. She and Eph powered on their UVC lamps. The old man was locked in on the doors, so Eph sucked in a brave breath and reached for the handles, pulling open the doors.

It was dark inside. The only window was covered with something, and the outward-opening doors blocked most of the light coming down from the house porch.

It was a few airless moments before they perceived the form of something crouching.

Setrakian stepped forward, stopping within two paces of the open door. He appeared to be showing the occupant of the shed his silver blade.

The thing attacked. It charged, running at Setrakian, leaping for him, and the old man was ready with his sword—but then the leash chain caught, snapping the thing back.

They saw it now—saw its face. It sneered, its gums so white it appeared at first that its bared teeth went all the way up into the jaw. Its lips were pale with thirst, and what was left of its hair had whitened at the roots. It crouched on all fours on a bed of soil, a chain collar locked tight around its neck, dug into the flesh.

Setrakian said, never taking his eyes off it, “This is the man from the airplane?”

Eph stared. This thing was like a demon that had devoured the man named Ansel Barbour and half-assumed his form.

“It was him.”

“Somebody caught it,” said Nora. “Chained it here. Locked it away.”

“No,” said Setrakian. “He chained himself.”

Eph then understood. How the wife had been spared, and the children.

“Stay back,” warned Setrakian. And just then the vampire opened its mouth and struck, the stinger lashing out at Setrakian. The old man did not flinch, as the vampire did not have the reach, despite his stinger being many feet long. It retracted in failure, the disgusting outgrowth drooping just past the vampire’s chin, flicking around its open mouth like the blind pink feeler of some deep-sea creature.

Eph said, “Jesus God …”

The vampire Barbour turned feral. It backed up on its haunches, hissing at them. The unbelievable sight shocked Eph into remembering Zack’s camera in his pocket, and he handed Nora his lamp, taking out the recorder.

“What are you doing?” asked Nora.

He fumbled on the power, capturing this thing in the viewfinder. Then, with his other hand, he switched off the safety on his nail gun and aimed it at the beast.

Snap-chunk. Snap-chunk. Snap-chunk.

Eph fired three silver needles from his nail gun, the long-barreled tool bucking with recoil. The projectiles ripped into the vampire, burning into his diseased muscle, bringing forth a hoarse howl of pain that tipped him forward.

Eph kept recording.

“Enough,” said Setrakian. “Let us remain merciful.”

The beast’s neck extended as he strained from the pain. Setrakian repeated his refrain about his singing sword—and then swung right through the vampire’s neck. The body collapsed, arms and legs shivering. The head rolled to a stop, eyes blinking a few times, the stinger flailing like a cut snake, then going still. Hot white effluent bled out of the trunk of the neck, steaming faintly into the cool night air. The capillary worms slithered into the dirt, like rats fleeing a sinking ship, looking for a new vessel.

Nora caught whatever sort of cry was rising in her throat with a hand clamped fast over her open mouth.

Eph stared, revolted, forgetting to look through the viewfinder.

Setrakian stepped back, sword pointed down, white spatter steaming off the silver blade, dripping to the grass. “In the back there. Under the wall.”

Eph saw a hole dug beneath the rear of the shed.

“Something else was in here with him,” said the old man. “Something crawled out, escaped.”

Houses lined the street on either side. It could be in any one of them. “But no sign of the Master.”

Setrakian shook his head. “Not here. Maybe the next.”

Eph looked deep into the shed, trying to make out the blood worms in the light of Nora’s lamps. “Should I go in and irradiate them?”

“There is a safer way. That red can on the back shelf?”

Eph looked. “The gasoline can?”

Setrakian nodded, and at once Eph understood. He cleared his throat and brought the nail gun up again, aiming it, squeezing the trigger twice.

The weaponized tool was accurate from that distance. Fuel glugged out of the punctured canister, spilling down off the wooden shelf to the dirt below.

Setrakian swept open his light topcoat and fished a small box of matches from a pocket in the lining. With a very crooked finger he picked out one wooden match and struck it against the strip on the box, bringing it flaring orange into the night.

“Mr. Barbour is released,” he said.

Then he threw in the lit match and the woodshed roared.

Rego Park Center, Queens

MATT GOT THROUGH an entire rack of juniors’ separates, and then holstered his bar code collection unit—the inventory gun—and set off downstairs for a snack. After-hours inventory actually wasn’t all that bad. As the Sears store manager, he was comped the overtime, applicable toward his regular weekday hours. And the rest of the mall was closed and locked, the security grates down, meaning no customers, no crowds. And he didn’t have to wear a necktie.

He took the escalator to the merchandise pickup bay, where the best vending machines were. He was coming back through the first-floor jewelry counters eating jelly Chuckles (in ascending order of preference: licorice, lemon, lime, orange, cherry) when he heard something out in the mall proper. He went to the wide steel gate and saw one of the security guards crawling on the floor, three stores down.

The guard was holding his hand to his throat, as though choking, or badly hurt.

“Hey!” called Matt.

The guard saw him and reached out, not a wave but a plea for help. Matt dug out his key ring and turned the longest one in the wall slot, raising the gate just four feet, high enough to duck under, and ran down to the man.

The security guard gripped his arm and Matt got him up onto a nearby bench next to the wishing fountain. The man was gasping. Matt saw blood on his neck between his fingers, but not enough to indicate a stabbing. There were bloodstains on his uniform shirt also, and the guy’s lap was damp where he had peed himself.

Matt knew the guy by sight only, recognizing him as kind of a douche. A big-armed guy who patrolled the mall with his thumbs in his belt like some southern sheriff. With his hat off now, Matt saw the guy’s receding hairline, black strands straggly and greasy, over his pate like oil. The guy was rubber limbed and clinging to Matt’s arm, painfully and not very manfully.

Matt kept asking what had happened, but the guard was hyperventilating and looking all around. Matt heard a voice and realized it was the guard’s hip radio. Matt lifted the receiver off his belt. “Hello? This is Matt Sayles, manager of Sears. Hey, one of your guys here, on the first level—he’s hurt. He’s bleeding from the neck, and he’s all gray.”

The voice on the other end said, “This is his supervisor. What’s happening there?”

The guard was fighting to spit something out but only air wheezed from his ravaged throat.

Matt relayed, “He was attacked. He’s got bruises on the sides of his neck, and wounds … he’s pretty scared. But I don’t see anybody else …”

“I’m coming down the utility stairs now,” said the supervisor. Matt could hear his footfalls over the radio broadcast. “Where did you say you—”

He cut out there. Matt waited for him to come back on, then pressed the call button. “Where did we say we what?”

Finger off, he listened. Nothing again.

“Hello?”

A burst of transmission came through, less than one second long. A voice yelling, muffled: “GARGAHRAH—”

The guard pitched forward off the bench, crawling away on all fours, dragging himself toward Sears. Matt got to his feet, radio in hand, turning toward the restrooms sign next to which was the door to the utility stairs.

He heard thumping, like kicking coming down.

Then a familiar whirring. He turned back toward his store and saw the steel security gate lowering to the floor. He had left his keys hanging in the control.

The terrified guard was locking himself in.

“Hey—hey!” yelled Matt.

But before he could run there, Matt felt a presence behind him. He saw the guard back off, big-eyed, knocking over a rack of dresses and crawling away. Matt turned and saw two kids in baggy jeans and oversize cashmere hoodies coming out of the corridor to the restrooms. They looked drugged out, their brown skin yellowed, their hands empty.

Junkies. Matt’s fear spiked, thinking they might have hit the guard with a dirty syringe. He pulled out his wallet, tossing it to one of them. The kid didn’t move to catch it, the wallet smacking him in the gut and falling to the floor.

Matt backed up against the store grate as the two guys closed in.

Vestry Street, Tribeca

EPH PULLED UP across the street from Bolivar’s residence, a pair of conjoined town houses fronted by three stories of scaffolding. They crossed to the door and found it boarded up. Not haphazardly or temporarily, but covered with thick planking bolted over the door frame. Sealed.

Eph looked up the front face of the building to the night sky beyond. “What’s this hiding?” he said. He put a foot up on the scaffolding, starting to climb. Setrakian’s hand stopped him.

There were witnesses. On the sidewalk of the neighboring buildings. Standing and watching in the darkness.

Eph went to them. He found the silver-backed mirror in his jacket pocket and grabbed one of them to check his reflection. No shaking. The kid—no older than fifteen, done up in sad-eyed Goth paint and black lipstick—shook away from Eph’s grip.

Setrakian checked the others with his glass. None of them was turned.

“Fans,” said Nora. “A vigil.”

“Get out of here,” snarled Eph. But they were New York kids, they knew they didn’t have to move.

Setrakian looked up at Bolivar’s building. The front windows were darkened but he could not tell, at night, if they were blacked out or just in the process of renovation.

“Let’s climb up that scaffolding,” said Eph. “Break in a window.”

Setrakian shook his head. “No way we can get inside now without the police being called and you being taken away. You’re a wanted man, remember?” Setrakian leaned on his walking stick, looking up at the dark building before starting away. “No—we have no choice but to wait. Let’s find out some more about this building, and its owner. It might help to know first what we are getting into.”

DAYLIGHT

Bushwick, Brooklyn

Vasiliy Fet’s first stop the next morning was a house in Bushwick, not far from where he had grown up. Inspection calls were coming in from all over, the normal two- to three-week wait time easily doubling. Vasiliy was still working off his backlog from last month, and he had promised this guy he’d come through for him today.

He pulled up behind a silver Sable and got his gear out of the back of his truck, his length of rebar and magician’s cart of traps and poisons. First thing he noticed was a rivulet of water running along the gangway between the two row houses, a clear, slow trickle, as from a broken pipe. Not as appetizing as creamy brown sewage, but more than enough to hydrate an entire rat colony.

One basement window was broken, plugged up with rags and old towels. It could have been simple urban blight, or it could have been the handiwork of “midnight plumbers,” a new breed of copper thieves ripping out pipe to sell at salvage yards.

The bank owned both houses now, neighboring investment properties that, thanks to the subprime mortgage meltdown, flipped back on their owners, who lost them to foreclosure. Vasiliy was meeting a property manager there. The door to the first house was unlocked, and Vasiliy knocked and called out a hello. He poked his head into the first room before the staircase, checking baseboards for runs and droppings. A broken, half-fallen shade hung from one window, casting a slanting shadow onto the gouged wood floor. But no manager in sight.

Vasiliy was in too much of a rush to be kept waiting here. On top of his backlog, he hadn’t been able to sleep right last night, and wanted to get back to the World Trade Center site that morning to talk to somebody in charge. He found a metal clipboard case stuck between balusters on the third step of the stairs. The company name on the business cards in the clip matched the one on Vasiliy’s work order.

“Hello!” he called again, then gave up. He found the door to the basement stairs, deciding to get started anyway. The basement was dark below—the stuffed window frame he had glimpsed from the outside—and the electricity had long ago been turned off. It was doubtful there was even a bulb in the ceiling fixture. Vasiliy left his handcart behind to prop open the door, and walked down carrying his poker.

The staircase hooked left. He saw loafers first, then khaki-clad legs: the property manager sitting against the side stone wall in a crack-house slump, his head to one side, his eyes open but staring, dazed.

Vasiliy had been in enough abandoned houses in enough rough neighborhoods to know better than to rush right over to the guy. He looked around from the bottom step, eyes slow to adjust to the darkness. The basement was unremarkable except for two lengths of cut copper piping lying on the floor.

To the right of the stairs was the base of the chimney, adjacent to the furnace that vented into it. Vasiliy saw, curled low around the far corner of the chimney mortar, four dirty fingers.

Somebody was crouched there, hiding, waiting for him.

He had turned to go back up the stairs to call the police when he saw the light around the bend in the steps disappear. The door had been closed. By someone else at the top of the stairs.

Vasiliy’s first impulse was to run, and run he did, racing off the stairs and right at the chimney where the owner of the dirty hand crouched. With a cry of attack, he swung his length of rebar at the knuckles, crushing bone against mortar.

The attacker came up at him fast, without regard to pain. Crack has a way of doing that, he thought. It was a girl, no older than her teens, and she was filthy all over, with blood down her chest and around her mouth. All of this he saw in a dim flash as she threw herself at him with weird speed, and even weirder strength, propelling him back, hard, against the far wall despite being half his size. She made an airless raging noise, and when she opened her mouth a freakishly long tongue slithered out. Vasiliy’s boot came up instantly, striking her in the chest and putting her down on the floor.

He heard footsteps coming down the stairs and knew he could not win a fight in the dark. He reached up to the blocked window with his rebar and snagged the dirty rags jammed in there, twisting and pulling them down, falling like a plug out of a dyke with light instead of water flooding through.

He turned back just in time to see her eyes go to horror. She lay fully within the frame of sunlight, her body emitting a kind of anguished howl and breaking down all at once, smashed and steaming. It was as he imagined nuclear radiation might work on a person, cooking and dissolving them at the same time.

It happened almost all at once. The girl—or whatever she was—lay desiccated on the filthy floor of the basement.

Vasiliy stared. Horrified wasn’t even the word. He completely forgot about the one coming off the stairs until the guy moaned, reacting to the light. The guy backed away, stumbling near the property manager, then regaining his footing and starting for the stairs.

Vasiliy recovered just in time to go underneath the stairs. He jabbed the rod through the step planks, tripping the man, making him fall back down hard to the floor. Vasiliy went around him, his poker raised, as the man got to his feet. His formerly brown skin was a sickly jaundiced yellow. His mouth opened, and Vasiliy saw that it was not a tongue but something much worse.

Vasiliy cracked him across the mouth with the rebar. It sent the man spinning and dropped him to his knees. Vasiliy reached forward and grasped the back of his neck, as he would a hissing snake or a snapping rat, keeping that mouth thing away from him. He looked back to the rectangle of light, swirling with the dust of the annihilated girl. He felt the guy buck and fight to get away. Vasiliy brought the rod down hard against the thing’s knees and forced it toward the light.

Fear-maddened Vasiliy Fet realized he wanted to see it again. This slaying trick of the light. With a boot to the lower back, he sent the guy flailing into the sun—and watched him break and crumble all at once, shredded by the burning rays, sinking into ash and steam.

South Ozone Park, Queens

ELDRITCH PALMER’S limousine eased into a warehouse in a weedy industrial park less than one mile from the old Aqueduct Racetrack. Palmer traveled in a modest motorcade, his own car followed by a second, empty limousine, in the event that his broke down, followed by a third vehicle, a customized black van that was in fact a private ambulance equipped with his dialysis machine.

A door opened on the side of the warehouse to admit the vehicles, then closed behind them. Waiting to greet him were four members of the Stoneheart Society, a subset of his powerful international investment conglomerate, the Stoneheart Group.

Palmer’s door was opened for him by Mr. Fitzwilliam, and he stepped out to their awe. An audience with the chairman was a rare privilege.

Their dark suits emulated his. Palmer was accustomed to awe in his presence. His group investors regarded him as a messianic figure whose foreknowledge of market turns had enriched them. But his society disciples—they would follow him into hell.

Palmer felt invigorated today, and stood with only the aid of his mahogany cane. The former box-company warehouse was mostly empty. The Stoneheart Group used it occasionally for vehicle storage, but its value today lay in its old-fashioned, pre-code, underground incinerator, accessed by a large oven-size door in the wall.

Next to the Stoneheart Society members was a Kurt isolation pod on top of a wheeled stretcher. Mr. Fitzwilliam stood at his side.

“Any problems?” said Palmer.

“None, Chairman,” they replied. The two who resembled Doctors Goodweather and Martinez handed over their forged Centers for Disease Control and Prevention credentials to Mr. Fitzwilliam.

Palmer looked in through the transparent isolation pod at the decrepit form of Jim Kent. The blood-starved vampire’s body was shriveled, like the form of a demon whittled out of diseased birch. His muscular and circulatory features showed through his disintegrated flesh except at his swollen, blackened throat. His eyes were open and staring out of the hollows of his drawn face.

Palmer felt for this vampire starved into petrifaction. He knew what it was for a body to crave simple maintenance while the soul suffers and the mind waits.

He knew what it was to be betrayed by one’s maker.

Now Eldritch Palmer found himself on the cusp of deliverance. Unlike this poor wretch, Palmer was on the verge of liberation, and immortality.

“Destroy him,” he said, and stood back as the pod was wheeled to the open door of the incinerator, and the body was fed into the flames.

Pennsylvania Station

THEIR TRIP TO Westchester to find Joan Luss, the third Flight 753 survivor, was cut short by the morning news. The village of Bronxville had been closed off by New York State Police and HAZMAT teams due to a “gas leak.” Aerial news helicopter recordings showed the town nearly still at daybreak, the only cars on the road being state police cruisers. The next story showed the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner building at Thirtieth and First being boarded up, with speculation about more people disappearing from the area, and incidents of panic among local residents.

Penn Station was the only place they could think of guaranteed to have old-fashioned pay telephones. Eph stood at a bank of them with Nora and Setrakian off to the side as morning commuters moved through the station.

Eph thumbed through Jim’s phone, the RECENT CALLS list, looking for Director Barnes’s direct mobile line. Jim rolled close to one hundred calls each day, and Eph kept scrolling through them while, on the landline, Barnes answered his phone.

Eph said, “Are you really going with the ‘gas leak’ gambit, Everett? How long do you think that’s going to hold in this day and age?”

Barnes recognized Eph’s voice. “Ephraim, where are you?”

“Have you been to Bronxville? Have you seen it now?”

“I have been there … we don’t know what we have quite yet …”

“Don’t know! Give me a break, Everett.”

“They found the police station empty this morning. The entire town appears to have been abandoned.”

“Not abandoned. They’re all still there, just hiding. Come sundown, in Westchester County it’s going to be like Transylvania. What you need are strike teams, Everett. Soldiers. Going house to house through that town, as if it’s Baghdad. It’s the only way.”

“What we don’t want is to create a panic—”

“The panic is already starting. Panic is an appropriate response to this thing, more so than denial.”

“The New York DOH Syndromic Surveillance Systems show no indication of any emerging outbreak.”

“They monitor disease patterns by tracking ER visits, ambulance runs, and pharmacy sales. None of which figures into this scenario. This whole city is going to go the way of Bronxville if you don’t get going on it.”

Director Barnes said, “I want to know what you have done with Jim Kent.”

“I went to go see him and he was already gone.”

“I’m told you had something to do with his disappearance.”

“What am I, Everett—the Shadow? I’m everywhere at once. I’m an evil genius. Yes I am.”

“Ephraim, listen—”

“You listen to me. I am a doctor—a doctor you hired to do a job. To identify and contain emerging diseases in the United States. I am calling to tell you that it’s still not too late. This is the fourth day since the arrival of the plane and the start of the spread—but there is still a chance, Everett. We can hold them here in New York City. Listen—vampires can’t cross bodies of moving water. So we quarantine the island, seal off every bridge—”

“I don’t have that kind of control here—you know that.”

A train announcement broadcast from overhead speakers. “I’m in Penn Station, by the way, Everett. Send the FBI if you like. I’ll be gone well before they arrive.”

“Ephraim … come back in. I promise you a fair shot at convincing me, at convincing everyone. Let’s work on this together.”

“No,” said Eph. “You just said you don’t have that kind of control. These vampires—and that’s what they are, Everett—they are viruses incarnate, and they are going to burn through this city until there are none of us left. Quarantine is the one and only answer. If I see news that you’re moving in that direction, then maybe I’ll consider coming back in to help. Until then, Everett—”

Eph hung the receiver up on its hook. Nora and Setrakian waited for him to say something, but an entry on Jim’s phone log had piqued Eph’s interest. Each one of Jim’s contacts was entered last name first, all except one. A local exchange, to which Jim had made a series of calls within the past few days. Eph picked up the landline and pressed zero and waited through the computer responses until he got a real Verizon operator.

“Yes, I have a number in my phone and I can’t remember who it connects to, and I’d like to save myself some embarrassment before placing a call. It’s a 212 exchange, so I believe it is a landline. Can you do a reverse lookup?”

He read her the number and heard fingers clicking on a keyboard.

“That number is registered to the seventy-seventh floor of the Stoneheart Group. Would you like the building address?”

“I would.”

He covered the mouthpiece and said to Nora, “Why was Jim calling someone at the Stoneheart Group?”

“Stoneheart?” said Nora. “You mean that old man’s investment company?”

“Investment guru,” said Eph. “Second-richest man in the country, I think. Something Palmer.”

Setrakian said, “Eldritch Palmer.”

Eph looked at him. He saw consternation on the professor’s face. “What about him?”

“This man, Jim Kent,” said Setrakian. “He was not your friend.”

Nora said, “What do you mean? Of course he was …”

Eph hung up after getting the address. He then highlighted the number on the screen of Jim’s phone and pressed send.

The number rang. No answer, no voice-mail recording.

Eph hung up, still staring at the phone.

Nora said, “Remember the administrator for the isolation ward, after the survivors left isolation? She said she had called, Jim said she hadn’t—then he said he just missed some calls?”

Eph nodded. It didn’t make any sense. He looked at Setrakian. “What do you know about this guy Palmer?”

“Many years ago he came to me for help in finding someone. Someone I was also keenly interested in finding.”

“Sardu,” guessed Nora.

“He had the funding, I had the knowledge. But the arrangement ended after only a few months. I came to understand that we were searching for Sardu for two very different reasons.”

Nora said, “Was he the one who ruined you at the university?”

Setrakian said, “I always suspected.”

Jim’s phone buzzed in Eph’s hand. The phone did not recognize the number, but it was a local New York exchange. A callback from someone at Stoneheart, maybe. Eph answered it.

“Yeah,” said the voice, “is this the CDC?”

“Who is calling?”

The voice was gruff and deep. “I’m looking for the disease guy from the Canary project who’s in all that trouble. Any way you can put me through to him?”

Eph suspected a trap. “What do you want him for?”

“I’m calling from outside a house in Bushwick, here in Brooklyn. I’ve got two dead eclipse hysterics in the basement. Who didn’t like the sun. This mean anything to you?”

Eph felt a tingle of excitement. “Who is this?”

“My name is Fet. Vasiliy Fet. I’m with the city’s pest control, an exterminator who’s also working a pilot program for integrated pest management in lower Manhattan. It’s funded by a seven hundred and fifty thousand dollar grant from the CDC. How I have this phone number. Am I right in guessing that this is Goodweather?”

Eph hesitated a moment. “It is.”

“I guess you could say that I work for you. Nobody else I could think to bring this to. But I’m seeing signs all over the city.”

Eph said, “It’s not the eclipse.”

“I think I know that. I think you need to get over here. Because I’ve got something you need to see.”

Stoneheart Group, Manhattan

EPH HAD TWO STOPS to make on the way. One alone, and one with Nora and Setrakian.

Eph’s CDC credentials got him through a security checkpoint in the main lobby of the Stoneheart Building, but not past a second checkpoint on the seventy-seventh floor, where an elevator change was necessary to gain access to the top ten floors of the Midtown building.

Two immense bodyguards stood upon the massive brass Stoneheart Group logo, inlaid in the onyx floor. Behind them, movers in overalls crossed the lobby, rolling large pieces of medical equipment on dollies.

Eph asked to see Eldritch Palmer.

The larger of the two bodyguards almost smiled. A shoulder holster bulged conspicuously beneath his suit jacket. “Mr. Palmer does not accept visitors without an appointment.”

Eph recognized one of the machines being dismantled and crated. It was a Fresenius dialysis machine. An expensive piece of hospital-grade equipment.

“You’re packing up,” said Eph. “Moving house. Getting out of New York while the getting’s good. But won’t Mr. Palmer need his kidney machine?”

The bodyguards didn’t answer, didn’t even turn to look.

Eph understood it then. Or thought he did.

They met up again outside Jim and Sylvia’s place, a high-rise on the Upper East Side.

Setrakian said, “It was Palmer who brought the Master into America. Why he is willing to risk everything—even the future of the human race—in order to further his own ends.”

“Which are?” said Nora.

Setrakian said, “I believe Eldritch Palmer intends to live forever.”

Eph said, “Not if we can do anything about it.”

“I applaud your determination,” said Setrakian. “But with his wealth and influence, my old acquaintance has every advantage. This is his endgame, you realize. There is no going back for him. He will do whatever it takes to achieve his goal.”

Eph couldn’t afford to think in big-picture terms or else he might discover that he was fighting a losing battle. He focused on the task at hand. “What did you find out?”

Setrakian said, “My brief visit to the New York Historical Society bore fruit. The property in question was completely rebuilt by a bootlegger and smuggler who made his fortune during Prohibition. His home was raided numerous times but never more than a pint of illicit brew was seized, due, it was said, to a web of tunnels and underground breweries—some of those tunnels were expanded later to accommodate underground subway lines.”

Eph looked at Nora. “What about you?”

“The same. And that Bolivar bought the property expressly because it was an old bootlegger’s pad, and because it was said that the owner before that was a Satanist who held black masses on the rooftop altar around the turn of the twentieth century. Bolivar’s been renovating that building and combining it with the one next to it on and off for the past year, constructing one of the largest private residences in New York.”

“Good,” said Eph. “Where did you go, the library?”

“No,” she said, handing over a printout featuring photos of the original town house interior and current photos of Bolivar in stage makeup. “People magazine online.”

They were buzzed in and rode up to Jim and Sylvia’s small ninth-floor unit. Sylvia answered the door in a flowing linen dress befitting a horoscope columnist, her hair pulled back with a wide headband. She was surprised to see Nora, and doubly shocked to see Eph.

“What are you doing—?”

Eph moved inside. “Sylvia, we have some very important questions, and we only have a little time. What do you know about Jim and the Stoneheart Group?”

Sylvia held her hand to her chest as if she didn’t understand. “The who?”

Eph saw a desk in the corner, a tabby cat snoozing on top of a closed laptop. He crossed to it and started opening drawers. “Do you mind if we take a quick look through his things?”

“No,” she said, “if you think it will help. Go ahead.”

Setrakian remained near the door while Eph and Nora searched the contents of the desk. Sylvia apparently received a strong vibration from the old man’s presence. “Would anyone like anything, a drink?”

“No,” said Nora, smiling briefly, then getting back to the search.

“I’ll be right back.” Sylvia went to the kitchen.

Eph stood back from the cluttered desk, mystified. He didn’t even know what he was looking for. Jim working for Palmer? How far back in time did this reach? And what was Jim’s motive anyway? Money? Would he have turned on them like that?

He went to ask Sylvia a delicate question about their finances, leaving the room to find her in the kitchen. As Eph turned the corner, Sylvia was replacing her wall phone. She stepped backward with a strange look on her face.

Eph was confused at first. “Who were you calling, Sylvia?”

The others came in behind him. Sylvia felt for the wall behind her, then sat down in a chair.

Eph said, “Sylvia—what’s going on?”

She said, without moving, and with an eerie sense of calm behind her wide, damning eyes, “You’re going to lose.”

PS 69, Jackson Heights

KELLY USUALLY never turned her mobile phone on in the classroom, but now it sat to the left of her calendar blotter, set to silent. Matt had stayed out all night, not unusual for overnight inventories; he often took the crew out to breakfast afterward. But he always called to check in as well. The school was a no-cell-phone zone, but she had sneaked a few calls to him, getting his voice mail each time. Maybe he was out of range. She was trying not to worry, and losing the battle. Attendance was low at the school.

She regretted listening to Matt and giving in to his arrogance about not leaving the city. If he had somehow put Zack at risk …

Then her phone lit up and she saw the envelope icon. A text message from his mobile.

It read: COME HOME.

That was it. Two words, lower case, no punctuation. She tried to call him right back. The phone rang and then stopped ringing as though he had answered. But he didn’t say anything.

“Matt? Matt?”

Her fourth-graders looked at her strangely. They had never seen Ms. Goodweather talking on a phone in class.

Kelly tried their home phone, and got a busy signal. Was the voice mail broken? When was the last time she’d heard a busy signal?

She decided to leave. She’d have Charlotte open the door to her classroom next door, keep an eye on her students. Kelly thought about packing it in for the day and even picking up Zack at the middle school, but no. She’d shoot home, find out what was wrong, then evaluate her options and go from there.

Bushwick, Brooklyn

THE MAN WHO MET THEM at the empty house filled most of the door frame. The shadow of a skipped shave blackened his jutting jaw like a dusting of soot. He carried a large white sack at his hip, one hand choking its neck, an oversize pillowcase with something heavy inside.

After the introductions, the big man went into his shirt pocket and unfolded a worn copy of a cover letter bearing the CDC seal. He showed the letter to Eph.

“You said you had something to show us?” said Eph.

“Two things. First, this.”

Fet loosened the drawstring on his sack and overturned the contents onto the floor. Four furry rodents landed in a heap, all dead.

Eph jumped back and Nora gasped.

“I always say, you want to get people’s attention, bring ’em a bag of rats.” Fet picked one up by its long tail, its body twirling slowly back and forth under his hand. “They’re coming up out of their burrows all across the city. Even in daytime. Something’s driving them out. Meaning, something’s not right. I know that during the black death, rats came out and dropped dead in the streets. These rats here aren’t coming up to die. They’re coming up plenty alive and plenty desperate and hungry. Take my word for it, when you see a big change in rat ecology, it means bad news is on the way. When the rats start to panic, it’s time to sell GE. Time to get out. Know what I mean?”

Setrakian said, “I do indeed.”

Eph said, “I’m missing something here. What do rats have to do with …?”

“They are a sign,” said Setrakian, “as Mr. Fet rightly states. An ecological symptom. Stoker popularized the myth that a vampire can change its form, transforming into a nocturnal creature such as a bat or a wolf. This false notion arises out of a truth. Before dwellings had basements or cellars, vampires nested in caves and dens on the edges of villages. Their corruptive presence displaced the other creatures, bats and wolves, driving them out so that they overran the villages—their appearance always coinciding with the spreading sickness and the corruption of souls.”

Fet was paying close attention to the old man. “You know what?” he said. “Twice when you were just talking, I heard you say the word ‘vampire.’”

Setrakian looked at him evenly. “That you did.”

After a contemplative pause, and a long look at the others, Fet said, “Okay.” As though he was starting to get it. “Now let me show you the other thing.”

He led them down into the basement. The smell was one of foul incense, of something diseased that had been burned. He showed them the atomized flesh and bone, now cold cinder lying on the floor of the basement. The rectangle of window sunlight had elongated and moved, shining against the wall now. “But it was beaming down here, and they went into it, and it cooked them in an instant. But, before that, they came at me with this … thing shooting out from underneath their tongues.”

Setrakian told him the short version. The rogue Master stowing away on Flight 753. The disappearing coffin. The morgue dead rising and returning to their Dear Ones. The household nests. The Stoneheart Group. Silver and sunlight. The stinger.

Fet said, “Their heads tipped back and their mouths opened up … and it was like that candy, that kids’ candy—the one that used to come with Star Wars character heads.”

Nora said, after a moment, “A Pez dispenser.”

“That’s it. You tip up the chin, candy pops out of the neck.”

Eph nodded. “Except for the candy part, an apt description.”

Fet looked at Eph. “So why are you public enemy number one?”

“Because silence is their weapon.”

“Hell, then. Somebody has to make some noise.”

“Exactly,” said Eph.

Setrakian eyed the light clipped on the side of Fet’s belt. “Let me ask you this. Your profession uses black light, if I am not mistaken.”

“Sure. To pick up rodent urine traces.”

Setrakian glanced over at Eph and Nora.

Fet took another look at the old man in the vest and suit. “You know about exterminating?”

Setrakian said, “I have had some experience.” He stepped over to the turned property manager, who had crawled or dragged himself away from the sunlight, and was now curled up in the far corner. Setrakian examined him with a silver-backed mirror, and showed Fet the result. The exterminator looked back and forth between the property manager as he appeared to his eyes and the vibrating blur reflected in the glass. “But you strike me as an expert on things that burrow and hide. Creatures who nest. Who feed off the human population. Your job is to drive out these vermin?”

Fet looked at Setrakian and the others like a man standing on an express train, gathering speed out of the station, suddenly realizing he had boarded on the wrong track. “What are you getting me into here?”

“Tell us, then, please. If vampires are vermin—an infestation spreading quickly throughout the city—how would you stop them?”

“I can tell you that, from a pest control point of view, poisoning and trapping are short-term solutions that won’t work in the long run. Picking these babies off one by one gets you nowhere. The only rats you ever see are the weakest ones. The hungry ones. Smart ones know how to survive. Control is what works. Managing their habitat, disrupting their ecosystem. Removing the food supply and starving them out. Then you get to the root of the infestation, and wipe it clean.”

Setrakian nodded slowly, then looked back at Eph. “The Master. The root of this evil. Somewhere in Manhattan right now.” The old man looked again at the unfortunate curled up on the floor, who would animate after nightfall, become a vampire, vermin. “You will step back please,” he said, unsheathing his sword. With his pronouncement and a two-handed stroke, he decapitated the man where he lay. As pale pink blood eked out—the host was not yet fully turned—Setrakian wiped his blade on the man’s shirt and returned it to the walking stick. “If only we had some indication of where the Master might be nesting. The site would have been preapproved and perhaps even selected by him. A lair worthy of his stature. A place of darkness, offering shelter from, yet access to, the human world on the surface.” He turned back to Fet. “Do you have any notion where these rats might be rising from? The epicenter of their displacement?”

Fet nodded immediately, his eyes staring into the distance. “I think I know.”

Church Street and Fulton

IN THE DECLINING light of day, the two epidemiologists, the pawnbroker, and the exterminator all stood on the viewing platform on the upper edge of the World Trade Center construction site, the excavation dug one block wide and seventy feet deep.

Fet’s city credentials and one small lie—Setrakian was not a world-famous rodentologist in from Omaha—got them into the subway tunnel without an escort. Fet led them down to the same out-of-service track he had followed before, playing his flashlight upon the ratless tracks. The old man stepped carefully over the ties, picking his way along the bed stones with his oversize walking stick. Eph and Nora carried Luma lights.

“You are not from Russia,” Setrakian said to Fet.

“Just my parents and my name.”

“In Russia, they are called vourdalak. The prevailing myth is that one gains immunity from them by mixing the blood of a vourdalak with flour and making bread from the paste, which must then be eaten.”

“Does that work?”

“As well as any folk remedy. Which is to say, not very well at all.” Setrakian remained far to the right of the electrified third rail. “That steel rod looks handy.”

Fet looked at his length of rebar. “It’s crude. Like me, I suppose. But it gets the job done. Also like me.”

Setrakian lowered his voice to cut down on the tunnel echo. “I have some other instruments you might find at least as effective.”

Fet saw the sump hose the sandhogs had been working on. Farther ahead, the tunnel turned and widened, and Fet recognized the dingy junction at once. “In here,” he said, shining a flashlight beam around, keeping it low.

They stopped and listened to the dripping of water. Fet scoured the ground with his light. “I put down tracking powder last time. See?”

There were human footprints in the powder. Shoes, sneakers, and bare feet.

Fet said, “Who goes barefoot in a subway tunnel?”

Setrakian held up a wool-gloved hand. The tubelike tunnel acoustics brought them distant groans.

Nora said, “Jesus Christ …”

Setrakian whispered, “Your lamps, please. Turn them on.”

Eph and Nora did, their powerful UVC rays illuminating the dark underground, exposing a mad swirl of colors. Innumerable stains splashed wildly against the floor, the walls, the iron stanchions … everywhere.

Fet recoiled in disgust. “This is all …?”

“It is excrement,” said Setrakian. “The creatures will shit while they eat.”

Fet looked around in amazement. “I guess a vampire doesn’t have much need for good hygiene.”

Setrakian was backing away. He had a different grip on his walking stick now, the top half pulled several inches out of the bottom half, baring the bright, sharp blade. “We must leave here. Right now.”

Fet was listening to the noises in the tunnels. “No argument from me.”

Eph’s foot kicked something, and he jumped back, expecting rats. He shone his UVC lamp down and discovered a low mound of objects in the corner.

They were mobile phones. One hundred or more, piled up as though they had been thrown into the corner.

“Huh,” said Fet. “Somebody dumped a load of mobile phones down here.”

Eph reached for some on the top of the pile. The first two he tried were dead. The third had just one blinking bar of battery life. An X icon along the top of the screen indicated that there was no reception.

“That’s why the police can’t find all the missing people by their cell phones,” said Nora. “They’re all underground.”

“Judging by the looks of this,” said Eph, tossing the phones back onto the pile, “most of them are here.”

Eph and Nora stared at the phones, quickening their steps.

“Quickly,” said Setrakian, “before we are detected.” He led the retreat out of the tunnel. “We must prepare.”

LAIR

Worth Street, Chinatown

It was early on the fourth night as Ephraim cruised past his building on the way to Setrakian’s to properly arm themselves. He saw no police posted outside his place, so he pulled over. He was taking a chance, but it had been days since he’d changed his clothes, and all he needed was five minutes. He pointed out his third-floor window to them, and said he would lower the blinds once he was inside if there was no trouble.

He made it into the building lobby with no problem, then climbed the stairs. He found his apartment door open a crack, and paused to listen. An open door didn’t seem very coplike.

He pushed inside, calling, “Kelly?” No answer. “Zack?” They were the only ones who had keys.

The smell alarmed him at first, until he realized it was the Chinese food left in the trash, from when Zack was over—which seemed like years ago. He entered the kitchen to see if the milk in the refrigerator was still good … and then stopped.

He stared. It took him a moment to understand what he was looking at.

Two uniformed cops lay on his kitchen floor, against the wall.

A droning started inside the apartment. Quickly rising to something like a scream, like a chorus of agony.

His apartment door slammed shut. Eph whipped around to the closed door.

Two men stood there. Two beings. Two vampires.

Eph saw this at once. Their posture, their pallor.

One of them he did not know. The other one he recognized as the survivor Bolivar. Looking very dead, and very dangerous, and very hungry.

Then Eph sensed an even greater danger in the room. For these two revenants were not the source of the drone. Turning his head back toward the main room took an eternity and it took only one second.

A huge being wearing a long, dark cloak. Its height taking up all of the apartment, to the ceiling and more, its neck bent so that it was looking down at Eph.

Its face …

Eph grew dizzy as the being’s superhuman height made the room seem small, made him feel small. The sight weakened his legs, even as he turned to race toward the door to the hallway.

Now the being was in front of him, between him and the door, blocking the only exit. As though Eph hadn’t actually turned but the floor itself had rotated. The other two normal, man-size vampires flanked him on either side.

The being was closer now. Looming over Eph. Looking down.

Eph dropped to his knees. Simply being in the presence of this giant creature was paralyzing, no different than if Eph had been physically struck down.

Hmmmmmmmmmm.

Eph felt this. The way you feel live music in your chest. A hum rumbling in his brain. He averted his eyes, to the floor. He was crippled by fear. He did not want to see its face again.

Look at me.

At first Eph believed that this thing was strangling him with its mind. But his breathlessness was the result of pure terror, a panic of his very soul.

He raised his eyes just a bit. Trembling, he saw the hem of the Master’s robe, up to the hands at the end of the sleeves. They were revoltingly colorless and nail-less, and inhumanly large. The fingers were of uniform length, all oversize except for the middle finger, which was even longer and thicker than the rest—and hooked at the end like a talon.

The Master. Here for him. To turn him.

Look at me, pig.

Eph did, raising his head as though a hand gripped his chin.

The Master looked down at him from where his head bent beneath the ceiling. It gripped the sides of its hood with its huge hands and pulled it back off its skull. The head was hairless and colorless. Its eyes, lips, and mouth were all without hue, worn and washed out, like threadbare linen. Its nose was worn back like that of a weathered statue, a mere bump made of two black holes. Its throat throbbed in a hungry pantomime of breathing. Its skin was so pale that it was translucent. Visible beneath the flesh, like a blurry map to an ancient, ruined land, were veins that no longer carried blood. Veins that pulsed with red. The circulating blood worms. Capillary parasites coursing beneath the Master’s pellucid flesh.

This is a reckoning.

The voice rode into Eph’s head on a roar of terror. He felt himself going slack. Everything muddled and dimming.

I have your pig wife. Soon your pig son.

Eph’s head was swollen to bursting with disgust and anger. It felt like a balloon forcing itself to pop. He slid one foot flat beneath him. He staggered to his feet before this immense demon.

I will take everything from you and leave nothing. That is my way.

The Master reached forward in a fast, blurry motion. Eph felt, as an anesthetized patient feels the pressure of the dentist’s drill, a gripping sensation on the top of his head, and then his feet were off the floor. He swung his arms and kicked out his legs. The Master palmed his head like a basketball, lifting him one-handedly toward the ceiling. To eye level, near enough to glimpse the blood worms wriggling like plague spermatozoa.

I am the occultation and the eclipse.

Lifting Eph to his mouth like a fat grape. The mouth was dark inside, his throat a barren cavern, a direct route to hell. Eph, his body swinging from his neck, was nearly out of his mind. He could feel the long middle talon against the back of his neck, its pressure at the top of his spine. The Master tipped Eph’s head back as though cracking open the pop top of a beer can.

I am a drinker of men.

A wet, crunching sound, and then the Master’s mouth began to open. His jaw retracted and his tongue curled up and back and his hideous stinger emerged.

Eph roared, defiantly blocking access to his neck with his arms, howling into the Master’s savage face.

And then, something … not Eph’s howl … something made the Master’s great head turn ever so slightly.

The nostrils in his face pulsed, the sniffing of a demon without breath.

His onyx eyes turned back to Eph. Staring at him like two dead spheres. Glaring at Eph—as though Eph had somehow dared to deceive the Master.

Not alone.

At that moment, coming up the stairs of Eph’s apartment building two steps behind Fet, Setrakian gripped the handrail suddenly, his shoulder slumping against the wall. Pain burst in his head like a blinding aneurism, and a voice—vile and gloating and blasphemous—boomed like a bomb exploding inside a crowded symphony hall.

SETRAKIAN.

Fet stopped and looked back, but through wincing eyes Setrakian waved him ahead. A whisper was all he could muster: “He is here.”

Nora’s eyes darkened. Fet’s boots pounded as he ran up to the landing. Nora helped Setrakian, pulling him after Fet, to the door, inside the apartment.

Fet hit the first body he encountered, an open field tackle, going in low and getting grabbed as he did, falling and rolling over. He popped up fast in a fighting stance and faced his opponent, seeing the vampire’s face, not grinning, but with his mouth spread like a grin, ready to feed.

Then Fet saw the giant being across the room. The Master, with Eph in his grip. Monstrous. Mesmerizing.

The nearer vampire came at him and drove Fet back into the kitchen, against the refrigerator door.

Nora rushed inside, managing to switch on her Luma lamp just as the vampire Bolivar lunged for her. He hissed a breathless scream and reeled backward. Then Nora saw the Master, the back of his downturned head against the ceiling. She saw Eph dangling by his head in the monster’s grip. “Eph!”

Setrakian entered with his long sword bared. He froze for a moment when he saw the Master, the giant, the demon. Here in front of him now after so many years.

Setrakian brandished his silver sword. Nora, closing from a different angle, drove Bolivar back toward the front wall of the apartment. The Master was cornered. Attacking Eph in such a small space had been a cardinal mistake.

Setrakian’s heart pounded in his chest as he turned the blade point out and ran it at the demon.

The droning inside the apartment expanded suddenly, an explosion of noise inside his head. And Nora’s, and Fet’s, and Eph’s. An incapacitating shockwave of sound that made the old man shrink back for a moment—just long enough.

He saw a black grin snake across the Master’s face. The giant vampire threw the flailing Eph across the room, his body slamming into the far wall and dropping hard to the floor. The Master hooked Bolivar by the shoulder with one of his long, taloned hands—and lunged at the picture window overlooking Worth Street.

A splintering crash shuddered the building as the Master escaped in a rain of glass.

Setrakian ran toward the sudden breeze, to the frame of the window edged with jagged shards. Three stories below, the glass spray was just hitting the sidewalk, glittering in the streetlight.

The Master, with his preternatural speed, was already across the street and mounting the facing building. With Bolivar hanging from his free arm, he went over the top railing and disappeared onto the higher roof, into the night.

Setrakian sagged a moment, unable to process the fact that the Master had just been inside that very room and was now escaped. His heart was throwing a fit in his chest, pounding as if it was going to burst.

“Hey—a little help!”

He turned, and Fet was on the floor holding off the other vampire, Nora assisting with her lamp. Setrakian felt a new burst of rage and went walking over, his silver sword straight out at his side.

Fet saw him coming, his eyes going wide. “No, wait—”

Setrakian struck, sweeping his blade through the vampire’s neck, inches above Fet’s hands, then kicking the decapitated body off of Fet’s chest before the white blood could reach his skin.

Nora ran over to Eph, lying crumpled on the floor. His cheek was cut and his eyes were dilated and terrified—but he appeared unturned.

Setrakian whipped out a mirror to confirm this. He held it to Eph’s face and found no distortion. Nora shone her lamp on Eph’s neck. Nothing—no breach.

Nora helped him sit up, Eph wincing in pain when his right arm was touched. She touched his chin underneath his cut cheek, needing to embrace him but not wanting to hurt him any further. “What happened?” she said.

Eph said, “He has Kelly.”

Kelton Street, Woodside, Queens

EPH TORE ACROSS the bridge into Queens. He used Jim’s phone to try Kelly’s mobile as he drove.

No ring. Immediate pickup by her voice mail.

Hi, this is Kelly. I’m not able to answer my phone right now …

Eph speed-dialed Zack again. Zack’s phone kept ringing through to the mailbox.

He screamed around the corner onto Kelton and pulled up hard outside Kelly’s front yard, vaulting the low fence and running up the stairs. He banged on the door and pushed the bell. His keys were hanging on a peg back inside his apartment.

Eph took a running start and put his sore shoulder into the door. He tried it again, hurting his arm even more. The third time he threw himself against the door, the frame splintered, and he fell, sprawling, inside.

He got to his feet and rushed through the house. Slamming into walls around corners, his feet kicking at the steps up to the second floor. He stopped at the door to Zack’s bedroom. The boy’s room was empty.

So empty.

Back downstairs three steps at a time. He recognized Kelly’s emergency go bag next to the broken door. He saw suitcases packed but not zipped. She had never left the city.

Oh, Christ, he thought. It’s true.

The others reached the door just as something struck Eph from behind. A body, tackling him. He fought back immediately, already primed with adrenaline. He rolled his attacker over, holding him off.

Matt Sayles. Eph saw his dead eyes and felt the heat of his overamped metabolism.

The feral thing that was once Matt snarled at him. Eph braced his forearm against Matt’s throat as the recently turned vampire started to open its mouth. Eph went up hard under his chin, trying to block whatever biological mechanism was about to unleash the stinger. Matt’s eyes strained and his head shook all over as he tried to work his throat free.

Eph saw Setrakian drawing his sword behind Matt. Eph yelled, “NO!” and drew from a ready well of rage to kick Matt off him.

The vampire snarled, rolling to a stop, then popping up on all fours, watching Eph get to his feet.

Matt rose, standing hunched over. He was doing weird things with his mouth, a new vampire getting used to the different muscles, his tongue swirling around his open lips in lascivious confusion.

Eph looked around for a weapon, finding only a tennis racket lying on the floor outside the closet. He grabbed the taped grip two-handedly and spun the titanium frame on its side, going after Matt with it. All of his feelings for Matt—this man who had moved into his wife’s house and bed … who wanted to be his boy’s father … who sought to replace Eph—came surging up as he swung for Matt’s jaw. He wanted to shatter it and the horror that lurked inside. The new ones weren’t so coordinated yet, and Eph got in seven or eight good blows, chopping loose teeth and dropping Matt to his knees—before Matt lashed out, catching Eph’s ankle and upending him. Some residual anti-Eph rage still boiled inside Matt too. He rose up gnashing his broken teeth, but Eph kicked Matt in the face, extending his knee and throwing Matt back. Eph retreated around the partition into the kitchen, and it was there he saw the carving knife stuck on a magnet strip.

Rage is never blind. Rage is uniquely focused. Eph felt as if he were looking through the wrong end of a telescope—seeing only the knife, and then only Matt.

Matt came at him and Eph strong-armed him back against the wall. He grabbed a handful of hair and yanked it back in order to expose the vampire’s neck. Matt’s mouth opened, his stinger swishing out, trying to feed on Eph. Matt’s throat rippled and bucked, and Eph attacked it, stabbing, knifeknifeknifeknifeknife. Hard and quick, right through the throat and into the wall behind, the blade tip sticking and Eph pulling out again. Crunching cervical vertebra. White goo bubbling. Body sagging, arms flailing. Eph stabbing until the head remained in his hand but the body sagged to the floor.

Eph stopped cutting then. He saw, without truly processing it, the head in his hand with its stinger drooping through the severed neck, still twitching.

He then saw Nora and the others watching him from the open door. He saw the wall and the white mess dripping down it. He saw the decapitated body on the floor. He saw the head in his hand.

Blood worms wriggled up Matt’s face. Past his cheeks and over his staring eyes. Into Matt’s thin hair, approaching Eph’s fingers.

Eph dropped the head, which struck the floor with a thud, not rolling anywhere. He dropped the knife too, which fell soundlessly into Matt’s lap.

Eph said, “They took my son.”

Setrakian pulled him away from the body and the infested vampire blood. Nora turned on her Luma light and irradiated Matt’s body.

Fet said, “Holy, holy shit.”

Eph said again, both as an explanation and as a nail to be banged more deeply into his soul: “They took my son.”

The homicidal roar in his ears was fading, and he recognized the sound of a car pulling up outside. A door opened, soft music playing.

A voice calling out, “Thanks.”

That voice.

Eph went to the broken front door. He looked down the walk and saw Zack getting out of a minivan, shrugging a backpack strap over one shoulder.

Zack made it only as far as the gate door before Eph wrapped him up in his arms. “Dad?”

Eph checked him over, grasping the boy’s head in his hands, examining his eyes, his face.

Zack said, “What are you doing—?”

“Where were you?”

“At Fred’s.” Zack tried to wriggle out of his father’s grip. “Mom never showed, so Fred’s mom took me over to their place.”

Eph let Zack pull back. Kelly.

Zack was looking past him, at the house. “What happened to our door?”

He took a few steps toward it, until Fet appeared in the doorway, Setrakian behind him. A big guy in a hanging flannel shirt and work boots, and an old man in tweed holding a wolf’s-head walking stick.

Zack looked back at his father, the troubled vibe now fully setting in.

He said, “Where’s Mom?”

Knickerbocker Loans and Curios, East 118th Street, Spanish Harlem

EPH STOOD in the book-lined hallway of Setrakian’s apartment. He was looking in on Zack eating a Devil Dog at the old man’s small kitchen table, where Nora was asking him about school, keeping him occupied and distracted.

Eph could still feel the sensation of the Master’s grip on his head. He had lived a life built on certain assumptions, in a world based on certain assumptions, and now that everything he thought he could rely on was gone, he realized he didn’t know anything anymore.

Nora saw him watching from the hall, and Eph could tell by the look on her face that she was frightened by the look on his.

Eph knew that he would always be a little insane from now on.

He went downstairs two flights to Setrakian’s basement armory. The UV alarm lights at the door were turned off, the old man showing Fet his wares. The exterminator was admiring the modified nail gun, looking like a longer, narrower UZI submachine gun, but orange and black, and with its loading nail magazine feeding the barrel on a slant.

Setrakian came straight over to Eph. “Did you eat?”

Eph shook his head.

“How is your boy?”

“Scared, but he won’t let it show.”

Setrakian nodded. “Like the rest of us.”

“You’ve seen him before. This Thing. The Master.”

“Yes.”

“You tried to kill it.”

“Yes.”

“You failed.”

Setrakian squinted, as though looking directly into the past. “I was not adequately prepared. I will not miss again.”

Fet, holding a lantern-shaped object with a spike on the end of it, said, “Not likely. Not with this arsenal.”

“Some parts I pieced together myself, from things that came into the store. But I am no bomb maker.” He clenched his gloved claws as proof of this. “I have a silversmith in New Jersey who molds my points and needles.”

“You mean you didn’t pick this up at Radio Shack?”

Setrakian took the heavy, lantern-shaped object from the exterminator’s hands. It was constructed of shaded plastic with a thick battery base, a six-inch spike of steel on the bottom. “This is essentially an ultraviolet light mine. It is a single-use weapon that will emit a cleansing spray of vampire-killing light in the pure UVC range. It is designed to clear a large room, and will burn very hot and fast once charged. You want to make certain you are out of the way when it does. The temperature and the radiation can get a bit … uncomfortable.”

Fet said, “And what’s with this nail gun?”

“This is powder actuated, operating on a shotgun load of gunpowder to drive the nail. Fifty nails per load, inch and a half brads. Silver of course.”

“Of course,” said Fet, admiring the piece, getting a feel for the rubber grip.

Setrakian looked around the room: the old armor up on the wall; the UVC lamps and battery chargers on the shelves; the silver blades and silver-backed mirrors; some prototype weapons; his notebooks and sketches. The enormity of the moment nearly overwhelmed him. He only hoped that fear would not turn him back into the powerless young man he had once been.

He said, “I have waited for this a very long time.”

He started upstairs then. Leaving Eph alone with Fet. The big exterminator lifted the nail gun out of its charger. “Where did you find this old guy?”

Eph said, “He found me.”

“I’ve been in a lot of basements in my line of work. I look around this little workshop here, and I think—here is the one crazy who’s actually been vindicated.”

Eph said, “He’s not crazy.”

“He show you this?” Fet asked. He crossed to the glass specimen jar, the afflicted heart suspended in fluid. “Guy keeps the heart of a vampire he killed as a pet in his basement armory. He’s plenty crazy. But that’s okay. I’m a little crazy too.” He knelt down, putting his face close to the jar. “Here, kitty, kitty …” The sucker shot out at the glass, trying to get him. Fet straightened and turned to Eph with a look of Can-you-believe-this? “This is all a bit more than I bargained for when I woke up this morning.” He sighted the nail gun on the jar, then pulled off his aim, liking the feel of it. “Mind if I claim this?”

Eph shook his head. “Be my guest.”

Eph returned upstairs, slowing in the hallway, seeing Setrakian with Zack in the kitchen. Setrakian lifted a silver chain off his own neck—containing the key to the basement workshop—and with his crooked fingers he placed it over Zack’s head, hanging it around the eleven-year-old’s neck, then patted his shoulders.

“Why did you do that?” Eph asked Setrakian once they were alone.

“There are things downstairs—notebooks, writings—that should be preserved. That future generations may find helpful.”

“You’re not planning on coming back?”

“I am taking every conceivable precaution.” Setrakian looked around, making certain they were alone. “Please understand. The Master has power and speed well beyond that of these clumsy new vampires we are seeing. He is more than even we know. He has dwelled upon this earth for centuries. And yet …”

“And yet he is a vampire.”

“And vampires can indeed be destroyed. Our best hope is to flush him out. To hurt him and drive him into the killing sun. Why we must wait for the dawn.”

“I want to go now.”

“I know you do. That is exactly what he wants.”

“He has my wife. Kelly is where she is for one reason only—because of me.”

“You have a personal stake here, Doctor, and it is compelling. But you must know that, if he has her, she is already turned.”

Eph shook his head. “She is not.”

“I don’t say this to anger you—”

“She is not!”

Setrakian nodded after a moment. He waited for Eph to compose himself.

Eph said, “Alcoholics Anonymous has done a great deal for me. But the one thing I never got out of it was the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.”

Setrakian said, “I am the same. Perhaps it is this shared trait that has led us to this point together. Our goals are in perfect alignment.”

“Almost perfect,” said Eph. “Because only one of us can actually slay the bastard. And it’s going to be me.”

Nora had been waiting anxiously to speak with Eph, pouncing on him once he stepped away from Setrakian, pulling him into the old man’s tiled bathroom.

“Don’t,” she said.

“Don’t what?”

“Ask me what you’re going to ask me.” She implored him with her fierce brown eyes. “Don’t.”

Eph said, “But I need you to—”

“I am scared shitless—but I have earned a place at your side. You need me.”

“I do. I need you here. To watch Zack. Besides—one of us has to stay behind. To carry on. In case …” He left that unsaid. “I know it’s a lot to ask.”

“Too much.”

Eph could not stop looking in her eyes. He said, “I have to go after her.”

“I know.”

“I just want you to know …”

“There’s nothing to explain,” she said. “But—I’m glad you want to.”

He pulled her close then, into a tight embrace. Nora’s hand went up to the back of his head, caressing his hair. She pulled away to look at him, to say something more—and then kissed him instead. It was a good-bye kiss that insisted on his return.

They parted and he nodded to let her know he understood.

He saw Zack watching them from the hallway.

Eph didn’t try to explain anything to him now. Leaving the beauty and goodness of this boy and departing from the perceived safety of the surface world to go down and face a demon was the most unnatural thing Eph could do. “You’ll stay with Nora, okay? We’ll talk when I come back.”

Zack’s preteen squint was self-protective, the emotions of the moment too raw and confusing for him. “Come back from where?”

He pulled his son close, wrapping him up in his arms as though otherwise the boy he loved would fracture into a million pieces. Eph resolved there and then to prevail because he had too much to lose.

They heard yelling and automobile horns outside, and everyone went to the west-facing window. A mass of brake lights clotted the road some four or more blocks away, people taking to the streets and fighting. A building was in flames and there were no fire trucks anywhere in sight.

Setrakian said, “This is the beginning of the breakdown.”

Morningside Heights

GUS HAD BEEN ON the run since the night before. The handcuffs made it difficult for him to move freely on the streets: the old shirt he had found, and wound around his forearms, as if he was walking with his arms crossed, wouldn’t have fooled many. He ducked into a movie theater through the back exit and slept in the darkness. He thought of a chop shop he knew over on the West Side, and spent a considerable amount of time making his way over there, only to find it empty. Not locked up, just empty. He dug through the tools he could find there, trying to cut the links joining his wrists. He even ran an electric jigsaw, held with a vise, and nearly sliced his wrists open in the process. He couldn’t do anything one-handed, and eventually left in disgust.

He went by the haunts of a few of his cholos but couldn’t click up with anyone he trusted. The streets were weird—there wasn’t much going on. He knew what was happening. When the sun started going down, he knew that his time and his options would be running out.

It was risky going home, but he hadn’t seen many cops all day, and anyway he was worried about his madre. He slipped inside the building, trying to keep his shirt-balled hands casual, making for the stairs. Sixteen flights up. Once there, he walked down the hallway and saw no one. He listened at the door. The TV was playing, as usual.

He knew the bell didn’t work, so he knocked. He waited and knocked again. He kicked at the foot plate, rattling the door and the cheap walls.

“Crispin,” he hissed at his dirtbag brother. “Crispin, you shit. Open the fucking door.”

Gus heard the chain lock being undone and the bolt turning inside. He waited, but the door never opened. So Gus unwound the shirt covering his cuffed hands and turned the knob.

Crispin was standing back in the corner, to the left of the couch, which was his bed, when he came around. The shades were all drawn and the refrigerator door was open in the kitchen.

“Where’s Mama?” said Gus.

Crispin said nothing.

“Fucking pipehead,” said Gus. He closed the fridge. Some stuff had melted and there was water on the floor. “She asleep?”

Crispin said nothing. He stared at Gus.

Gus started to get it. He took a better look at Crispin, who barely rated a glance from him anymore, and saw his black eyes and drawn face.

Gus went to the window and whipped apart the shades. It was night. There was smoke in the air from a fire below.

Gus turned to face Crispin, across the apartment, and Crispin was already charging him, howling. Gus got his arms up and got the handcuff chain across his brother’s neck, under his jaw. High enough so that he couldn’t get his stinger out.

Gus grasped the back of his head with his hands and pushed Crispin down to the floor. His vampire brother’s black eyes bugged and his jaw bucked as his mouth tried to open, which Gus’s strangling grip would not allow. Gus was intent on suffocating him, but as time went by and Crispin kept kicking, and there was no blacking out—Gus remembered that vampires didn’t need to breathe and could not be killed that way.

So he pulled him up by his neck, Crispin’s hands clawing at Gus’s arms and hands. For the past few years, Crispin had been nothing but a drag on their mother and a big pain in the ass for Gus. Now he was a vampire and the brother part of him was gone but the asshole part remained. And so it was retribution that moved Gus to wheel him headfirst into the decorative mirror on the wall, an old oval of heavy glass that didn’t crack until it slid down to the floor. Gus kneed Crispin, throwing him down onto the floor, and then grabbed the largest shard of glass. Crispin wasn’t quite to his knees when Gus rammed the point through the back of his neck. It severed the spine and poked the skin out of the front of his neck without quite ripping it. Gus worked the glass piece sideways, slicing Crispin’s head nearly off—but forgetting its sharpness against his own hands, cutting his palms. The pain stabbed at him, but he did not let go of the broken glass until his brother’s head was removed from its body.

Gus staggered back, looking at the bloody slash across each of his palms. He wanted to make certain none of those worms wriggling out with Crispin’s white blood got into him. They were on the carpet and hard to see, so Gus stayed away. He looked at his brother, in pieces on the floor, and felt sickened by the vampire part of him, but as to the loss, Gus was numb. Crispin had been dead to him for years.

Gus washed his hands at the sink. The cuts were long but not deep. He used a gummy dish towel to stop the bleeding and went to his mother’s bedroom.

“Mama?”

His only hope was that she not be there. Her bed was made and empty. He turned to leave, then thought twice and got down on his hands and knees to look under the bed. Just her sweater boxes and the arm weights she’d bought ten years ago. He was on his way back to the kitchen when he heard a rustling in the closet. He stopped, listening again. He went to the door and opened it. All of his mother’s clothes were pulled down off the hanging rack, lumped in a big pile on the floor.

The pile was moving. Gus tugged back an old yellow dress with shoulder pads and his madre’s face leered out at him, black eyed and sallow skinned.

Gus closed the door again. Didn’t slam it and run off, he just closed it and stood there. He wanted to cry but tears wouldn’t come, only a sigh, a soft, deep whimper, and then he turned and looked around his mother’s bedroom for a weapon to cut her head off with …

… and then he realized what the world had come to. Instead, he turned back to the closed door, leaning his forehead against it.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” he whispered. “Lo siento. I should have been here. I should have been here …”

He walked, dazed, into his own room. He couldn’t even change his shirt, thanks to the handcuffs. He stuffed some clothes into a paper bag for when he could change, and crumpled it up under his arm.

Then he remembered the old man. The pawnshop on 118th Street. He would help him. And help him fight this thing.

He left his apartment, exiting into the hall. People stood down at the elevator end, and Gus lowered his head and started toward them. He didn’t want to be recognized, didn’t want to have to deal with any of his mother’s neighbors.

He was about halfway to the elevators when he realized they weren’t talking or moving. Gus looked up and saw that the three people there were standing and facing him. He stopped when he realized that their eyes, their dark eyes, were hollow too. Vampires, blocking his exit.

They started coming down the hall at him, and the next thing he knew, he was hammering away at them with his cuffed hands, throwing them against walls, smashing their faces into the floor. He kicked them when they were down, but they didn’t stay down for long. He gave none of them the chance to get their stingers out, crushing a few skulls with the heel of his heavy boots as he ran to the elevator, the doors closing as they reached it.

Gus stood alone in the elevator car, catching his breath, counting down the floors. His bag was gone—it had ripped open, leaving his clothes strewn about the hallway.

The numbers got to L and the doors dinged open on Gus standing in a crouch, ready for a fight.

The lobby was empty. But outside the door, a faint orange glow flickered, and there were screams and howls. He went out into the street, seeing the blaze on the next block, the flames jumping to neighboring buildings. He saw people in the streets with wooden planks and other makeshift weapons, running toward the blaze.

From the other direction, he saw another loose gang of six people, no weapons, walking, not running. A lone man came running past Gus the other way, saying, “Fuckers everywhere, man!” and then he was pounced upon by the group of six. To an untrained eye, it would have looked like a good old-fashioned street mugging, but Gus saw a mouth stinger by the orange light of the flames. Vampires turning people in the street.

While he was watching, an all-black SUV with bright halogen lamps rolled up fast out of the smoke. Cops. Gus turned and chased his headlamp shadow down the street—running right into the gang of six. They came at him, their pale faces and black eyes lit up by the headlights. Gus heard car doors open and boots hit the pavement, and he was caught between these two fates. He raced at the snarling vampires, swinging his bound fists and butting them in the chest with his head. He didn’t want to give them a chance to open their mouths on him. But then one of them hooked its arm inside Gus’s cuffs and twisted him around, dragging him to the ground. In a second, the herd was on top of him, fighting over who would be the one to drink from his neck.

There was a thwok sound, and a vampire squeal. Then a splat, and one of the vampires’ heads was gone.

The one on top of him was hit from the side and suddenly knocked away. Gus rolled over and got to his knees in the middle of this street fight.

These weren’t cops at all. They were men in black hoodies, their faces obscured, black combat pants and black jump boots. They were firing pistol crossbows and larger crossbows with wooden rifle stocks. Gus saw one guy sight a vampire and put a bolt in his neck. Before the vampire even had time to raise his hands to his throat, the bolt exploded with enough force to disintegrate his neck, removing the head.

Dead vampire.

The bolts were silver tipped and top loaded with an impact charge.

Vampire hunters. Gus stared in amazement at these guys. Other vampires were coming out of the doorways, and these shooters were throat accurate at twenty-five, even thirty yards.

One of them came up fast on Gus, as though mistaking him for a vamp, and before Gus could even speak, the hunter put a boot on his arms, pinning them against the road. He reloaded his crossbow and aimed it at the links joining Gus’s cuffs. A silver bolt split the steel, embedding itself in the asphalt. Gus winced, but there was no explosive charge. His hands were apart, though still in cop bracelets, and the hunter hauled him up onto his feet with startling strength.

“Shit yeah!” said Gus, overjoyed by the sight of these guys. “Where do I sign up!”

But his savior had slowed, something catching his eye. Gus looked more closely into the shadowy recesses of his sweatshirt hood, and the face there was eggshell white. Its eyes were black and red, and its mouth was dry and nearly lipless.

The hunter was staring at the bloody lines across Gus’s palms.

Gus knew that look. He had just seen it in his brother’s and his mother’s eyes.

He tried to pull back, but the grip on his arm was lock solid. The thing opened its mouth and the tip of its stinger appeared.

Then another hunter came up, holding its crossbow to this hunter’s neck. The new hunter pulled back Gus’s hunter’s hood, and Gus saw the bald, earless head, the aged eyes of a mature vampire. The vampire snarled at his brethren’s weapon, then surrendered Gus to the new hunter, whose pale vampire face Gus glimpsed as he was lifted aloft, carried to the black SUV, and thrown into the third-row seat.

The rest of the hooded vampires climbed back inside the vehicle and it took off, wheeling a hard U-turn in the middle of the avenue. Gus was the only human inside the SUV.

A smack to the temple knocked him out cold. The SUV raced back toward the burning building, bursting through the street smoke like an airplane punching through a cloud, then screaming past the rioting, rounding the next corner and heading farther uptown.

The Bathtub

THE SO-CALLED BATHTUB of the fallen World Trade Center, the seven-stories-deep foundation, was lit up as bright as day for overnight work even in the minutes before dawn. Yet the construction site was still, the great machines quiet. The work that had continued around the clock almost since the towers’ collapse had, for the time being, all but ceased.

“Why this?” asked Eph. “Why here?”

“It drew him,” said Setrakian. “A mole hollows out a home in the dead trunk of a felled tree. Gangrene forms in a wound. He is rooted in tragedy and pain.”

Eph, Setrakian, and Fet sat in the back of Fet’s van, parked at Church and Cortlandt. Setrakian sat by the rear-door windows with a nightscope. Very little traffic rolled past, only the occasional predawn taxi or delivery truck. No pedestrians or any other signs of life. They were looking for vampires and not finding any.

Setrakian, his eye still to the scope, said, “It’s too bright here. They don’t want to be seen.”

Eph said, “We can’t keep looping around the site again and again.”

“If there are as many as we suspect,” said Setrakian, “then they must be nearby. To return to the lair before sunrise.” He looked at Fet. “Think like vermin.”

Fet said, “I will tell you this. I’ve never seen a rat go in anywhere through the front door.” He thought about it some more, then pushed past Eph toward the front seats. “I have an idea.”

He rolled north on Church to City Hall, one block northeast of the WTC site. A large park surrounded it, and Fet pulled into a bus space on Park Row, killing the engine.

“This park is one of the biggest rat nests in the city. We tried pulling out the ivy, ’cause it was such good ground cover. Changed the garbage containers, but it was no use. They play here like squirrels, especially at noon when the lunch crowd comes. Food makes them happy, but they can get food just about anywhere. It’s infrastructure that rats really crave.” He pointed to the ground. “Underneath, in there, is an abandoned subway station. The old City Hall stop.”

Setrakian said, “It still connects?”

“Everything connects underground, one way or another.”

They watched, and did not wait for long.

“There,” said Setrakian.

Eph saw a bedraggled-looking woman by a streetlight, some thirty yards away. “A homeless woman,” he said.

“No,” said Setrakian, handing his heat scope to Eph.

Eph saw, through the scope, the woman as a fierce blur of red against a cool, dim background.

“Their metabolism,” said Setrakian. “There is another.”

A heavy woman waddling, still getting her sea legs, staying in the shadows along the low iron fence ringing the park.

Then another: a man wearing a newspaper hawker’s change apron, carrying a body on his shoulder. Dropping it over the fence, then clumsily scaling it himself. He fell going over, ripping one leg of his pants, standing back up without any reaction and picking up his victim and continuing into the tree cover.

“Yes,” said Setrakian. “This is it.”

Eph shivered. The presence of these walking pathogens, these humanoid diseases, repulsed him. He felt sick watching them stagger into the park, lower animals obeying some unconscious impulse, withdrawing from the light. He sensed their hurry, like commuters trying to catch that last train home.

They quietly stepped out of the van. Fet wore a protective Tyvek jumpsuit and rubber wading boots. He offered spare sets to the others, Eph and Setrakian choosing only the boots. Setrakian sprayed, without asking, each of them from a bottle of scent-eliminating spray with a picture of a deer in red crosshairs on the label. The spray of course could do nothing about the carbon dioxide emitted by their breath, nor the sound of their pumping hearts and coursing blood.

Fet carried the most. The nail gun was in a bag hung across his chest, complete with three extra loaders of silver brads. He carried various tools on his belt, including his night-vision monocular and his black-light wand, along with one of Setrakian’s silver daggers in a leather sheath. He held a high-powered Luma light in his hand, and bore the UVC mine in a mesh bag over his shoulder.

Setrakian carried his walking stick and a Luma light, the heat scope in his coat pocket. He double-checked the pillbox in his vest, then left his hat behind in the van.

Eph also carried a Luma, as well as, in a sheath strapped across his chest, a silver sword, the twenty-five-inch blade and grip against his back.

Fet said, “I’m not sure this makes sense. Going down to fight a beast on its own turf.”

Setrakian said, “We have no alternative. This is the only time we know where he is.” He looked up at the sky, bluing with the first faint glimmer of day. “The night is ending. Let us go.”

They made their way to the low fence gate, which was kept locked overnight. Eph and Fet scaled it, then reached back to help Setrakian.

The sound of more footsteps on the sidewalk—moving quickly, one heel dragging—made them hustle deep into the park.

The interior was unlit at night, and thick with trees. They heard the park fountain running and automobiles passing outside.

“Where are they?” whispered Eph.

Setrakian brought out his heat scope. He scanned the area, then handed the scope off to Eph. Eph saw bright red shapes moving stealthily through the otherwise cool landscape.

The answer to his question was: they were everywhere. And quickly converging on a point to their north.

Their destination became clear. A kiosk on the Broadway side of the park, a dark structure Eph couldn’t make much more of from that distance. He watched and waited until the numbers of returning vampires declined, and Setrakian’s scope picked up no other significant heat sources.

They ran to the structure. In the burgeoning light, they saw that it was an information kiosk, kept shuttered overnight. They pulled open the door, and found it empty.

They huddled inside the cramped space, the wooden counter taken up by wire racks full of tourist fliers and tour-bus schedules. Fet turned his little Maglite on twin metal doors in the floor. There were thick eyeholes at either end, the padlocks gone. The lettering across the twin doors read, MTA.

Fet pulled open both doors, Eph with his lamp at the ready. Stairs led down into darkness. Setrakian aimed his flashlight at a faded sign on the wall as Fet started down.

“Emergency exit,” Fet reported. “They sealed off the old City Hall station after World War Two. The track turn was too sharp for newer trains, the platform too narrow—though I think the number six local still turns around here.” He looked from side to side. “Must have demolished the old emergency exit, and put this kiosk up on top of it.”

“Fine,” Setrakian said. “Let us go.”

Eph followed, bringing up the rear. He did not bother to close the doors behind him, wanting a straight shot to the surface if they needed it. Grime coated the sides of each step, the middles cleaned by regular foot traffic. Darker than night down there.

Fet said, “Next stop, 1945.”

The flight of stairs ended at an open door leading to a second flight of wider stairs, leading down to what had to be the old mezzanine. A tiled dome with four arched sides, rising to an ornate skylight of modern glass, was just starting to blue. Some ladders and old scaffolding had been laid against the wooden ticket room along one rounded wall. The arched doorways were without turnstiles, the station predating tokens.

The far arch led to another flight of stairs no more than five persons wide, emptying into the narrow platform. They listened at the arched doorway, hearing only the distant screech of subway car brakes, then emerged fully onto the abandoned platform.

It was like a whispering gallery inside a cathedral. Original brass chandeliers containing bare, dark bulbs hung from the arched ceilings, the interlocking tile along the arches looking like giant zippers. Two vault skylights allowed light through amethyst glass, the rest having been leaded over due to air raid concerns after World War II. Farther away, light appeared through some surface grates, still very faint, but enough to give depth to their perception along the gracefully curved track. There was not one right angle in the entire place. The tile work was damaged throughout, including the glazed terra-cotta of the nearest wall sign, done in gold with green borders, around white plates containing blue letters spelling CITY HALL.

A film of steel dust along the curling platform showed the vampires’ footprints, leading into the dark.

They followed the footprints to the end of the platform, jumping down onto the still-live tracks. Everything operated on a leftward curve along the train loop. They switched off their flashlights, Eph’s Luma showing urine splashes everywhere, iridescent and multicolored, ending farther on. Setrakian was reaching for his thermal scope when they heard noises behind them. Latecomers moving off the mezzanine stairs into the platform. Eph switched off his wand and they crossed the three rails to the far wall, standing flat against the recessed stone.

The latecomers came off the platform, feet scratching the dusty stones along the rail beds. Setrakian spied them through his heat scope, two bright orange-red forms, nothing unusual about their shape or posture. The first one disappeared, and it took Setrakian a long moment to realize that it had slipped into a seam in the wall, an opening they had somehow missed. The second form stopped at that same spot, but turned there instead of disappearing, looking their way. Setrakian did not move, knowing the creature’s night vision was advanced but not yet matured. His thermal reading registered the vampire’s throat as its warmest region. A spill of orange down its leg cooled immediately to yellow as it pooled on the ground, the creature emptying its bladder. Its head lifted like an animal scenting prey, looking up the tracks away from their hiding space … then ducked its head and disappeared into the crack in the wall.

Setrakian moved back into the railway, the others following him. The foul smell of fresh, hot vampire piss filled the arched space, the burnt-ammonia scent holding dark associations for Setrakian. The others stepped around the stain on their way to the seam in the wall.

Eph slid his sword out of the sheath across his back, taking the lead. The passageway widened into a hot, rough-walled catacomb smelling of steam. He switched on his Luma light just in time to see the first vampire rising out of a crouch and driving at him. Eph could not get his silver blade up in time, and the vampire threw him back against the wall. His light lay on its side near the streamlet of sewage lying along the guttered floor, and he saw by its hot indigo light that she was, or had been at one time, a woman. She wore a businesslike blazer over a dirtied white blouse, her black mascara rubbed into menacing raccoon eyes. Her jaw dropped and her tongue curled back—and that was when Fet darted out of the passage.

He went at her with his dagger, stabbing her once, low in the side. She rolled off Eph and came back up in a crouch. With a yell, Fet jabbed at her again, this time right above where her heart would have been, into her chest, below her shoulder. The vampire staggered backward, only to rush forward again. With a howl he buried his blade in her lower belly, and she buckled and snarled—but again reacted with more confusion than pain. She was going to keep coming at him.

Eph had recovered enough by this time, and when the vampire went at Fet again, Eph stood and swung his sword at her with two hands, from behind. The impulse to murder was still foreign, and because of this he took a little something off his swing at the end, so that the blade did not find its way through. But it was enough. He had severed the spinal column, the vampire’s head flopping forward. Her arms flailed and her body went into seizure as she pitched forward into the sewage in the center of the floor, like something sizzling in an overheated pan.

There was little time to be shocked. The splash-splash-splash sounds echoing in the catacomb were the footfalls of the second vampire running ahead—racing to alert the others.

Eph grabbed his Luma light off the floor and took off after him with his sword at his side. He imagined that he was chasing the one who had lured Kelly here, and that anger carried him along the steamy passageway, his boots splashing hard. The tunnel hooked right, where a wide pipe ran out of the stone and down the length of the narrowing hole. The steam heat fostered algae and fungal growth that glowed in his lamplight. He made out the dim form of the vampire ahead of him, running with its hands open, fingers clawing at the air.

Then another quick turn, and the vampire was gone. Eph slowed and looked all around, shining his lamp, panicking—until he spotted the thing’s legs wriggling through a flat hole dug under the side wall. The being undulated with wormlike efficiency, slithering out of the passage, and Eph slashed at its filthy feet but they whisked through too fast, his sword stabbing dirt.

Eph got down on his knees, but could not see through to the other side of the shallow hole. He heard footsteps and knew Fet and Setrakian were still well behind him. He decided he could not wait. Eph got down on his back and started through.

He fed himself into the hole with his arms over his head, lamp and sword first. Don’t get stuck here, he thought. If he did, there would be no way to wriggle back out. He wormed through, his arms and head emerging into the air of an open space, and kicked free of the burrow, getting to his knees.

Panting now, he waved the lamp around like a torch. He was inside another tunnel, but this one was finished off with track rails and stones, and had an eerie, unused stillness about it. To his left, not one hundred yards away, was light.

A platform. He hurried along the track and clambered up. This platform offered none of the splendor of the City Hall station; instead it was all bare steel beams and visible ceiling piping. Eph thought he had visited every station in the downtown area, but he had never stopped at this one.

A length of subway cars rested against the end of the platform, the door sign reading OUT OF SERVICE. The shell of an old control tower stood in the middle, plastered with old-school wild-style graffiti. He tried the door but it was sealed.

He heard scuffling back inside the tunnel. It was Fet and Setrakian coming through the burrow, catching up with him. Probably not smart, his running ahead alone. Eph resolved to wait for them there, in this oasis of light, until he heard a stone being kicked in the near track bed. He turned just in time to see the vampire breaking from the last subway car, running along the far wall, away from the lights of the abandoned station.

Eph raced after him, over the elevated platform to the end, then leaped down onto the tracks, following them back into darkness. The track bed veered right, the rails ending. The tunnel walls shuddered in his vision as he ran. He could hear the vampire’s scuttling footsteps echoing, its bare feet upon the cutting rocks. The creature was stumbling, slowing. Eph drew closer, the heat of his lamp panicking the vampire. It turned back once, its indigo-lit face a mask of horror.

Eph swept his sword arm forward, decapitating the monster in midstep.

The headless body pitched forward, Eph stopping to shine the Luma light on its oozing neck, killing the escaping blood worms. He straightened again and his harsh breathing subsided … and then he held his breath altogether.

He heard things. Or, rather, sensed them. Things all around him. No footsteps or movement, just … stirrings.

He fumbled for his small flashlight and clicked it on. The bodies of New Yorkers were laid out all along the grungy floor of the tunnel. Their clothed bodies lined each side, like victims of a gas attack. Some eyes were still open, gazing with the narcotized stare of the ill.

These were the turned. The recently bitten, the newly infected. Attacked that very night. The stirring Eph had heard was the metamorphosis inside their bodies: no limbs moving, but rather the tumors colonizing their organs, and the mandibles growing into oral stingers.

The bodies numbered in the dozens, and there were many more ahead, vague forms beyond the reach of his beam. Men, women, children—victims from all walks of life. He rushed around, moving his beam from face to face, searching for Kelly—and praying he would not find her here.

He was still searching when Fet and Setrakian caught up. With something like relief, and at the same time despair, Eph told them, “She’s not here.”

Setrakian stood with his hand held against his chest, unable to catch his breath. “How much farther?”

Fet said, “That was another City Hall station, on the BMT line. A lower level that was never put into service, only used for layup and storage. That means we’re underneath the Broadway line. This turn in the track takes us around the foundation of the Woolworth Building. Cortlandt Street is next. Meaning the World Trade Center is …” He looked up, as though able to see ten, fifteen stories through city rock to the surface. “We’re close.”

“Let’s finish this,” said Eph. “Now.”

“Wait,” said Setrakian, still trying to steady his heart rate. His flashlight beam played over the faces of the turned. He got down on one knee to check some of them with a silver-backed mirror from his coat pocket. “We have a responsibility here first.”

Fet and Eph exterminated the nascent vampires by the light of Setrakian’s flashlight. Each beheading was like a hack at Eph’s sanity.

Eph too had been turned. Not from human to vampire, but from healer to slayer.

The groundwater deepened farther into the catacombs, with strange, sun-starved roots and vines and albino growths crawling down from the unfinished ceiling to feed off the water. The occasional yellow tunnel light showed a total lack of graffiti. White dust lay across the untouched sides of the floor, some of it very fine, coating the surface of pockets of stagnant water. It was residue from the World Trade Center. The three of them avoided stepping in it where they could, with the respect afforded a graveyard.

The ceiling got lower, gradually dipping below head level, approaching a dead end. Setrakian’s search beam found an opening in the upper part of the shrinking wall, wide enough to admit them. A rumbling that had been vague and distant began to gather in force. Their flashlight beams showed the water at their boots beginning to tremble. It was the unmistakable roar of a subway train, and each of them actually turned around to look, though the tunnel they were standing in contained no rail beds.

It was in front of them, coming right at them—but on live tracks lifting over their heads, entering the active City Hall BMT platform above. The squealing, roaring, and shuddering became unbearable—reaching earthquakelike force and decibels—and at once they realized that this powerful disruption was their best opportunity.

They pressed through the crack, hurrying into another man-made, trackless passage, this one strung with unlit bulbs, construction lights dancing under the force of the passing subway train. Piles of dirt and debris had long ago been pushed back beyond steel beams rising some thirty feet to the ceiling. Around a long corner up ahead, jaundiced light shone faintly. They switched off their Luma lights and rushed along the dark tunnel, feeling it widen as they rounded the corner into a long, open chamber.

As the floor stopped trembling and the train noise faded like a passing storm, they slowed to keep their boot steps quiet. Eph sensed the others before he saw them, their outlines, sitting on or lying about the floor. The creatures were roused by their presence, sitting up, but not attacking. So he and Setrakian and Fet kept moving, wading forward into the Master’s lair.

The demons had fed that night, and were bloated with blood, like ticks, lying about and digesting. Their languor was deathlike, they were creatures resigned to waiting for sundown and the opportunity to feed again.

They started to rise. They wore construction clothes and business suits and workout clothes and pajamas and evening wear and dirty aprons and nothing at all.

Eph gripped his sword, searching faces as he passed them. Dead faces with bloodred eyes.

“Stay together,” whispered Setrakian, lifting the UVC mine thing carefully out of the mesh bag on Fet’s back as they walked. With crooked fingers, he peeled back a strip of safety tape, then rotated the top of the globe to ready the battery. “I do hope this works.”

“Hope?” said Fet.

One came at him then—an old man, maybe not as sated as the others—and Fet showed him his silver dagger and the vampire hissed. Fet put a boot on the man’s thigh and kicked him back, showing the others his silver.

“We’re digging ourselves into a deep hole here.”

Faces came out of the walls, flushed and leering. Older vampires, first or second generation, marked by their whitening hair. There were animal-like groans and glottal clicks from some, like attempts at speech blocked by the vile appendages grown beneath their tongues. Their swollen throats twitched perversely.

Setrakian said, walking between Fet and Eph, “When this spike makes contact with the ground, the battery should connect.”

“Should!” said Fet.

“You must take cover before it ignites. Behind these supports.” Rusted, rivet-studded beams stood at regular intervals. “You won’t have more than a few seconds. When you do, shut your eyes. Do not look. The burst will blind you.”

“Just do it!” said Fet, crowded by the vampires.

“Not yet …” The old man opened his walking stick just enough to bare the silver blade, and with the quick motion of flint striking stone he ran the tips of two crooked fingers against the sharp edge. Blood dripped to the stone floor. The scent went through the vampires with a visible ripple. They were coming from all over, crowding in from unseen corners, ever curious and ever hungry.

Fet swiped the dusty air with his dagger in order to maintain the few meters of open space around them as they moved. “What are you waiting for?” he said.

Eph searched faces, scanning the dead-eyed women for Kelly. One made a move toward him and he laid the tip of his sword against her breastbone and she shrank back as though burned.

More noise now, the front crowd being pressed closer from behind, hunger overriding hesitance, want trumping wait. Setrakian’s blood dribbled to the floor, its scent—and the casual waste—driving them into a frenzy.

“Do it!” said Fet.

Setrakian said, “A few more seconds …”

The vampires pushed in, Eph prodding them back with the tip of his sword. He only then thought to turn his Luma light back on, but they leaned into its repulsing rays like zombies staring at the sun. The ones in front were at the mercy of those in the rear. The bubble was collapsing … Eph felt one hand grab at his sleeve …

“Now!” said Setrakian.

He tossed the spiked globe into the air, like a referee serving up a jump ball. The heavy thing righted itself at its apex, weighted spikes pointing straight down as it drove toward the floor.

The four-edged steel spike sank into the stone, and a whir started, like that of an old flashbulb rack recharging.

“Go, go!” said Setrakian.

Eph waved his light and swung his sword like a machete, making for one of the stanchions. He felt them grabbing at him, pulling, and felt the squishy thump of his sword cutting, and heard their groans and garbled howls. And still—he checked faces, looking for Kelly, and striking down all those who were not her.

The mine’s whir became a growing whine, and Eph stabbed and kicked and swiped his way to the steel support beam, stepping into its shadow just as the underground chamber began to fill with a blazing blue light. He clamped his eyes shut and buried them in the crook of his elbow.

He heard the bestial agony of the shattered vampires. The melting, blistering, peeling sound of their bodies being desiccated at the chemical level, the collapsing of their innards like the charcoaling of their very souls. Their dumb cries strangled in scalded throats.

Mass immolation.

The high-pitched whine lasted no longer than ten seconds, the brilliant plane of cleansing blue light riding from floor to ceiling before the battery burned out. The chamber went mostly dark again—and when the only sound left was a residual sizzling, Eph lowered his arm, opening his eyes.

The nauseating stench of roasted disease rose in smoky steam from the charred creatures laid out over the floor. It was impossible to move without disturbing these rotted demons, their bodies crumbling like artificial logs hollowed out by fire. Only those vampires lucky enough to have been partially behind a beam remained animate, Eph and Fet moving quickly to release these crippled, half-destroyed creatures.

Fet then walked over to the mine, which had caught fire. He surveyed the damage.

“Well,” he said, “that fucking worked.”

“Look,” said Setrakian.

At the far end of the steaming chamber, set on top of a yard-high mound of dirt and refuse, was a long, black box.

As Eph and the others approached it—with the dread of bomb-squad agents approaching a suspicious device without wearing blast suits—the situation felt terribly familiar, and it was only a moment before he placed it: he had felt exactly the same walking toward the darkened airplane on the taxiway, at the start of this whole thing.

This sense of approaching something dead and not dead. Some delivery from another world.

He got close enough to confirm that it was indeed the long, black cabinet from the cargo hold of Flight 753. Its top doors exquisitely carved with human figures swirling as though burning in flames, and elongated faces screaming in agony.

The Master’s oversize coffin, set here on an altar of rubble and rubbish beneath the ruins of the World Trade Center.

“This is it,” Eph said.

Setrakian reached out to the side of the box, almost touching the carvings, then pulling back his twisted fingers. “A long time I have searched for this,” he said.

Eph shuddered, not wanting to meet this thing again, with its devouring size and ruthless strength. He remained on the near side, expecting the top doors to burst open at any moment. Fet went around to the facing side. There were no handles on the top doors. One had to slip one’s fingers in beneath the lip of the middle seam and pull up. It would be awkward, and difficult to do quickly.

Setrakian stood at the presumed head of the cabinet, his long sword ready in his hand. But his expression was grim. Eph saw the reason for this in the old man’s eyes, and it deflated him.

Too easy.

Eph and Fet wriggled their fingers in beneath the double doors, and on a nod of three, pulled them back. Setrakian leaned forward with his lamp and his sword … and discovered a box full of soil. He probed it with his blade, the silver tip scraping the bottom of the great box. Nothing.

Fet stepped back, wild-eyed, full of adrenaline he could not stifle. “He’s gone?”

Setrakian withdrew his blade, tapping off the soil on the edge of the box.

Eph’s disappointment was overwhelming. “He escaped.” Eph stepped back from the coffin, turning to the wasteland of slain vampires inside the stultifying chamber. “He knew we were here. He fled into the subway system fifteen minutes ago. He can’t surface because of the sun … so he’ll stay underground until night.”

Fet said, “Inside the longest transit system in the entire world. Eight hundred miles of tracks.”

Eph’s voice was raw with despair. “We never even had a chance.”

Setrakian looked exhausted but undaunted. If anything, his old eyes showed a bit of fresh light. “Is this not how you exterminate vermin, Mr. Fet? By rousting them from their nest? Flushing them out?”

Fet said, “Only if you know where they’re going to end up.”

Setrakian said, “Don’t all burrowing creatures, from rats to rabbits, construct a kind of back door …?”

“A bolt-hole,” said Fet. He was getting it now. “An emergency exit. Predator comes in one way, you run out the other.”

Setrakian said, “I believe we have the Master on the run.”

Vestry Street, Tribeca

THEY HADN’T TIME to properly destroy the coffin, and so settled for shoving it off its altar of rubble, overturning it and spilling the soil to the floor. They had resolved to return later to finish the job.

Getting back through the tunnels and out to Fet’s van took some time, and more of Setrakian’s energy.

Fet parked around the corner from the Bolivar town house. They ran the sunny half block to his front door with no effort to conceal their Luma lamps or silver swords. They saw no one outside the residence at that early hour, and Eph started up the crossbars of the scaffolding in front. Over the boarded door was a transom window decorated with the address number. Eph smashed it in with his sword, kicking free the larger shards and then clearing out the frame with his blade. He took a lamp and went inside, lowering himself into the foyer.

His purple light illuminated twin marble panthers on either side of the door. A winged angel statue at the bottom of the curling stairs looked down at him balefully.

He heard it, and felt it: the hum of the Master’s presence. Kelly, he thought, misery aching in his chest. She had to be here.

Setrakian came down next, held from the outside by Fet, helped to the floor by Eph. Setrakian landed and drew his sword. He too felt the Master’s presence, and with it, relief. They were not too late.

“He is here,” said Eph.

Setrakian said, “Then he already knows we are.”

Fet lowered two larger UVC lamps to Eph, then clambered over the transom himself, his boots striking the floor.

“Quickly,” said Setrakian, leading them under the winding stairs, the bottom floor in the midst of renovation. They moved through a long kitchen of still-boxed appliances, looking for a closet. They found it, empty inside, and unfinished.

They pushed open the false door in the back wall, as it had been pictured in Nora’s People magazine printouts.

Stairs led down. A sheet of plastic behind them flapped, and they turned around fast, but it was only riding the draft rising up the stairs. The wind carried the scent of the subway, and of dirt and spoilage.

This was the way to the tunnels. Eph and Fet began arranging two large UVC lamps so they could fill the closet passageway with hot, killing light, and thereby seal off the underground. And block any other vampires from rising up, and, more imperative, ensure that the only way out of the town house was into direct sunlight.

Eph looked back to see Setrakian leaning against one wall, his fingertips pressing against the vest, over his heart. Eph didn’t like the looks of that, and had started toward him when Fet’s voice turned him back around. “Damnit!” One of the hot lamps tumbled over, clunking to the floor. Eph checked to make sure that the bulbs still worked, then righted the lamp, wary of the radiative light.

Fet quieted him. He heard noises below. Footsteps. The odor in the air changed—became ranker, more rotten. Vampires were assembling.

Eph and Fet backed away from the blue-lit closet, their safety valve. When Eph turned back to the old man, he was gone.

Setrakian had moved back into the foyer. His heart felt tight in his chest, overtaxed by stress and anticipation. So long he had waited. So long …

His gnarled hands began to ache. He flexed them, gripping the sword handle beneath the silver wolf’s head. Then he felt something, the faintest breeze in advance of movement …

Moving his drawn sword at the last possible moment saved him from a direct and fatal blow. The impact knocked him back, sending his crumpled body sliding headfirst over the marble floor to slam into the base of the wall. But he kept his grip on his sword. He got back to his feet quickly, swinging his blade back and forth, seeing nothing in the dim foyer.

So fast the Master moved.

He was right here. Somewhere.

Now you are an old man.

The voice crackled inside Setrakian’s head like an electric shock. Setrakian swung his silver sword out wide in front of him. A black form blurred past the statue of the weeping angel at the foot of the curling marble stairs.

The Master would try to distract him. This was his way. Never to challenge directly, face-to-face, but to deceive. To surprise from behind.

Setrakian backed up against the wall beside the front door. Behind him, a narrow, door-framing window of Tiffany glass had been blacked over. Setrakian struck at the lead panes, smashing out the precious glass with his sword.

Daylight knifed into the foyer.

At that moment of breaking glass, Eph and Fet returned to find Setrakian standing with his sword raised, his body bathed in sunlight.

The old man saw the dark blur rising up the stairs. “There he is!” he yelled, starting after him. “Now!”

Eph and Fet charged up the steps after the old man. Two other vampires met them at the top of the stairs. Bolivar’s former security detail, his Big-and-Tall-Store bodyguards now hungry-faced hulks in dirty suits. One swatted at Eph, who stumbled backward and almost lost his balance, grabbing the wall to keep himself from tumbling down the marble stairs. He stuck out his Luma light and the big dummy recoiled and Eph chopped at his thigh with the sword. The vampire let out a gasp and swung at him again. Eph gutted him, running his sword most of the way through his belly before pulling it back, the vampire sinking to the landing like a stuck balloon.

Fet held his at bay with his lamp light, sticking and cutting at the bodyguard’s grabbing hands with his short-bladed dagger. He brought the light up, right into its face, and the vampire flailed and looked around wildly, temporarily blinded. Fet ducked him and got behind his back, stabbing the bodyguard in the back of its thick neck before shoving him hard down the stairs.

Eph’s vampire tried to rise, but Fet dropped him again with a kick to the ribs. The bodyguard’s head lay off the top step, and with a cry of anguish, Eph brought his sword down.

The head bumped down the stairs, gaining speed and rotation at the bottom, hopping the other vampire’s body and rolling all the way to the wall.

White blood oozed out of its opened neck, onto the carmine runner. The blood worms emerged, Fet frying them with his lamp.

The bodyguard at the bottom of the steps was no more than a skin sack of broken bones, but he was still animate. The fall had not severed his neck, and so had not released him. His eyes were open and he stared dumbly up the long staircase, trying to move.

Eph and Fet found Setrakian near the closed elevator grate with his sword out, taking a swipe at a dark, fast-moving blur. “Watch out—!” called Setrakian, but before the words were out of his mouth, the Master struck Fet from behind. He went down hard, nearly smashing his lamp. Eph barely had time to react before the form flew past him—slowing down just long enough for Eph to see the Master’s face again, his wormy flesh and sneering mouth—and he was thrown back against the wall.

Setrakian lunged forward, sweeping his sword two-handedly, driving the fast-moving form into a wide, high-ceilinged, floor-through room. Eph got himself up and followed, as did Fet, a lick of blood dribbling down his temple.

The Master stopped, appearing to them before the massive stone fireplace at the midpoint of the room. The town house had windows only at either long end—leaving no sunlight in the middle to assist them. The Master’s cloak rippled and settled and his horrible eyes looked down on them all, but mainly Fet, no small man himself. The blood trickling down his face. With something like a howling grin, the long-armed Master grabbed up lumber and bales of electrical wire and any other debris within reach and hurled them at the three assassins.

Setrakian flattened against the wall, Eph taking cover around the corner, Fet using a chunk of wallboard as a shield.

When the assault ended and they looked up, the Master was gone again.

“Christ!” hissed Fet. He swiped the blood off his face with his hand, then tossed aside the wallboard. He threw his silver dagger into the cold fireplace with a clank and a thud—useless against this giant—and took Eph’s lamp from him, giving Fet two, freeing Eph up to wield his longer blade with both hands.

“Stay after him,” said Setrakian, pushing ahead. “Like smoke rising up a chimney, we must force him to the roof.”

As they rounded the corner, four more hissing vampires came at them. They looked like former fans of Bolivar’s with their razored hair and piercings.

Fet went after them with the twin lamps, pushing them back. One got through, and Eph played backup, showing her his silver sword. This one looked like a chubby Vampira in a denim skirt and torn fishnet stockings. She had that curious rapacity of the newly turned vampire that Eph had come to recognize. Eph aimed his sword at her from a crouch, the vampire feinting right, then left, hissing at him through white lips.

Eph heard Setrakian yell, “Strigoi!” in that commanding voice of his. The chopping sound of the old man cutting down vampires emboldened Eph. The chubby Vampira feinted too aggressively and Eph jabbed her, his sword tip slicing into the front shoulder of her torn black cotton top, burning the beast within. Her mouth opened and her tongue curled up, and Eph darted back barely in time, her stinger just missing his neck. She continued at him, mouth agape, and with a howl of anger, Eph ran his sword at her face. Straight at her stinger, the blade slicing right through the back of her head, the tip burying a few inches in the unfinished wall.

The vampire’s eyes bugged. Her stinger was cut and leaking white blood, filling her mouth and spilling down her chin, which she could not move. She was pinned to the wall. She bucked and attempted to cough her wormy blood onto Eph. A virus will propagate itself any way it can.

Setrakian had slain the other three vampires, leaving the newly polished maple flooring at the end of the hall slathered in white. He returned to Eph, yelling, “Back!”

Eph released his sword, the grip quivering out of the wall. Setrakian swung at the vampire’s neck, and gravity pulled the headless body to the floor.

The head remained speared to the wall, white blood spilling from its severed neck, the vampire’s black eyes flaring wide at both men … then rolling upward and relaxing, holding still. Eph grasped the handle of his sword and plucked it from the wall behind her mouth, and her head dropped on top of her body.

There was no time to irradiate the white blood. “Up, up!” said Setrakian, walking along the wall to a different set of stairs, these circular with an ornate iron railing. The old man’s spirit was strong, but his strength was flagging. Eph passed him at the top. He looked right and left. In the dim light, he saw finished hardwood floors and unfinished walls. But no vampires.

“We split up,” said the old man.

“Are you kidding?” said Fet, grabbing hold of him and helping him to the top. “Never split up. That’s the first rule.”

One of his lamps fizzled. The bulb popped as the unit overheated, and suddenly burst into flames. Fet dropped it, crushing the flames underneath his boot. Now he was down to one lamp.

“How much more battery time?” Eph asked.

“Not enough,” said the old man. “He will wear us down like this, having us chase him until nightfall.”

“Gotta trap him,” said Fet. “Like a rat in a bathroom.”

The old man stopped then, turning his head to a sound.

Your heart is weak, you old wretch. I can hear it.

Setrakian stood still, his sword at the ready. He looked all around, but there was no sign of the Dark One.

He tapped the point of his sword on the floor. Pick-pick-pick. “Show yourself.”

You have fashioned a handy tool.

“You don’t recognize it?” said Setrakian aloud, with heavy breaths. “It was Sardu’s. The boy whose form you took.”

Eph pulled closer to the old man, realizing that he was in a conversation with the Master. “Where is she?” he yelled. “Where is my wife?”

The Master ignored Eph.

Your whole life has led to this point. You will fail a second time.

Setrakian said, “You will taste my silver, strigoi.”

I will taste you, old man. And your clumsy apostles—

The Master attacked from behind, throwing Setrakian to the floor again. Eph reacted, swiping his sword at the breeze he felt, a couple of guessing swishes. When he pulled back the blade, he found the tip sticky with white.

He had hurt the Master. He had cut him.

But in the moment it took to process this fact, the Master returned and swatted Eph in the chest with his taloned hand. Eph felt his feet leave the floor, his back and shoulders ramming into the wall, his muscles exploding with pain as his body fell to the side.

Fet swept forward with his lamp, and Setrakian swung silver from one knee, pushing back the beast. Eph rolled over as fast as he could, bracing for more blows … but none came.

They were all alone again. They could feel it. No sound except the tinkling of construction lights strung along the ceiling, swaying near the foot of the stairs.

Eph said, “I cut him.”

Setrakian used his sword to get to his feet, as one arm was hurt and hanging limp. He moved to the next flight of stairs going up.

There was white vampire blood on the unfinished planking of the stairs.

Sore but determined, they climbed the steps to the top. This was Bolivar’s penthouse, the top floor of the taller of the two conjoined town houses. They entered the bedroom half, looking for vampire blood on the floor. Seeing none, Fet went around the unmade bed to the far windows, tearing down the room-darkening curtains, letting in light but no direct sun. Eph checked the bathroom and found it even larger than he had expected, with facing, gold-framed mirrors reflecting him into infinity. An army of Ephraim Goodweathers with swords in their hands.

“This way,” gasped Setrakian.

Fresh streaks of white stood out against a black leather chair in the broader media room. Two arched and heavily draped doorways along the eastern wall showed soft light edging beneath the hem of the long curtains. The roof of the adjoining town house lay beyond.

There they found the Master standing in the center of the room, his worm-infested face angled down toward them, onyx eyes staring, the dangerous daylight behind him. Iridescent white blood dripped, slow and irregular, down his arm and off his elongated hand, falling from the tip of his unearthly talon to the floor.

Setrakian limped forward, his sword dragging behind him, scoring the wood floor. He stopped and raised the silver blade with his one good arm, facing the Master—his heart racing at too many beats per minute.

“Strigoi,” he said.

The Master stared, impassive for the moment, demoniacally regal, his eyes two dead moons in clouds of blood. The sole indicator of his predicament was the excited wriggling of the blood parasites beneath his inhuman face.

For Setrakian, the moment was nearly at hand … and yet his heart was locking up, shutting him down.

Eph and Fet converged behind him, and the Master had no alternative but to fight his way out of this room. His face spread into a savage sneer. He kicked up a long, low table at Eph, which battered him backward, and with his good arm sent a club chair sliding at Setrakian. These moves had the effect of splitting them, the Master blazing through the middle, going straight at Fet.

Fet raised his lamp, but the Master dodged and came clawing at him from the side. Fet went down, falling, dazed, near the top of the stairs. The Master lunged past him, but Fet was fast, swinging the lamp on him—right into the Dark One’s snarling face. The UVC rays staggered him, driving him back against the wall, the plaster cracking against his great weight. When the Master’s claws came down from his face, his eyes were wider than before, and seemingly lost.

The Master was blinded, but only temporarily. They all sensed their advantage here, and Fet went right at him with the lamp. The Master flailed back wildly. Fet drove the towering beast back across the room toward the curtained doors, and Eph rushed after him, slashing at the Dark One’s cloak, catching a bit of flesh. The Master’s talon swung but struck no one.

Setrakian gripped the chair that had been slid at him, his sword clattering to the floor.

Eph cut down the heavy drapes over one of the arches, revealing bright sunlight. Decorative iron grating barred the glass doors, but with one chop of his blade, the latch cracked free in a spray of sparks.

Fet kept driving the Master backward. Then Eph spun around, looking to Setrakian to administer the finishing blow. That was when he saw the old professor laid out on the floor next to his sword, gripping his chest.

Eph froze, looking at the vulnerable Master, then at Setrakian, dying on the floor.

Fet, holding his lamp on the vampire like a lion trainer with a footstool, said, “What are you waiting for?”

Eph ran to the old man. He got down on his hands and knees and saw the distress in Setrakian’s face, the distant stare. His fingers plucked at his vest, over his heart.

Eph set down his sword. He ripped open the vest and his shirt, baring Setrakian’s sagging chest. He reached up under his jaw for a pulse, but couldn’t find one.

Fet yelled back, “Hey, Doc!” He kept pressing forward, pinning the Master up against the edge of the sunlight.

Eph massaged the old man’s chest over his heart. He didn’t start CPR right away because he was worried about the man’s bones, about crushing his rib cage. Then he noticed that Setrakian’s old fingers were no longer poking at his heart, but were reaching for his vest.

Fet turned back in a panic to see what the hell was holding them up. He saw Setrakian laid out on the floor and Eph kneeling over him.

Fet looked for a moment too long. The Master clawed at Fet’s shoulder and pulled him in.

Eph squeezed the pockets of Setrakian’s tweed vest and felt something. He pulled out the little silver pillbox and quickly unscrewed the top. A dozen tiny white tablets tumbled to the floor.

Fet was a big man himself, but he was a child in the Master’s grip. He still had the lamp in his hand, even though his arms were pinned. He turned it on the Master, burning his side—and the blinded beast roared in pain but did not relinquish his grip. The Master’s other hand gripped the top of Fet’s head and wrenched back his neck despite Fet’s resistance. Then Fet found himself staring up into this unspeakable face.

Eph pinched up one of the nitroglycerin tablets and cupped the old man’s head in his hand. He worked open his clenched jaw and slipped the pill in underneath the old man’s cool tongue. He pulled out his fingers and shook Setrakian, yelling at him. And the old man’s eyes opened.

The Master opened his mouth over Fet and extended his stinger, lashing about in the air above Fet’s wide eyes and exposed throat. Fet fought mightily, but the compression of the back of his neck cut off the blood flow to his brain, so the room blackened and his muscles went limp.

Eph yelled, “No!” and ran at the Master with his sword, slashing the blade across the abomination’s broad back. Fet fell to the floor in a heap. The Master’s head whipped around, his stinger searching, his clouded eyes finding Eph.

“My sword sings of silver!” cried Eph, slicing at the Master’s upper chest. The blade did indeed sing, though the Dark One flew backward and avoided it. Eph swung again—and missed again—the Master thrashing backward, out of control. He was in the sunlight now, framed before the twin glass doors, the full and broad daylight of a rooftop patio behind him.

Eph had him. The Master knew he had him. Eph brought his sword up with two hands, ready to stab it up through the Master’s bulging neck. The king vampire stared down at Eph with something like outright disgust, summoned even more height, and raised the hood of his dark cloak over his head.

“Die!” said Eph, running at him.

The Master turned and crashed through the plate-glass doors and out onto the open patio. Glass exploded as the cloaked vampire fell rolling onto the hot clay tiles, in full view of the killing sun.

He came to a rest momentarily, hunched over on one knee.

Eph’s momentum carried him through the shattered door, where he stopped, staring at the cloaked vampire, awaiting the end.

The Master trembled, steam rising from within its dark cloak. Then the king vampire stood to its full height, quivering as though in the grip of a violent seizure, his great claws curled into beastlike fists.

With a roar he threw off his cloak. The ancient garment fell away, smoking, to the tile. The Master’s nude body writhed, his pearlescent flesh darkening, cooking, changing from fair, lily white to a dead black leather.

The slashing wound Eph had made across his back fused into a deep black scar, as though cauterized by the rays of the sun. He turned, still shaking, and faced Eph, and Fet standing in the doorway behind him, and Setrakian risen to one knee. He was ghoulishly lean, with a smooth and sexless crotch. His broiled black flesh writhed with pain-crazed blood worms.

With a most horrible smile—a sneer of intense pain and even triumph—the Master turned his face toward the sun and let loose an openmouthed howl of defiance. A true demonic curse. Then, with dizzying speed, he bolted to the edge of the patio, slid over the low wall at the edge of the roof, and raced down the side of the building to the third-story scaffolding … disappearing into the morning shadows of New York City.

THE CLAN

Nazareth, Pennsylvania

In a long-abandoned and never-mapped asbestos mine, a netherworld a few hundred feet below the surface of the Pennsylvania woods, three Ancients of the New World conferred in a pitch-black chamber.

Their bodies, over time, had become worn smooth as river stones, their movements slowing nearly to imperceptibility. They had no use for exterior physicality. Their body systems had evolved to maximum efficiency, and their vampire mandibles functioned without flaw. Their night vision was extraordinary.

In the cages built into the deep western tunnels of their dominion, the Ancients had already begun storing food for the long winter. The occasional scream of a human captive ripped through the mine, reverberating like an animal call.

It is the seventh one.

Despite their human appearance, they had no use for animal speech. Their movements, down to the glances of their sated red eyes, were dreadfully slow.

What is this incursion?

It is a violation.

He thinks us old and weak.

Someone else is a party to this transgression. Someone had to assist him in his ocean crossing.

One of the others?

One of the New World Ancients reached out with his mind, across the sea to the Old World.

I do not feel that.

Then the seventh one has aligned with a human.

With a human, against all other humans.

And against us.

Is it not evident now that he alone was responsible for the Bulgarian massacre?

Yes. He has proven his willingness to kill his own kind if crossed.

He was indeed spoiled by the world war.

He supped too long in the trenches. Feasted in the camps.

And now he has broken the truce. He has set foot on our soil. He wants the entire world for himself.

What he wants is another war.

The tallest one’s talon twitched—an extraordinary physical action for a being so steeped in deliberation, in elemental stillness. Their bodies were simple shells and could be replaced. Perhaps they had become complacent. Too comfortable.

Then we will oblige him. We must remain invisible no more.

The headhunter entered the chamber of the Ancients and waited to be acknowledged.

You have found him.

Yes. He tried to return home, as do all creatures.

He will suffice?

He will be our sun hunter. He has no other choice.

In a locked cage in the western tunnel, on a floor of cold dirt, Gus Elizalde lay unconscious, dreaming of his mother—unaware of the peril awaiting him.

Epilogue: Kelton Street, Woodside, Queens

They regrouped at Kelly’s house, Nora bringing Zack home after Eph and Fet had cleaned up the mess that was Matt, burning his remains under leaves and brush in the backyard.

Setrakian lay on the fold-out sleeper in the sunroom. He had refused to go to a hospital, and Eph agreed that was out of the question anyway. His arm was badly bruised but not broken. His pulse rate was low, but steady and improving. Eph wanted Setrakian to sleep, but not with painkillers. So before going in to check on him after nightfall, Eph opened Kelly’s kitchen liquor cabinet. He picked up a bottle of scotch, once his crutch, and set it aside, pouring the old man a more gentle brandy.

Setrakian said it wasn’t the pain that bothered him. “Failure keeps one awake.”

The mention of failure reminded Eph that he had not found Kelly. Part of him wanted to believe that this was still a reason to hope.

“You did not fail,” said Eph. “The sun failed.”

Setrakian said, “He is more powerful than I knew. I suspected it, maybe … dreaded, certainly … but never knew. He is not of this earth.”

Eph agreed. “He is a vampire.”

“No—not of this earth.”

Eph was worried about the old man having taken a blow to the head. “We hurt him, bottom line. We marked him. And now he’s on the run.”

The old man would not be consoled. “He is still out there. It goes on.” He accepted the glass from Eph, drank it, and sat back. “These vampires now … they are in their infancy. We are about to witness a new stage in their evolution. It takes about seven nights to become fully turned. For their new parasitic organ system to complete its formation. Once that occurs, once their bodies are no longer comprised of vital organs—heart, lungs—but only a series of chambers in the body, they will be less vulnerable to conventional weaponry. And they will continue to mature beyond that time—learning, becoming smarter, more used to their environment. They will band together and coordinate their attacks, and individually become much more nimble and deadly. Making it much harder to find and defeat them. Until eventually it will become impossible to stop them.” The old man finished his brandy and then looked at Eph. “I believe what we saw up there on that rooftop this morning was the end of our kind.”

Eph felt the weight of the future pressing down on them all. “How much is there that you haven’t told me?”

Setrakian’s eyes were rheumy as he stared off into the middle distance. “Too much to speak of now.”

A short while later, he was asleep. Eph looked at his gnarled fingers twisting the hem of the bedsheet on his chest. The old man’s dreams were feverish.

“Dad!”

Eph went out to the main room. Zack was sitting in the computer chair, and Eph gripped the boy from behind, wrapped him up in another hug, kissing the top of his head, breathing in the scent of his hair. “I love you, Z,” he whispered.

“Love you too, Dad,” Zack said back, and Eph ruffled his hair and let him go.

“Where are we with this?”

“Almost all set.” The boy returned to the computer. “I had to create a dummy e-mail address. You pick a password.”

Zack was helping Eph upload the video of Ansel Barbour in the dog shed—which Eph had not yet shown Zack—onto as many file-sharing and broadcast video web sites as possible. Eph wanted true vampire footage out there on the Internet for the world to see. It was the only way he could think of to reach people and make them comprehend. He wasn’t worried about fostering chaos and panic: the riots continued, confined to poorer neighborhoods, though their spread was just a matter of time. The alternative of continued coordinated silence in the face of an extinction event was too absurd to consider.

This plague would be fought at a grassroots level now—or not at all.

Zack said, “Now I select the file, like this, and move it up as an attachment …”

Fet’s voice came from the kitchen, where he was watching television, eating deli chicken salad out of a half-pound plastic tub. “Look at this.”

Eph turned. Helicopter footage showed a row of flaming buildings now, and thick black smoke filling the air over Manhattan.

“It’s getting bad,” he said.

As Eph watched, he noticed all of Zack’s school papers on the refrigerator door lift and flutter. A napkin wafted across the counter, drifting to the floor, at Fet’s feet.

Eph turned to Zack, who had stopped typing. “What was that breeze?”

Zack said, “Back slider must be open.”

Eph looked around for Nora. Then the toilet flushed, and she stepped out of the hall bathroom. “What’s up?” she said, finding everyone staring at her.

Eph turned toward the other end of the house, looking at the corner that led around to the sliding glass door and the backyard.

A person turned the corner. Stopping there, her arms hanging limply at her sides.

Eph stared, paralyzed.

Kelly.

“Mom!”

Zack started toward her, and Eph reached out and grabbed him. His grip must have hurt Zack, because the boy pulled away in surprise, looking back at him.

Nora rushed over and wrapped Zack up from behind.

Kelly was just standing there. Looking at them. No expression, no blinking. She looked shell-shocked, as though deafened by some recent explosion.

Eph knew immediately. The pain in his heart was physical.

Kelly Goodweather was turned. A dead thing returned to its home.

Her gazing eyes found Zack. Her Dear One. She had come for him.

“Mom?” said Zack, seeing that something was wrong with her.

Eph felt quick movement from behind. Fet rushed into the hall and grabbed Eph’s sword. He brandished it, showing Kelly the silver of the blade.

Kelly’s face curdled. Her expression collapsed into evil and she bared her teeth.

Eph’s heart dropped through his chest and into his gut.

She was a demon. A vampire.

One of them.

She was gone to him forever.

With a muffled groan, Zack recoiled at the sight of his demonized mother … and then blacked out.

Fet started after her with the sword, but Eph hooked his arm before he could follow through. Kelly recoiled from the silver blade, like a cat with its fur up. She hissed at them. She took one more baleful look at the unconscious boy, her intended … and then turned and fled out the back door.

Eph and Fet rounded the corner just in time to watch Kelly throw herself over the low chain-link fence separating their backyard from the neighbor’s, and run off into the new night.

Fet closed the door and locked it. He drew the blinds over the glass, then turned to Eph.

Eph said nothing but returned to Nora, who was kneeling over Zack, on the floor, her eyes keen with despair.

He saw now how truly insidious this plague was. Pitting family member against family member. Pitting death against life.

The Master had sent her. He had turned her against Eph and Zack. To torment them. To take his revenge.

If the degree of devotion to a Dear One in life bore any correlation to their desire to reunite in death … then Eph knew that Kelly would never give up. She would go on haunting her son forever unless someone put a stop to it.

Their custody battle for Zack was not over.

Eph looked at their faces … and then at the fires raging on television … and then turned to the computer. He pressed the enter key, completing Zack’s task. He dispatched video proof of the raging vampire into the world … and then went into the kitchen, where Kelly kept the scotch. For the first time in a long time, he poured himself a drink.

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Harper
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www.harpercollins.co.uk

This edition 2010

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2009

Copyright © Guillermo Del Toro and Chuck Hogan 2009

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2011

Cover photographs © Shutterstock

The authors assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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THE FALL

BOOK II
OF
The Strain Trilogy

GUILLERMO DEL TORO and CHUCK HOGAN

Dedication

This one is for Lorenza, with all my love.

—GDT

For my four favorite creatures.

—CH

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Extract from the diary of Ephraim Goodweather

Gray Skies

Knickerbocker Loans and Curios, East 118th Street, Spanish Harlem

The Master—Part I

Interlude I: Fall 1944

Cold Wind Blowing

Knickerbocker Loans and Curios, East 118th Street, Spanish Harlem

Interlude II: Occido Lumen: The Story of the Book

The Master—Part II

Fallen Leaves

The Sewer

Interlude III: Setrakian’s Heart

The Flatlands

Rainfall

Thud-Bump!

Epilogue

Extract from the diary of Ephraim Goodweather

Acknowledgements

Copyright

Extract from the diary of Ephraim Goodweather

Friday, November 26

It took the world just sixty days to end. And we were there to account for it—our omissions, our arrogance …

By the time the crisis went to Congress, and was analyzed, legislated, and ultimately vetoed, we had already lost. The night belonged to them.

Leaving us longing for daylight when it was ours no more …

All this mere days after our “uncontestable video evidence” reached the world—its truth drowned in thousands of smirking rebuttals and parodies that YouTube’d us beyond all hope.

It became a Late Night pun, smart-asses that we were, hardy-har-har—until dusk fell upon us and we turned to face an immense, uncaring void.

The first stage of public response to any epidemic is always Denial.

The second, Search For Blame.

All the usual scarecrows were trotted out as distractions: economic woes, social unrest, the racial scapegoating, terrorist threats.

But in the end, it was just us. All of us. We allowed it to happen because we never believed it could happen. We were too smart. Too advanced. Too strong.

And now the darkness is complete.

There are no longer any givens, any absolutes—no root to our existence. The basic tenets of human biology have been rewritten, not in DNA code but in blood and in virus.

Parasites and demons are everywhere. Our future is no longer the natural organic decay of death but a complex and diabolical transmutation. An infestation. A becoming.

They have taken from us our neighbors, our friends, our families. They wear their faces now, the faces of our familiars, our Dear Ones.

We have been turned out of our homes. Cast out of our own kingdom, we roam the outlands in search of a miracle. We survivors are bloodied, we are broken, we are defeated.

But we are not turned. We are not Them.

Not yet.

This is not intended as a record or a chronicle, but as a lamentation, the poetry of fossils, a reminiscence of the end of the era of civilization.

The dinosaurs left behind almost no trace of themselves. A few bones preserved in amber, the contents of their stomachs, their waste.

I only hope that we may leave behind something more than they did.

GRAY SKIES

Knickerbocker Loans and Curios, East 118th Street, Spanish Harlem

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 4

Mirrors are the bearers of bad news, thought Abraham Setrakian, standing under the greenish fluorescent wall lamp, staring into his bathroom mirror. An old man looking into older glass. The edges were blackened with age, a corruption creeping ever closer to the center. To his reflection. To him.

You will die soon.

The silver-backed looking glass showed him that much. Many times he had been close to death, or worse; but this was different. In his image he saw this inevitability. And still, somehow, Setrakian found comfort in the truth of the old mirrors. They were honest and pure. This one was a magnificent piece, turn-of-the-century, quite heavy, strung from the wall by corded wire, hanging off the old tile at a downward angle. There were, hung from walls and standing on the floors and leaning against bookshelves, some eighty silver-backed mirrors arranged throughout his living quarters. He collected them compulsively. As people who have walked through a desert know the value of water, so Setrakian found it impossible to pass up the acquisition of a silver looking-glass—especially a smaller, portable one.

But, more than that, he relied upon their most ancient quality.

Contrary to popular myth, vampires certainly do have reflections. In mass-produced, modern mirrors, they appear no different than they do to the eye. But in silver-backed glass, their reflections are distorted. Some physical property of the silver projects these virus-laden atrocities with visual interference—like a warning. Much like the looking glass in the Snow White story, a silver-backed mirror cannot tell a lie.

And so, Setrakian looked at his face in the mirror—between the thick porcelain sink and the counter that held his powders and salves, the rubs for his arthritis, the heated liniment to soothe the pain in his gnarled joints—and studied it.

Here he confronted his fading strength. The acknowledgment that his body was just that: a body. Aged and weakening. Decaying. To the point where he was unsure if he would survive the corporeal trauma of a turning. Not all victims do survive it.

His face. Its deep lines like a fingerprint—the thumb of time stamped firmly onto his visage. He had aged twenty additional years overnight. His eyes appeared small and dry, yellowed like ivory. His pallor was off, and his hair lay against his scalp like fine silver grass matted down by a recent storm.

Pic—pic—pic …

He heard death calling. He heard the cane. His heart.

He looked at his twisted hands, molded by sheer will to fit and hold the handle of that silver cane sword—but able to do little else with any dexterity.

The battle with the Master had weakened him greatly. The Master was stronger even than Setrakian had remembered or presumed. He had yet to process his theories spawned by the Master’s survival in direct sunlight—sunlight that weakened and marked him, but did not obliterate him. The virus-smashing ultraviolet rays should have cut through him like the power of ten thousand silver swords—and yet the terrible creature had withstood it and escaped.

What is life, in the end, but a series of small victories and larger failures? But what else was there to do? Give up?

Setrakian never gave up.

Second-guessing was all he had at the moment. If only he had done this instead of that. If he could have somehow dynamited the building once he knew that the Master was inside. If Eph had allowed him to expire rather than saving him at that last critical moment …

His heart was racing again, just thinking of lost opportunities. Fluttering and skipping beats. Lurching. Like an impatient child inside him, wanting to run and run.

Pic—pic—pic …

A low hum purred above the heartbeat.

Setrakian knew it well: this was the prelude to oblivion, to waking up inside an emergency room, if there were any still operating …

With a stiff finger, he fished a white pill out of his box. Nitroglycerin prevented angina by relaxing the vessels carrying blood to his heart, allowing them to dilate, increasing flow and oxygen supply. A sublingual tablet, he placed it underneath his dry tongue, to dissolve.

There was immediately a sweet, tingling sensation. In a few minutes, the murmur in his heart would subside.

The fast-acting nitro pill reassured him. All this second-guessing, this recrimination and mourning: it was a waste of brain activity.

Here he was now. His adopted Manhattan called to him, crumbling from within.

It was a few weeks now since the 777 had touched down at JFK. Since the arrival of the Master and the start of the outbreak. Setrakian had foreseen it from the first news report, as surely as one intuits the death of a loved one when the phone rings at an odd hour. News of the dead plane gripped the city. Just minutes after landing safely, the plane had shut down completely, sitting dark on the taxiway. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention boarded the plane in contact suits and found all passengers and crew dead, but for four “survivors.” These survivors were not well at all, their disease syndrome only augmented by the Master. Hidden inside his coffin within the cargo hold of the airplane, the Master had been delivered across the ocean thanks to the wealth and influence of Eldritch Palmer: a dying man who had chosen not to die but instead to trade human control of the planet for a taste of eternity. After a day’s incubation, the virus activated in the dead passengers and they arose from their morgue tables and carried the vampiric plague into the city streets.

The full extent of the plague was known to Setrakian, but the rest of the world resisted the horrible truth. Since then, another airplane had shut down soon after landing at London’s Heathrow Airport, stopping dead on the taxiway to the gate. At Orly Airport, an Air France jet arrived stillborn. At Narita International Airport in Tokyo. At Franz Joseph Strauss in Munich. At the famously secure Ben Gurion International in Tel Aviv, where counterterrorist commandos stormed the darkened airliner on the tarmac to find all 126 passengers dead or unresponsive. And yet no alerts were issued to search the cargo areas, or to destroy the airplanes outright. It was happening too fast, and disinformation and disbelief ruled the day.

And on it went. In Madrid. Beijing. Warsaw. Moscow. Brasília. Auckland. Oslo. Sofia. Stockholm. Reykjavik. Jakarta. New Delhi. Certain more militant and paranoid territories had correctly initiated immediate airport quarantines, cordoning off the dead jets with military force, and yet … Setrakian couldn’t help but suspect that these landings were as much a tactical distraction as an attempt at infection. Only time would tell if he was correct—though, in truth, there was precious little time.

By now, the original strigoi—the first generation of vampires, the Regis Air victims, and their Dear Ones—had begun their second wave of maturation. They were becoming more accustomed to their environment and new bodies. Learning to adapt, to survive—to thrive. They attacked at nightfall, the news reported “rioting” in large sectors of the city, and this was partially true—looting and vandalism ran rampant in broad daylight—but no one pointed out that activity spiked at night.

Because of these disruptions occurring nationwide, the country’s infrastructure was beginning to crumble. Food delivery lines were broken, distribution delayed. As absences increased, available manpower suffered and electrical outages and brownouts went unserviced. Police and fire response times were down, and incidences of vigilantism and arson up.

Fires burned. Looters prevailed.

Setrakian stared into his face, wishing he could once again glimpse the younger man within. Perhaps even the boy. He thought of young Zachary Goodweather, just down the hall in the spare bedroom. And, somehow, the old man at the end of his life felt sorry for the boy—eleven years old but already at the end of childhood. Tumbling from grace, stalked by an undead thing occupying the body of his mother …

Setrakian stepped out to the dressing area of his bedroom, finding his way to a chair. He sat with one hand covering his face, waiting for the disorienting sensation to pass.

Great tragedy leads to feelings of isolation, which sought to envelop him now. He mourned his long-lost wife, Miriam. Memories of her face had been crowded out of his mind by the few photographs in his possession, which he referred to often and which had the effect of freezing her image in time without ever truly capturing her being. She had been the love of his life. He was a lucky man; it was a struggle sometimes to remember this. He had courted and married a beautiful woman. He had seen beauty and he had seen evil. He had witnessed the best and the worst of the previous century, and he had survived it all. Now he was witnessing the end.

He thought of Ephraim’s ex-wife, Kelly, whom Setrakian had met once in life and once again in death. He understood the man’s pain. He understood the pain of this world.

Outside, he heard another automobile crash. Gunshots in the distance, alarms ringing insistently—cars, buildings—all going unanswered. The screams that split the night were the last cries of humanity. Looters were taking not only goods and property—they were looting souls. Not taking possessions—but taking possession.

He let his hand fall, landing upon a catalog on the small side table. A Sotheby’s catalog. The auction was to be held in just a few days. This was not a coincidence. None of it was coincidence: not the recent occultation, not the conflict overseas, not the economic recession. Like orderly dominoes we fall.

He lifted the auction catalog and searched for a particular page. In it, without any accompanying illustration, was listed an ancient volume:

Occido Lumen (1667)—A compleat account of the first rise of the Strigoi and full confutation of all arguments produced against their existence, translated by the late Rabbi Avigdor Levy. Private collection. Illuminated manuscript, original binding. In view upon appointment. Estimated $15–$25M

This very book—not a facsimile, not a photograph—was crucial to understanding the enemy, the strigoi. And vanquishing it.

The book was based on a collection of ancient Mesopotamian clay tablets first discovered in jars inside a cave in the Zagros Mountains in 1508. Written in Sumerian and extremely fragile, the tablets were traded to a wealthy silk merchant, who traveled with them throughout Europe. The merchant was found strangled in his quarters in Florence and his warehouses set on fire. The tablets, however, survived in the possession of two necromancers, the famous John Dee and a more obscure acolyte known to history as John Silence. Dee was Queen Elizabeth I’s consultant, and, unable to decipher them, kept the tablets as a magical artifact until 1608 when, forced by poverty, he sold them—through his daughter Katherine—to the learned Rabbi Avigdor Levy in the old ghetto of Metz, in Lorraine, France. For decades, the rabbi meticulously deciphered the tablets, utilizing his unique abilities—it would be almost three centuries before others could finally be able to decipher similar tablets—and eventually presented his findings in manuscript form as a gift for King Louis XIV.

Upon receipt of the text, the king ordered the elderly rabbi’s imprisonment and the destruction of the tablets, as well as of the rabbi’s entire library of texts and devotional artifacts. The tablets were pulverized, and the manuscript languished in a vault alongside many forbidden treasures. Secretly, Mme de Montespan, the king’s mistress and an avid dabbler in the occult, orchestrated the retrieval of the manuscript in 1671. It remained in the hands of La Voisin, a midwife who was de Montespan’s sorceress and confidante, until her exile following her implication in the hysteria surrounding the Affaire des Poisons.

The book subsequently resurfaced briefly in 1823, appearing in the possession of the notorious London reprobate and scholar William Beckford. It appeared listed as part of the library in Fonthill Abbey, Beckford’s palace of excess, where he accumulated natural and unnatural curiosities, forbidden books, and shocking objets d’art. The Gothic Revival construction and its contents were sold to an arms dealer in order to satisfy a debt, and the book remained lost for nearly a century. It was listed erroneously, or perhaps surreptitiously, under the title Casus Lumen as part of a 1911 auction in Marseille, but the text was never produced for display and the auction summarily canceled after a mysterious outbreak gripped the city. In the ensuing years, the manuscript was widely believed to have been destroyed. Now it was at hand, right here, in New York.

But $15 million? $25 million? Impossible to get. There had to be some other way …

His greatest fear, which he dared share with no one, was that the battle, begun so long ago, was already lost. That this was all an endgame, that humanity’s king was already in check, yet stubbornly playing out its few remaining moves upon the global chessboard.

Setrakian closed his eyes against a humming in his ears. But the humming persisted—in fact, grew stronger.

The pill had never had this effect on him before.

Once he realized this, Setrakian stiffened and rose to his feet.

It was not the pill at all. The hum was all around him. Low-grade, but there.

They were not alone.

The boy, thought Setrakian. With great effort, he pushed himself up and out of the chair, starting for Zack’s room.

Pic—pic—pic …

The mother was coming for her boy.

Zack Goodweather sat cross-legged in the corner of the roof of the pawnshop building. His dad’s computer was open in his lap. This was the only spot in the entire building where he could get connected to the Internet, trespassing on the unsecured home network of a neighbor somewhere on the block. The wireless signal was weak, varying between one and two bars, slowing his Internet search to a crawl.

Zack had been forbidden to use his dad’s computer. In fact, he was supposed to be asleep right now. The eleven-year-old had enough difficulty sleeping on normal nights, a decent case of insomnia he’d been hiding from his parents for some time.

Insomni-Zack! The first superhero he ever created. An eight-page color comic written, illustrated, lettered, and inked by Zachary Goodweather. About a teen who patrolled the streets of New York by night, foiling terrorists and polluters. And terrorist polluters. He never could get the blanket cape folds to come out right, but he was passable with faces, and okay with musculature.

This city needed an Insomni-Zack now. Sleep was a luxury. A luxury no one could afford—if everyone knew what he knew.

If everyone had seen what he had seen.

Zack was supposed to be sacked out in a goose-down sleeping bag inside a spare bedroom on the third floor. The room smelled like a closet, like an old cedar room in his grandparents’ house—one that no one opened anymore except for kids who liked to snoop. The small, oddly angled room had been used by Mr. Setrakian (or Professor Setrakian—Zack still wasn’t clear on that part, seeing how the old man ran the first-floor pawnshop) for storage. Tilting stacks of books, many old mirrors, a wardrobe of old clothes, and some locked trunks—really locked, not the fake kind of lock that can be picked with a paper clip and a ballpoint pen (Zack had already tried).

The exterminator, Fet—or V, as he had told Zack to call him—had hooked up an ancient, cartridge-fed, 8-bit Nintendo system to a pawned Sanyo television set with big knobs and dials on the front instead of buttons, all brought up from the showroom downstairs. They expected him to stay put and play The Legend of Zelda. But the bedroom door had no lock. His dad and Fet had mounted iron bars onto the wall over the window—mounted them on the inside, rather than the outside, bolted to the wall beams—a cage that Mr. Setrakian said was left over from the 1970s.

They weren’t trying to lock him in, Zack knew. They were trying to lock her out.

He searched for his dad’s professional page at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, and got a “Page Not Found.” So they had already scrubbed him from the government Web site. News hits for “Dr. Ephraim Goodweather” claimed he was a discredited CDC official who fabricated a video purporting to show a human-turned-vampire being destroyed. It said that he had uploaded it (actually, Zack uploaded the video for him, one that his dad wouldn’t let him view) onto the Internet in an attempt to exploit the eclipse hysteria for his own purposes. Obviously, that last part was BS. What “purposes” did his dad have other than trying to save lives? One news site described Goodweather as “an admitted alcoholic involved in a contentious custody battle, who is now believed to be on the run with his kidnapped son.” That left Zack with a lump of ice in his chest. The same article went on to say that both Goodweather’s ex-wife and her boyfriend were currently missing and presumed dead.

Everything made Zack feel nauseous these days, but the dishonesty of this article was especially toxic to him. All wrong, every last word. Did they really not know the truth? Or … did they not care? Maybe they were trying to exploit his parents’ trouble for their own purposes?

And the talkback? The comments were even worse. He could not deal with the things they were saying about his dad, the righteous arrogance of all these anonymous posters. He had to deal right now with the awful truth about his mom—and the banality of the venom spewed in blogs and forums missed the point completely.

How do you mourn someone who isn’t really gone? How do you fear someone whose desire for you is eternal?

If the world knew the truth the way Zack knew the truth, then his dad’s reputation would be restored, and his voice heard—but still nothing else would change. His mom, his life, would never be the same.

So, mostly, Zack wanted it all to pass. He wanted something fantastic to happen to make everything right and normal again. As when he was a child—like five or something, he broke a mirror and just covered it with a sheet, then prayed with all his might for its restoration before his parents found out. Or the way he used to wish his parents would fall back in love again. That they would wake up one day and realize what a mistake they had made.

Now he secretly hoped that his dad could do something incredible. Despite everything, Zack still assumed that there was some happy ending awaiting them. Awaiting all of them. Maybe even something to bring Mom back to the way she was.

He felt tears coming, and this time he didn’t fight them. He was up on the roof; he was alone. He wanted so badly to see his mother again. The thought terrified him—and yet he yearned for her to come. To look into her eyes. To hear her voice. He wished for her to explain this to him the way she did every troubling thing. Everything is going to be just fine …

A scream somewhere deep in the night brought him back to the present. He peered uptown, seeing flames on the west side, a column of dark smoke. He looked up. No stars tonight. And only a few airplanes. He had heard fighter jets zooming overhead that afternoon.

Zack rubbed his face in the crook of his elbow sleeve and turned back to the computer. With some quick desktop searching, Zack discovered the folder containing the video file he was not supposed to view. He opened it and heard Dad’s voice, and realized Dad was operating the camera. Zack’s camera, the one his dad had borrowed.

The subject was hard to see at first, something in the dark inside a shed. A thing leaning forward on its haunches. A guttural growl and a back-of-the-throat hiss. The slinking noise of a chain. The camera zoomed in closer, the dark pixilation improving, and Zack saw its open mouth. A mouth that opened wider than it should, with something resembling a thin silver fish flopping inside.

The shed-thing’s eyes were wide and glaring. He mistook their expression for one of sadness at first, and hurt. A collar—apparently, a dog collar—restrained it at the neck, chained to the dirt floor behind it. The creature looked pale inside the dark shed, so bloodless it was nearly glowing. Then came a strange pumping sound—snap-chunk, snap-chunk, snap-chunk—and three silver nails, propelled from behind the camera (from Dad?) struck the shed-thing like needle-bullets. The camera view jerked up as the thing roared hoarsely, a sick animal consumed with pain.

“Enough,” said a voice on the clip. The voice belonged to Mr. Setrakian, but it was not a tone like anything Zack had ever heard out of the kindly, old pawnbroker’s mouth. “Let us remain merciful.”

Then the old man stepped into view, intoning some words in a foreign, ancient-sounding language—almost like summoning a power or declaring a curse. He raised a silver sword—long and bright with moonlight—and the shed-thing howled as Mr. Setrakian swung the sword with great force …

Voices pulled Zack out of the video. Voices from the street below. He shut the laptop and stood, staying back, peering over the raised edge of the roof down to 118th Street.

A group of five men walked up the block toward the pawnshop, trailed by a slow-moving SUV. They carried weapons—guns—and were pounding on every door. The SUV stopped before the intersection, right outside the front of the pawnshop. The men on foot approached the building, rattling the security gates. Calling, “Open up!”

Zack backed away. He turned to go to the roof door, figuring he’d better get back to his room in case anyone came looking.

Then he saw her. A girl, a teenager, high school probably. Standing on the next roof over, across an empty lot around the corner from the shop entrance. The breeze lifted her long nightshirt, ruffling it around her knees, but did not move her hair, which hung straight and heavy.

She stood on the raised edge of the roof. The very edge, balanced perfectly, no wavering in her posture. Poised at the brink, as though wanting to try to make the jump. The impossible leap. Wanting to and knowing she would fail.

Zack stared. He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure. But he suspected.

He raised a hand anyway. He waved to her.

She stared back at him.

Dr. Nora Martinez, late of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, unlocked the front door. Five men in combat gear with armored vests and assault weapons stared her down through the security grate. Two of them wore kerchiefs, covering their lower faces.

“Everything all right in there, ma’am?” one of them asked.

“Yes,” said Nora, looking for badges or any kind of insignia and seeing none. “So long as this grate holds up, everything is fine.”

“We’re going door-to-door,” said another. “Clearing blocks. Some trouble down that way”—he pointed toward 117th Street—“but we think the worst of it is moving downtown from this direction.” Meaning Harlem.

“And you are …?”

“Concerned citizens, ma’am. You don’t want to be in here all alone.”

“She’s not,” said Vasiliy Fet, the New York City Bureau of Pest Control Services worker and independent exterminator, appearing behind her.

The men sized up the big man. “You the pawnbroker?”

“My father,” said Fet. “What sort of trouble are you seeing?”

“Trying to get a handle on these freaks rioting in the city. Agitators and opportunists. Taking advantage of a bad situation, making it worse.”

“You sound like cops,” said Fet.

“If you’re thinking about leaving town,” said another one, avoiding the topic, “you should go now. Bridges are stacked up, tunnels jammed. Place is going to shit.”

Another said, “You should think about getting out here and helping us. Do something about this.”

Fet said, “I’ll think about it.”

“Let’s go!” called the driver of the SUV idling in the street.

“Good luck,” said one of the men, with a scowl. “You’ll need it.”

Nora watched them go, then locked the door. She stepped back into the shadows. “They’re gone,” she said.

Ephraim Goodweather, who had been watching from the side, emerged. “Fools,” he said.

“Cops,” said Fet, watching them round the street corner.

“How do you know?” asked Nora.

“You can always tell.”

“Good thing you stayed out of sight,” Nora said to Eph.

Eph nodded. “Why no badges?”

Fet said, “Probably got off shift and huddled up at happy hour, decided this wasn’t how they were going to let their city go out. Wives all packed up for Jersey, they’ve got nothing to do now but bang some heads. Cops feel they run the place. And they’re not half wrong. Street-gang mentality. It’s their turf and they’ll fight for it.”

“When you think about it,” said Eph, “they’re really not that much different than us right now.”

Nora said, “Except that they’re carrying lead when they should be wielding silver.” She slipped her hand into Eph’s. “I wish we could have warned them.”

“Trying to warn people is how I got to be a fugitive in the first place,” said Eph.

Eph and Nora were the first to board the dead plane after SWAT team members discovered the apparently dead passengers. The realization that the bodies weren’t decomposing naturally, coupled with the disappearance of the coffin-like cabinet during the solar occultation, had helped convince Eph that they were facing an epidemiological crisis which could not be explained by normal medical and scientific means. The grudging realization opened him up to the revelations of the pawnbroker, Setrakian, and the terrible truth behind the plague. His desperation to warn the world of the true nature of the disease—the vampiric virus moving insidiously through the city and out into the boroughs—led to a break with the CDC, which then tried to silence him with a trumped-up charge of murder. He had been a fugitive ever since.

He looked to Fet. “Car packed?”

“Ready to go.”

Eph squeezed Nora’s hand. She did not want to let him go.

Setrakian’s voice came down the spiral stairs in back of the showroom. “Vasiliy? Ephraim! Nora!”

“Down here, professor,” replied Nora.

“Someone approaches,” he said.

“No, we just got rid of them. Vigilantes. Well-armed ones.”

“I don’t mean someone human,” said Setrakian. “And I cannot find young Zack.”

Zack’s bedroom door banged open, and he turned. His dad blew in, looking like he expected a fight. “Jeez, Dad,” said Zack, sitting up in his sleeping bag.

Eph looked all around the room. “Setrakian said he just looked in here for you.”

“Uhh …” Zack made a show of rubbing his eye. “Must not have seen me on the floor.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Eph looked at Zack a bit longer, not believing him, but clearly with something more pressing on his mind than catching his son in a lie. He walked around the room, checking the barred window. Zack noticed that he held one hand behind his back, and moved in such a way that Zack could not see what he held there.

Nora rushed in behind him, then stopped when she saw Zack.

“What is it?” asked Zack, getting to his feet.

His dad shook his head reassuringly, but the smile came too quickly—just a smile, no levity in his eyes, none at all. “Just looking around. You wait here, ’kay? I’ll be back.”

He exited, turning in such a way that the thing behind his back remained obscured. Zack wondered: was it the snap-chunk thing, or some silver sword?

“Stay put,” said Nora, and closed the door.

Zack wondered what it was they were looking for. Zack had heard his mother mention Nora’s name once in a fight with his dad—well, not a fight really, since they were already split up, but more of a venting. And Zack had seen his dad kiss her that one time—right before he left them and went off with Mr. Setrakian and Fet. Then she had been so tense and preoccupied the whole time they were gone. And once they returned—everything had changed. Zack’s dad had looked so down—Zack never wanted to see him look that way again. And Mr. Setrakian came back sick. Zack, in his subsequent snooping, had caught some of the talk, but not enough.

Something about a “master.”

Something about sunlight and failing to “destroy it.”

Something about “the end of the world.”

As Zack stood alone in the spare room now, puzzling out all these mysteries swirling around him, he noticed a blur in a few of the mirrors hanging on the wall. A distortion, akin to a visual vibration—something that should have been in focus but instead appeared hazy and indistinct in the glass.

Something at his window.

Zack turned, slowly at first—then all at once.

She was clinging to the exterior of the building somehow. Her body was disjointed and distorted, her eyes red and wide and burning. Her hair was falling out, thin and pale now, her schoolteacher dress torn away at one shoulder, her exposed flesh smeared with dirt. The muscles of her neck were swollen and deformed, and blood worms slithered beneath her cheeks, across her forehead.

Mom.

She had come. As he knew she would.

Instinctively, he took a step toward her. Then he read her expression, which all at once transformed from pain into a darkness that could only be described as demonic.

She had noticed the bars.

In an instant, her jaw dropped open—way open, just like in the video—a stinger shooting out from deep beneath where her tongue was. It pierced the window glass with a crack and a tinkle, and kept coming through the hole it punched. Six feet in length, the stinger tapering to a point and snapping at full extension mere inches from his throat.

Zack froze, his asthmatic lungs locked, unable to draw any breath.

At the end of the fleshy shoot, a complicated, double-pronged tip quivered, rooting in the air. Zack remained riveted to the spot. The stinger relaxed and, with a casual, upward nod of her head, she retracted it quickly back into her mouth. Kelly Goodweather thrust her head through the window, crashing out the rest of the glass. She squeezed up inside the open window frame, needing only a few more inches to reach Zack’s throat and claim her Dear One for the Master.

Zack was transfixed by her eyes. Red with black points in the center. He searched, vertiginously, for some semblance of Mom.

Was she dead, as Dad said? Or alive?

Was she gone forever? Or was she here—right here in the room with him?

Was she still his? Or was she now someone else’s?

She jammed her head between the iron bars, grinding flesh and cracking bone, like a snake forcing itself into a rabbit’s hole, trying desperately to bridge the extra distance between her stinger and the boy’s flesh. Her jaw fell again, her glowing eyes settling on the boy’s throat, just above his Adam’s apple.

Eph came racing back into the bedroom. He found Zack standing there, staring dumbly at Kelly, the vampire squeezing its head between the iron bars, about to strike. Eph pulled a silver-bladed sword from behind his back, yelling, “NO!” and jumping in front of Zack.

Nora burst into the room behind Eph, turning on a Luma lamp, its harsh UVC light humming. The sight of Kelly Goodweather—this corrupted human being, this monster-mother—repulsed Nora, but she advanced, the virus-killing light in her outstretched hand.

Eph, too, moved toward Kelly and her hideous stinger. The vampire went deep-eyed with animal rage.

“OUT! GO BACK!” Eph bellowed at Kelly the way he might at some wild animal trying to enter his house, scavenging for food. He leveled the sword at her and made a run for the window.

With one last, painfully ravenous look at her son, Kelly pulled back from the window cage, just out of Eph’s blade’s reach—and darted away along the side of the exterior wall.

Nora placed the lamp inside the cage, resting it upon two intersecting bars so that its killing light filled the space of the smashed window, to keep Kelly from returning.

Eph ran back to his son. Zack’s gaze had fallen, his hands at his throat, chest bucking. Eph thought at first it was despair, then realized it was more than that.

A panic attack. The boy was all locked up inside. He was unable to breathe.

Eph looked around frantically, discovering Zack’s inhaler on top of the old television. He pressed the device into Zack’s hands and guided it to his mouth.

Eph squeezed, and Zack huffed, and the aerosol opened up his lungs. Zack’s pallor improved immediately, his airway expanding like a balloon—and Zack slumped, weakened.

Eph set down his sword, steadying the boy—but the revived Zack shoved him away, rushing toward the empty window. “Mom!” he croaked.

Kelly retreated up the brick face of the building, the talons developing out of her middle fingers aiding her ascent as she climbed flat against the building side, like a spider. Fury at the interloper carried her along. She felt—with the intensity of a mother dreaming of a distressed child calling out her name—the exquisite nearness of her Dear One. The psychic beacon that was his human grief. The force of his need for his mother redoubled her unconditional vampiric need for him.

What she saw when she had laid eyes upon Zachary Goodweather again was not a boy. Was not her son, her love. She saw instead a piece of her that stubbornly remained human. She saw something that remained hers by biology, a part of her being forever. Her own blood, only still human-red, not vampire-white. Still carrying oxygen, not food. She saw an incomplete part of her, held back by force.

And she wanted it. She wanted it like crazy.

This was not human love, but vampire need. Vampire longing. Human reproduction spreads outward, creating and growing, while vampiric reproduction operates in the reverse, turning back upon the bloodline, inhabiting living cells and converting them to its own ends.

The positive attractor, love, becomes its opposite, which is not, in fact, hate—nor death. The negative attractor is infection. Instead of sharing love and the joining of seed and egg and the commingling gene pools in the creation of a new and unique being, it is a corruption of the reproductive process. An inert substance invading a viable cell and producing hundreds of millions of identical copies. It is not shared and creative, but violent, destructive. It is a defilement and a perversion. It is biological rape and supplantation.

She needed Zack. As long as he remained unfinished, she remained incomplete.

The Kelly-thing stood poised on the edge of the roof, indifferent to the suffering city all around her. She knew only thirst. A craving, for blood and for her blood kind. This was the frenzy that compelled her; a virus knows only one thing: that it must infect.

She had begun to search for some other way inside this brick box when, from behind the doorway bulkhead, she heard a pair of old shoes crunching gravel.

In the darkness, she saw him well. The old hunter Setrakian appeared with a silver sword, advancing. He meant to pin her against the edge of the roof and the night.

His heat signature was narrow and dull; an aged human, his blood moved slowly. He appeared small, though all humans appeared small to her now. Small and unformed, creatures grasping at the edge of existence, tripping over their paltry intellect. The butterfly with a death’s head on its winged back looks at a furry chrysalis with absolute disdain. An earlier stage of evolution, an outmoded model incapable of hearing the soothing exultation of the Master.

Something in her always went back to Him. Some primitive and yet coordinated form of animal communication. The psyche of the hive.

As the old human advanced toward her with his slaying silver blade glowing brightly in her vision, a response came forth, directly from the Master, relayed through her into the mind of the old avenger.

Abraham.

From the Master, and yet—not of his great voice, as Kelly understood it.

Abraham. Don’t.

It came as a woman’s intonation. Not Kelly’s. No voice she had ever heard.

But Setrakian had. She saw it in his heat signature, the way his heart rate quickened.

I live in her too … I live in her …

The avenger stopped, a hint of weakness coming into his eyes. The Kelly vampire seized on the moment, her chin falling, her mouth jerking open, feeling the impending thrust of her activated stinger.

But then the hunter raised his weapon and came at her with a cry. She had no choice. The silver blade burned in the night of her eyes.

She turned and ran along the edge, turning down and scuttling low along the wall of the building. From the vacant lot below, she looked back once at the old human, his shrinking heat signature, standing alone, watching her go.

Eph went to Zack, pulling on his arm, keeping him back from the scalding UV light of the lamp inside the window cage.

“Get away!” yelled Zack.

“Buddy,” said Eph, trying to calm him down, calm them both down. “Guy. Z. Hey.”

“You tried to kill her!”

Eph didn’t know what to say, because indeed he had. “She’s … she’s dead already.”

“Not to me!”

“You saw her, Z.” Eph didn’t want to have to talk about the stinger. “You saw it. She’s not your mom anymore. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to kill her!” Zack said, his voice still raw from choking.

“I do,” said Eph. “I do.”

He went to Zack, trying again for some contact, but the boy pulled away. He went instead to Nora, who was handy as a female substitute, and cried into her shoulder.

Nora looked back at Eph with consolation in her eyes, but Eph wouldn’t have it. Fet was at the door behind him.

“Let’s go,” said Eph, rushing from the room.

The Night Squad

THEY CONTINUED UP the street toward Marcus Garvey Park, the five off-duty cops on foot, and the sergeant in his personal vehicle.

No badges. No cruiser cameras. No after-action reports. No inquiries, no community boards, and no Internal Affairs.

This was about force. About setting things right.

“Communicable mania,” the feds termed it. “Plague-related dementia.”

What happened to good, old-fashioned “bad guys”? That term gone out of style?

The government was talking about deploying the Staties? The National Guard? The Army?

At least give us blue boys a shot first.

“Hey—what the …!”

One of them was holding his arm. A deep cut, right through the sleeve.

Another projectile landed at their feet.

“Fucking throwing rocks now?”

They scanned the rooftops.

“There!”

A huge chunk of decorative stone, a fleur-de-lis, came sailing down at their heads, scattering them. The piece shattered onto the curb, rock smacking their shins.

“In here!”

They ran for the door, busted inside. The first man in charged up the stairs to the second-floor landing. There, a teenage girl in a long nightshirt stood in the middle of the hallway.

“Get outta here, honey!” he yelled, pushing right past her, heading for the next flight of stairs. Someone was on the move up there. The cop didn’t have to wait for rules of engagement, or justifiable force. He yelled at him to stop, then opened up on the guy, plugging him four times, putting him down.

He advanced on the rioter, all charged up. A black guy with four good hits in his chest. The cop smiled down the gap in the stairs.

“I got one!”

The black guy sat up. The cop backed away, getting off one more round before the guy sprang on him, clutching him, doing something to his neck.

The cop spun, his assault rifle pressed flat between them, feeling the railing give against his hip.

They fell together, landing hard. Another cop turned and saw the suspect on top of the first cop, biting him on the neck or something. Before firing, he looked up to see where they had fallen from—and saw the nightshirt-wearing teen.

She leaped down at him, knocking him flat, straddling him, and clawing at his face and neck.

A third cop came back down the stairs and saw her—then saw the guy behind her with a stinger coming out of his mouth, throbbing as it drained the first cop.

The third cop fired on the teen, knocking her back. He started to go after the other freak when a hand swept down from behind him, a long, talon-like nail slicing open his neck, spinning him into the creature’s arms.

Kelly Goodweather, her rage of hunger and blood-need triggered by the yearning for her son, dragged the cop one-handedly into the nearest apartment, slamming the door so that she could feed deeply and without interruption.

The Master—Part I

THE MAN’S LIMBS twitched for the last time, the faint perfume of his final breath escaping his mouth, the death rattle signaling the end of the repast for the Master. The man’s inert, nude body, released by the towering shadow, collapsed next to the other four victims similarly at the feet of Sardu.

All of them exhibited the same concussive stinger mark in the soft flesh of the inside thigh, right on the femoral artery. The popular image of a vampire drinking from the neck was not incorrect, but powerful vampires favored the femoral artery of the right leg. The pressure and oxygenation were perfect, and the flavor was fuller, almost blunt. The jugular, on the other hand, carried impure, tangy blood. Regardless, the act of feeding had long ago lost its thrill for the Master. Many a time the ancient vampire fed without even looking into its victim’s eyes—although the adrenaline surge of fear in the victim added an exotic tingle to the metallic flavor of blood.

For centuries, human pain remained fresh and even invigorating: its various manifestations amused the Master, the cattle’s delicate symphony of gasps and screams and exhalations still arousing the creature’s interest.

But now, especially when it fed like this, en masse, it sought absolute silence. From within, the Master called upon its primal voice—its original voice—the voice of its true self, shedding all other guests within its body and its will. It emitted its murmur: a pulse, a psycho-sedative rumble from within, mental whiplash, paralyzing nearby prey for the longest time in order that the Master could feed at peace.

But in the end, The Murmur was to be used cautiously, for it exposed the Master’s true voice. Its true self.

It took a bit of time and effort to quiet all the inhabiting voices and discover its own again. This was dangerous, as these voices served as the Master’s cloaking device. The voices—including that of Sardu, the boy hunter whose body the Master inhabited—camouflaged the Master’s presence, position, and thoughts before the other Ancient Ones. They cloaked him.

It had used The Murmur inside the 777 at arrival, and it wielded the pulse-sound now to gain absolute silence and collect its thoughts. The Master could do it here—hundreds of feet below ground level, in a concrete vault at the center of the semi-abandoned charnel house complex. The Master’s chamber resided at the center of a labyrinth of curving corralled areas and service tunnels beneath the steer abattoir above them. Blood and residue had once been collected there, but now, after a thorough cleaning in advance of the Master’s residency, the structure resembled most closely a small industrial chapel.

The pulsating slash on the Master’s back had started healing almost instantly. He never feared any permanent damage from the wound—he never feared anything—and yet the slash would form into a scar, defacing his body like an affront. The old fool and the humans by his side would regret the day they crossed the Master.

The faintest echo of rage—of deep indignation—rippled through its many voices and its single will. The Master felt vexed, a refreshing and energizing sensation. Indignation was not a feeling it experienced often, and thus the Master lowed—even welcomed—this novel reaction.

Quiet laughter rattled through its injured body. The Master was way ahead of the game, and all of its various pawns were behaving as expected. Bolivar, the energetic lieutenant in his ranks, was proving quite apt at spreading the thirst, and had even collected a few serfs that could do sun chores for them. Palmer’s arrogance grew with each tactical advance, yet he remained fully under the Master’s control. The Occultation had marked the time for the plan to be set forth. It had defined the delicate, sacred geometry needed, and now—very soon—the earth would burn …

On the floor, one of the morsels groaned, unexpectedly clinging to life. Refreshed and delighted, the Master gazed down upon it. In its mind, the chorus of voices restarted. The Master looked upon the man at his feet, and some pain and fear remained in his gaze—an unanticipated treat.

This time, the Master indulged itself, savoring the tangy dessert. Under the vaulted roof of the Charnel House, the Master lifted the body up, carefully laying its hand over the chest, above the heart of the man, and greedily extinguished the rhythm within.

Ground Zero

THE PLATFORM WAS empty when Eph jumped down onto the tracks, following Fet into the subway tunnel leading alongside the construction bathtub of the Ground Zero project.

He never imagined he would return here, to this place. After everything they had witnessed and encountered before, he could not imagine a force strong enough to compel him to return to the subterranean labyrinth that was the Master’s nest.

But calluses form in as little as one day. Scotch had helped. Scotch helped quite a bit.

He walked over black rocks along the same out-of-service track as before. The rats had not returned. He passed the sump hose abandoned by the sandhogs who had also disappeared.

Fet carried his usual steel rod of rebar. Despite the more appropriate and impactful weapons they carried—ultraviolet lamps, silver swords, a nail gun loaded with brads of pure silver—Fet continued to carry his rat stick, though they both knew there were no longer any rats here. Vampires had infested the rats’ subterranean domain.

Fet also liked the nail gun. Pneumatic air-powered nail guns required tubing and water. Electric nail guns lacked punch and trajectory. Neither was truly portable. Fet’s powder-actuated gun—a weapon from the old man’s arsenal of oddities ancient and modern—operated on a shotgun load of gunpowder. Fifty silver nails per load, fed through the bottom like the magazine of an UZI. Lead bullets put holes in vamps, same as humans—but when your nervous system is gone, physical pain is a non-issue, copper-plated projectiles reduced to blunt instruments. A shotgun had stopping power, but unless you severed the head at the neck, pellet blasts didn’t kill either. Silver, introduced in the form of an inch-and-a-half brad, killed viruses. Lead bullets made them angry, but silver nails hurt them at something like a genetic level. And, almost as important, at least to Eph: silver scared them. As did ultraviolet light in the pure, shortwave UVC range. Silver and sunlight were the vampire equivalent of the exterminator’s rat stick.

Fet had come to them as a city employee, an exterminator who wanted to know what was driving the rats out from underground. He had already run into a few vampires in his subterranean adventures, and his skill set—a dedicated killer of vermin, and an expert in the workings of the city beneath the city—lent itself perfectly to vampire hunting. He was the one who had first led Eph and Setrakian down here in search of the Master’s nest.

The smell of slaughter remained trapped in the underground chamber. The charred stench of roasted vampire—and the lingering ammonia odor of the creatures’ excrement.

Eph found himself lagging behind, and picked up his pace, sweeping the tunnel with his flashlight, catching up to Fet.

The exterminator chewed an unlit Toro cigar, which he was used to talking around. “You okay?” he asked.

“I’m great,” said Eph. “Couldn’t be better.”

“He’s confused. Man, I was confused at that age, and my mother wasn’t … you know.”

“I know. He needs time. And that’s just one of many things I can’t give him right now.”

“He’s a good kid. I don’t usually like kids, but I like yours.”

Eph nodded, appreciative of the effort Fet was putting forth. “I like him too.”

“I worry about the old man.”

Eph stepped carefully over the loose stones. “It took a lot out of him.”

“Physically, sure. But there’s more.”

“Failure.”

“That, yes. Getting so near, after so many years of chasing these things, only to see the Master withstand and survive the old man’s best shot. But something else too. There are things he’s not telling us. Or hasn’t told us yet. I am sure of it.”

Eph remembered the king vampire throwing back its cloak in a gesture of triumph, its lily-white flesh cooking in the daylight as it howled at the sun in defiance—then disappearing over the edge of the rooftop. “He thought sunlight would kill the Master.”

Fet chewed his cigar. “The sun did hurt it, at least. Who knows how long that thing would have been able to take the exposure. And you—you cut him. With the silver.” Eph had gotten in a half-lucky slash across the Master’s back, which the sun’s subsequent exposure fused into an instant black scar. “If it can be hurt, I guess it can be destroyed. Right?”

“But—isn’t a wounded animal more dangerous?”

“Animals, like people, are motivated by pain and fear. But this thing? Pain and fear are where it lives. It doesn’t need any additional motivation.”

“To wipe us all out.”

“I’ve been thinking a lot about that. Would he want to wipe out all of mankind? I mean—we’re his food. We’re his breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He turns everyone into vamps, there goes his entire food supply. Once you kill all the chickens, no more eggs.”

Eph was impressed by Fet’s reasoning, the logic of an exterminator. “He’s got to maintain a balance, right? Turn too many people into vampires, you create too great a demand for human meals. Blood economics.”

“Unless there’s some other fate in store for us. I only hope the old man has the answers. If he doesn’t …”

“Then nobody does.”

They came up to the dingy tunnel junction. Eph held up his Luma lamp, the UVC rays bringing out the wild stains of vampire waste: their urine and excrement, whose biological matter fluoresced under the low light range. The stains were no longer the garish colors Eph remembered. These stains were fading. This meant that no vampires had revisited the spot recently. Perhaps, through their apparent telepathy, they had been warned away by the deaths of the hundreds of fellow creatures that Eph, Fet, and Setrakian had slain.

Fet used his steel rod to poke at the mound of discarded mobile phones, piled up like a cairn. A desultory monument to human futility—as though vampires had sucked the life out of people, and all that was left were their gadgets.

Fet said, quietly, “I’ve been thinking about something he said. He was talking about myths from different cultures and ages revealing similar basic human fears. Universal symbols.”

“Archetypes.”

“That was the word. Terrors common to all tribes and countries, deep in all humans across the board—diseases and plagues, warfare, greed. His point was, what if these things aren’t just superstitions? What if they are directly related? Not separate fears linked by our subconscious—but what if they have actual roots in our past? In other words, what if these aren’t common myths? What if they are common truths?”

Eph found it difficult to process theory down in the underbelly of the besieged city. “You’re saying that he’s saying that maybe we’ve always known …?”

“Yes—always feared. That this threat—this clan of vampires who subsist on human blood, and whose disease possesses human bodies—existed and was known. But as they went underground, or what-have-you, retreating into the shadows, the truth got massaged into myth. Fact became folklore. But this well of fear runs so deeply, throughout all peoples and all cultures, that it never went away.”

Eph nodded, interested but also distracted. Fet could stand back and consider the big picture, while Eph’s situation was the opposite of Fet’s. His wife—his ex-wife—had been taken, turned. And now she was hell-bent on turning her blood, her Dear One, their son. This plague of demons had affected him on a personal level, and he was finding it difficult to focus on anything else, never mind theorizing on the grand scale of things—though that was, in fact, his training as an epidemiologist. But when something this insidious enters your personal life, all superior thinking goes out the window.

Eph found himself increasingly obsessed with Eldritch Palmer, the head of the Stoneheart Group and one of the three richest men in the world—and the man they had identified as the Master’s coconspirator. As the domestic attacks had scaled up, doubling each passing night, the strain spreading exponentially, the news insisted on reducing them to mere “riots.” This was akin to calling a revolution an isolated protest. They had to know better, and yet someone—it had to be Palmer, a man with a vested interest in misleading the American public and the world at large—was influencing the media and controlling the CDC. Only his Stoneheart Group could finance and enforce such a massive campaign of public misinformation about the occultation. Eph had determined, privately, that if they could not readily destroy the Master, well, they could certainly destroy Palmer, who was not only elderly but notoriously infirm. Any other man would have passed on ten years ago, but Palmer’s vast fortune and unlimited resources kept him alive, like an antique vehicle requiring round-the-clock maintenance just to keep it running. Life, the doctor in Eph imagined, had become for Palmer something akin to a fetish: How long could he keep going?

Eph’s fury at the Master—for turning Kelly, for upending everything Eph believed about science and medicine—was justified but impotent, like shaking his fists at death itself. But condemning Palmer, the Master’s human collaborator and enabler, gave Eph’s torment a direction and a purpose. Even better, it legitimized a desire for personal revenge.

This old man had shattered Eph’s son’s life and broken the boy’s heart.

They reached the long chamber that was their destination. Fet readied his nail gun and Eph brandished his sword before turning the corner.

At the far end of the low chamber stood the mound of dirt and refuse. The filthy altar upon which the coffin—the intricately carved cabinet had traversed the Atlantic inside the cold underbelly of Regis Air Flight 753, inside which the Master lay buried in cold, soft loam—had lain.

The coffin was gone. Disappeared again, as it had from the secure hangar at LaGuardia Airport. The flattened top of the dirt altar still bore its impression.

Someone—or, more likely, some thing—had returned to claim it before Eph and Fet could destroy the Master’s resting place.

“He’s been back here,” said Fet, looking all around.

Eph was bitterly disappointed. He had longed to demolish the heavy cabinet—to turn his wrath on some physical form of destruction, and to disrupt the monster’s habitat in some certain way. To let it know that they had not given up, and would never back down.

“Over here,” said Fet. “Look at this.”

A splashed-out swirl of colors at the base of the side wall, given life by the rays of Fet’s lamp wand, indicated a fresh spray of vampire urine. Then Fet illuminated the entire wall with a normal flashlight.

A graffiti mural of wild designs, random in arrangement, covered the stone expanse. Closer, Eph discerned that the vast majority of the figures were variations on a six-pointed motif, ranging from rudimentary to abstract to simply bewildering. Here was something starlike in appearance; there a more amoeba-like pattern. The graffiti spread out across the wide wall in the manner of a thing replicating itself, filling the stone face from bottom to top. Up close, the paint smelled fresh.

“This,” said Fet, stepping back to take it all in, “is new.”

Eph moved in to examine a glyph at the center of one of the more elaborate stars. It appeared to be a hook, or a claw, or …

“A crescent moon.” Eph moved his black-light lamp across the complex motif. Invisible to the naked eye, two identical shapes were hidden in the vectors of the tracery. And an arrow, pointing to the tunnels beyond.

“They may be migrating,” said Fet. “Pointing the way …”

Eph nodded, and followed Fet’s gaze. The direction it indicated was southeast.

“My father used to tell me about these markings,” said Fet. “Hobo speak—from when he first came to this country after the war. Chalk drawings indicating friendly and unfriendly houses—where you might get fed, find a bed, or even to warn others about a hostile homeowner. Throughout the years, I’ve seen similar signs in warehouses, in tunnels, cellars …”

“What does it mean?”

“I don’t know the language.” He looked around. “But it seems to be pointing that way. See if one of those phones has any battery left. One with a camera.”

Eph rooted through the top of the pile, trying phones and discarding the dark ones. A pink Nokia with a glow-in-the-dark Hello Kitty charm winked to life in his hand. He tossed it to Fet.

Fet looked it over. “I never understood this fucking cat. The head is too big. How is it even a cat? Look at it. Is it sick with … with water inside it?”

“Hydrocephalic, you mean?” said Eph, wondering where this was coming from.

Fet ripped off the charm and tossed it away. “It’s a jinx. Fucking cat. I hate that fucking cat.”

He snapped a picture of the crescent glyph illuminated by indigo light, then videoed the entirety of the manic fresco, overwhelmed by the sight of it inside this gloomy chamber, haunted by the nature of its trespass—and mystified as to its meaning.

It was daylight when they emerged. Eph carried his sword and other equipment inside a baseball bag over his shoulder; Fet ported his weapons in a small rolling case that used to contain his exterminating tools and poisons. They were dressed for labor, and dirty from the tunnels beneath Ground Zero.

Wall Street was eerily quiet, the sidewalks nearly empty. Distant sirens wailed, begging a response that would not come. Black smoke was becoming a permanent fixture in the city sky.

The few pedestrians who did pass scurried by them quickly, with barely a nod. Some wore face masks, others shielded their noses and mouths with scarves—operating on misinformation about this mysterious “virus.” Most shops and stores were closed—looted and empty or without power. They passed a market that was lit but unstaffed. People inside were taking what was left of the spoiled fruit in the stalls in front, or canned goods from the emptying shelves in back. Anything consumable. The drink cooler had already been raided, as had the refrigerated foods section. The cash register was cleaned out as well, because old habits die hard. But currency was hardly as valuable as water and food would be soon.

“Crazy,” muttered Eph.

“At least some people still have power,” said Fet. “Wait until their phones and laptops run dry, and they find they can’t recharge. That’s when the screaming starts.”

Crosswalk signs changed symbols, going from the red hand to the white figure walking, but without crowds to cross. Manhattan without pedestrians was not Manhattan. Eph heard automobile horns out on the main avenues, but only an occasional taxi traversed the side streets—drivers hunched over steering wheels, fares sitting anxiously in the back.

They both paused at the next curb, out of habit, the crossing sign turning red. “Why now, do you think?” said Eph. “If they have been here so long, for centuries—what provoked this?”

Fet said, “His time horizon and ours, they are not the same. We measure our lives in days and years, by a calendar. He is a night creature. He has only the sky to concern him.”

“The eclipse,” said Eph suddenly. “He was waiting for that.”

“Maybe it means something,” said Fet. “Signifies something to him …”

Coming out of a station, a Transit Authority cop glanced at them, eyeing Eph.

“Shit.” Eph looked away, but neither quickly nor casually enough. Even with the police forces breaking down, his face was on television a lot, and everybody was still watching, waiting to be told what to do.

As they moved on, the cop turned away. It’s just my paranoia, Eph thought.

Around the corner, following precise instructions, the cop made a phone call.

Fet’s Blog

HELLO THERE, WORLD.

Or what’s left of it.

I used to think that there was nothing more useless than writing a blog.

I was unable to imagine any greater waste of time.

I mean, who cares what you have to say?

So I don’t really know what this is.

But I need to do it.

I guess I have two reasons.

One is to set down my thoughts. To get them out onto this computer screen where I can see them and maybe make some sense out of all that is happening. Because what I have experienced in the past few days has changed me—literally—and I need to try and figure out who I am now.

The second reason?

Simple. Get out the truth. The truth of what is happening.

Who am I? I’m an exterminator by trade. So if you happen to live in one of the five boroughs of NYC, and you see a rat in your bathtub and you call pest control …

Yep. I’m the guy who shows up two weeks later.

You used to be able to leave that dirty job to me. Ridding pests. Eradicating vermin.

But not anymore.

A new infestation is spreading throughout the city, and into the world. A new breed of intruder. A pox upon the human race.

These creatures are nesting in your basement.

In your attic.

Your walls.

Now, here’s the kicker.

With rats, mice, roaches—the best way to eliminate an infestation is to remove the food source.

Okay.

Only problem with that is that this new breed’s food source?

That’s right.

It’s us.

You and me.

See, in case you haven’t figured it out yet—we’re in a shitload of trouble here.

Fairfield County, Connecticut

THE LOW-SLUNG BUILDING was one of a dozen at the end of the crumbling road, an office park that had been foundering even before the recession hit. It retained the sign of the previous tenant, R. L. Industries, a former armored car dispatcher and garage, and accordingly remained surrounded by a sturdy twelve-foot chain-link fence. Access was by key card through an electronic gate.

The garage half of the interior held the doctor’s cream-colored Jaguar and a fleet of black vehicles befitting a dignitary’s motorcade. The office half had been refitted into a small, private surgery dedicated to servicing one patient.

Eldritch Palmer lay in the recovery room, waking to the usual postoperative discomfort. He roused himself slowly but surely, having made this dark passage to returning consciousness many times before. His surgical team knew well the appropriate mix of sedatives and anesthesia. They never put him under deeply anymore. At his advanced age, it was too risky. And for Palmer, the less anesthesia used the faster he recovered.

He remained connected to machines testing the efficiency of his new liver. The donor had been a teenage Salvadorian runaway, tested to be disease-, drug-, and alcohol-free. A healthy, young, pinkish-brown organ, roughly triangular in shape, similar to an American football in size. Fresh off a jet plane, fewer than fourteen hours since harvesting, this allograft was, by Palmer’s own count, his seventh liver. His body went through them the way coffee machines go through filters.

The liver, both the largest internal organ and the largest single gland in the human body, has many vital functions, including metabolism, glycogen storage, plasma synthesis, hormone production, and detoxification. Currently, there was no medical way to compensate for its absence in the body—which was most unfortunate for the reluctant Salvadorian donor.

Mr. Fitzwilliam, Palmer’s nurse, bodyguard, and constant companion, stood in the corner, ever-vigilant in the manner of most ex-Marines. The surgeon entered, still wearing his mask, pulling on a fresh pair of gloves. The doctor was fastidious, ambitious, and, even by most surgeons’ standards, incredibly wealthy.

He drew back the sheet. The newly stitched incision was a reopening of an older transplantation scar. Outwardly, Palmer’s chest was a lumpy tableau of disfiguring scars. His interior torso was a hardened basket of failing organs. That was what the surgeon told him: “I am afraid your body cannot sustain any more tissue or organ allografts, Mr. Palmer. This is the end.”

Palmer smiled. His body was a hive of other people’s organs, and in that way he was not dissimilar from the Master, who was the embodiment of a hive of undead souls.

“Thank you, doctor. I understand.” Palmer’s voice was still raw from the breathing tube. “In fact, I suggest that you strike this surgery altogether. I know you are concerned about the AMA finding out about our techniques of organ harvesting, and I hereby release you from obligation. The fee you collect for this procedure will be your last. I will require no further medical intervention—not ever.”

The surgeon’s eyes remained uncertain. Eldritch Palmer, a sick man for nearly all his life, possessed an uncanny will to live: a fierce and unnatural survival instinct the likes of which the surgeon had never before encountered. Was he finally succumbing to his ultimate fate?

No matter. The surgeon was relieved, and grateful. His retirement had been planned for some time now, and everything was arranged. It was a blessing to be free of all obligations at such a tumultuous time as this. He only hoped the flights to Honduras were still in operation. And burning down this building would draw no inquiries in the wake of so much civil unrest.

All this the doctor swallowed with a polite smile. He withdrew under Mr. Fitzwilliam’s steely gaze.

Palmer rested his eyes. He let his mind go back to the Master’s solar exposure, perpetrated by that old fool, Setrakian. Palmer assessed this development in the only terms he understood: What did it mean for him?

It only sped up the timeline, which, in turn, expedited his imminent deliverance.

At long last, his day was nearly at hand.

Setrakian. Did defeat indeed taste bitter? Or was it more akin to ashes on the tongue?

Palmer had never known defeat—would never know defeat. And how many can say that?

Like a stone in the middle of a swift river, stood Setrakian. Foolishly and proudly believing he was disrupting the flow—when, in fact, the river was predictably running full-speed right around him.

The futility of humans. It all starts out with such promise, doesn’t it? And yet all ends so predictably.

His thoughts turned to The Palmer Foundation. It was indeed expected among the super-rich that each of the world’s wealthiest endow a charitable organization in his own name. This, his one and only philanthropic foundation, had used its ample resources to transport and treat two full busloads of children afflicted by the recent occultation of the Earth. Children struck blind during that rare celestial event—either as a result of peeking at the eclipsed sun without proper optical protection, or else due to an unfortunate defect in the lenses of a batch of child-size safety glasses. The faulty glasses had been traced back to a plant in China, the trail running cold at an empty lot in Taipei …

No expense was to be spared in the rehabilitation and re-education of these poor souls, his foundation pledged. And indeed, Palmer meant it.

The Master had demanded it so.

Pearl Street

EPH FELT THAT they were being followed as they crossed the street. Fet, on the other hand, was focused on the rats. The displaced rodents scurried from door to door and along the sunny gutter, evidently in a state of panic and chaos.

“Look up there,” said Fet.

What Eph thought were pigeons perched on the ledges were, in fact, rats. Looking down, watching Eph and Fet as though waiting to see what they would do. Their presence was instructive as a barometer of the vampire infestation spreading underground, driving rats from their nests. Something about the animal vibrations the strigoi gave off, or else their manifestly evil presence, repelled other forms of life.

“There must be a nest nearby,” said Fet.

They neared a bar, and Eph felt a thirsty tug at the back of his throat. He doubled back and tried the door, finding it unlocked. An ancient bar, established more than 150 years ago—the oldest continually operating ale house in New York City, bragged the sign—but no patrons, and no bartender. The only disruption to the silence was the low chatter of a television in a high corner, playing the news.

They walked to the back bar, which was darker, and just as empty. Half-consumed mugs of beer sat on the tables, and a few chairs still had coats hanging off them. When the party ended here, it had ended abruptly and all at once.

Eph checked the bathrooms—the men’s room containing great and ancient urinals ending in a trough beneath the floor—and found them predictably empty.

He came back out, his boots scuffing the sawdust on the floor. Fet had set down his case and pulled out a chair, resting his legs.

Eph stepped behind the back bar. No liquor bottles or blenders or buckets of ice—just beer taps, with shelves of ten-ounce glass mugs waiting below. The place served only beer. No liquor, which was what Eph wanted. Only its own branded brew, available in either light or dark ale. The old taps were for show, but the newer ones flowed smoothly. Eph poured two dark draughts. “Here’s to …?”

Fet got to his feet and walked to the bar, taking up one of the mugs. “Killing bloodsuckers.”

Eph drained half his mug. “Looks like people cleared out of here in a hurry.”

“Last call,” said Fet, swiping the foam off his thick upper lip. “Last call all over town.”

A voice from the television got their attention, and they walked into the front room. A reporter was doing a live shot from a town near Bronxville, the hometown of one of the four survivors of Flight 753. Smoke darkened the sky behind him, the news crawl reading, BRONXVILLE RIOTS CONTINUE.

Fet reached up to change the channel. Wall Street was reeling from consumer fear, the threat of an outbreak greater than the H1N1 flu, and a rash of disappearances among their own brokers. Traders were shown sitting immobilized while the market averages plummeted.

On NY1, traffic was the focus, every exit out of Manhattan congested with people fleeing the island ahead of a rumored quarantine. Air and rail travel were overbooked, the airports and train station scenes of sheer chaos.

Eph heard a helicopter overhead. A chopper was probably the only easy way in or out of Manhattan now. If you had your own helipad. Like Eldritch Palmer.

Eph found an old-school, hard-wired telephone behind the bar. He got a scratchy dial tone and patiently used the rotary face to dial Setrakian’s.

It rang through, and Nora answered. “How’s Zack?” Eph asked, before she could speak.

“Better. He was really flipped out for a while.”

“She never came back?”

“No. Setrakian ran her off the roof.”

“Off the roof? Good Christ.” Eph felt sick. He grabbed a clean mug and couldn’t pour another beer fast enough. “Where’s Z now?”

“Upstairs. You want me to get him?”

“No. Better if I talk to him face-to-face when I get back.”

“I think you’re right. Did you destroy the coffin?”

“No,” said Eph. “It was gone.”

“Gone?” she said.

“Apparently he’s not badly injured. Not slowed down much at all. And—this is weird, but there were some strange drawings on the wall down there, spray paint—”

“What do you mean, someone putting up graffiti?”

Eph patted the phone in his pocket, reassuring himself that the pink phone was still there. “I got some video. I really don’t know what to make of it.” He pulled the phone away for a moment to swallow more beer. “I’ll tell you, though. The city—it’s eerie. Quiet.”

“Not here,” said Nora. “There’s a little bit of a lull now that it’s dawn—but it won’t last. The sun doesn’t seem to scare them as much now. Like they’re becoming bolder.”

“That’s exactly what it is,” said Eph. “They’re learning, becoming smarter. We have to get out of there. Today.”

“Setrakian was just saying that. Because of Kelly.”

“Because she knows where we are now?”

“Because she knows—that means the Master knows.”

Eph pressed his hand against his closed eyes, pushing back on his headache. “Okay.”

“Where are you now?”

“Financial District, near the Ferry Loop station.” He didn’t mention that he was in a bar. “Fet has a line on a bigger car. We’re going to get that and head back soon.”

“Just—please get back here in one human piece.”

“That’s our plan.”

He hung up, and went rooting underneath the bar. He was looking for a container to hold more beer, which he needed for the descent back underground. Something other than a glass mug. He found an old, leather-jacketed flask, and, in brushing the dust off the brass cap, discovered a bottle of good vintage brandy behind it. No dust on the brandy: probably there for a quick nip for the barkeep to break the monotony of the ale. He rinsed out the flask and was filling it carefully over a small sink when he heard a knock at the door.

He came around the bar fast, heading for his weapon bag before realizing: vampires don’t knock. He continued past Fet to the door, cautiously, looking through the window and seeing Dr. Everett Barnes, the director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. The old country doctor was not wearing his admiral’s uniform—the CDC was originally born of the U.S. Navy—but rather an ivory-on-white suit, the jacket unbuttoned. He looked as though he had rushed away from a late breakfast.

Eph could view the immediate street area behind him, and Barnes was apparently alone, at least for the moment. Eph unlocked the door and pulled it open.

“Ephraim,” said Barnes.

Eph grabbed him by his lapel and hauled him inside fast, locking up again. “You,” he said, checking the street again. “Where are the rest?”

Director Barnes pulled away from Eph, readjusting his jacket. “They are on orders to keep well back. But they will be here soon, make no mistake about that. I insisted that I needed a few minutes alone with you.”

“Jesus,” said Eph, checking the rooftops across the street before backing away from the front windows. “How did they get you here so fast?”

“It is a priority that I speak to you. No one wants to harm you, Ephraim. This was all done at my behest.”

Eph turned away from him, heading back to the bar. “Maybe you only think so.”

“We need you to come in,” said Barnes, following him. “I need you, Ephraim. I know this now.”

“Look,” said Eph, reaching the bar and turning. “Maybe you understand what’s going on, and maybe you don’t. Maybe you’re part of it, I don’t know. You might not even know. But there is someone behind this, someone very powerful, and if I go anywhere with you now, it will certainly result in my incapacitation or death. Or worse.”

“I am eager to listen to you, Ephraim. Whatever you have to say. I stand before you as a man admitting his mistake. I know now that we are in the grip of something altogether devastating and otherworldly.”

“Not otherworldly. This-worldly.” Eph capped his brandy flask.

Fet was behind Barnes. “How long until they come in?” he asked.

“Not long,” said Barnes, unsure of the big exterminator in the dirty jumpsuit. Barnes returned his attention to Eph, and the flask. “Should you be drinking now?”

“Now more than ever,” said Eph. “Help yourself if you want. I recommend the dark ale.”

“Look, I know you’ve been put through a lot—”

“What happens to me doesn’t really matter, Everett. This isn’t about me, so any appeals to my ego won’t get you anywhere. What I am concerned about are these half-truths—or, should I say, outright lies—being issued under the auspices of the CDC. Are you no longer serving the public now, Everett? Just your government?”

Director Barnes winced. “Necessarily both.”

“Weak,” said Eph. “Inept. Even criminal.”

“This is why I need you to come in, Ephraim. I need your eyewitness experience, your expertise—”

“It’s too late! Can’t you at least see that?”

Barnes backed off a bit, keeping an eye on Fet because Fet made him nervous. “You were right about Bronxville. We’ve closed it off.”

“Closed it off?” said Fet. “How?”

“A wire fence.”

Eph laughed bitterly. “A wire fence? Jesus, Everett. This is exactly what I mean. You’re reacting to the public perception of the virus, rather than the threat itself. Reassuring them with fences? With a symbol? They will tear those fences apart—”

“Then tell me. Tell me what I need. What you need.”

“Start with destroying the corpses. That is step number one.”

“Destroy the …? You know I can’t do that.”

“Then nothing else you do matters. You have to send in a military team and sweep through that place and eliminate every single carrier. Then expand that operation south, into the city here, and all across Brooklyn and the Bronx …”

“You’re talking mass killing. Think about the visuals—”

“Think about the reality, Everett. I am a doctor, same as you. But this is a new world now.”

Fet drifted away, back toward the front, keeping an eye on the street. Eph said, “They don’t want you to bring me in to help. They want you to bring me in so they can neutralize me and the people I know. This”—he crossed to his weapons bag, drawing a silver sword—“is my scalpel now. The only way to heal these creatures is to release them—and yes, that means wholesale slaughter. Not doctoring. You want to help—to really help? Then get on TV and tell them that. Tell them the truth.”

Barnes looked at Fet in the front. “And who is this one with you now? I expected to see you with Dr. Martinez.”

Something about the way Barnes said Nora’s name struck Eph as odd. But he could not pursue it. Fet came back quickly from the front windows.

“Here they come,” said Fet.

Eph ventured near enough to see vans pulling up, closing off the street in either direction. Fet passed him, grabbing Barnes by the shoulder and walking him to a table in back, sitting him in the corner. Eph slung his baseball bag over his shoulder and ported Fet’s case to him.

“Please,” said Barnes. “I implore you. Both of you. I can protect you.”

“Listen,” said Fet. “You just officially became a hostage, so shut the fuck up.” To Eph, he said: “Now what? How do we hold them off? UVC light doesn’t work on the FBI.”

Eph looked around the old ale house for answers. The pictures and ephemera of a century and a half, hanging on the walls and cluttering the shelves behind the bar. Portraits of Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, and a bust of JFK—all assassinated presidents. Nearby, among such curios as a musket, a shaving-cream mug, and framed obituaries, hung a small silver dagger.

Near it, a sign: WE WERE HERE BEFORE YOU WERE BORN.

Eph rushed behind the bar. He kicked aside the sawdust over the bull-nose ring latch embedded in the worn wooden floor.

Fet, appearing at his side, helped him raise the trapdoor.

The odor told them everything they needed to know. Ammonia. Pungent and recent.

Director Barnes, still in his seat in the corner, said, “They’ll only come in after you.”

“Judging by the smell—I wouldn’t recommend it,” said Fet, starting down first.

“Everett,” said Eph, switching on his Luma lamp before going down. “In case there is any lingering ambiguity, let me be perfectly clear now. I quit.”

Eph followed Fet to the bottom, his lamp illuminating the supply area beneath the bar in ethereal indigo. Fet reached up to close the door overhead.

“Leave it,” muttered Eph. “If he’s as dirty as I think he is, he’s running for the door already.”

Fet did, the hatch remaining open.

The ceiling was low, and the detritus of many decades—old kegs and barrels, a few broken chairs, stacks of empty glass racks, and an old industrial dishwasher—narrowed the passageway. Fet adjusted thick rubber bands around his ankles and jacket cuffs—a trick from his days baiting roach-infested apartments, learned the hard way. He handed some to Eph. “For worms,” he said, zipping his jacket tight.

Eph crossed the stone floor, pushing open a side door leading to an old, warm ice room. It was empty.

Next came a wooden door with an old, oval knob. The floor dust before it was disturbed in the shape of a fan. Fet nodded to him, and Eph yanked it open.

You don’t hesitate. You don’t think. Eph had learned that. You never give them time to group up and anticipate, because it is in their makeup that one of them will sacrifice itself in order that the others might have a chance at you. Facing stingers that can reach five or six feet, and their extraordinary night vision, you never, ever stop moving until every last monster is destroyed.

The neck was their vulnerable point—same as their prey’s throat was to them. Sever the spinal column and you destroy the body and the being that inhabits it. A significant amount of white-blood loss achieves the same end, though bloodletting is much more dangerous, as the capillary worms that escape live on outside the body, seeking new human bodies to invade. Why Fet liked to band up his cuffs.

Eph destroyed the first two in the manner that had proved most effective: using the UVC lamp like a torch to repel the beast, isolating and trapping them against a wall, then closing in with the sword for the coup de grâce. Weapons made of silver do wound them, and cause whatever constitutes the vampire equivalent of human pain—and ultraviolet light burns through their DNA like flame.

Fet used the nail gun, pumping silver brads into their faces to blind or otherwise disorient them, then running through their distended throats. Loosened worms slithered across the wet floor. Eph killed some of the worms with his UVC light, while others met their fate beneath the hard treads of Fet’s boots. Fet, after stomping a few of them, scooped them into a small jar from his case. “For the old man,” he said, before continuing on with his slaying.

They heard a multitude of footsteps and voices in the bar above them as they pressed on into the next room.

One came at Eph from the side—still wearing a bartending apron—its eyes wide and hungry. Eph slashed at it backhandedly, driving the creature back with the lamp light. Eph was learning to ignore his physician’s inclination toward mercy. The vampire gnashed pitifully in a corner as Eph closed in, finishing it off.

Two others, maybe three, had taken off through the next door as soon as they saw the indigo light coming. A handful remained, crouched beneath broken shelves, ready to attack.

Fet came alongside Eph, lamp in hand. Eph started toward the vampires, but Fet caught his arm. Whereas Eph was breathing hard, the exterminator proceeded in a businesslike manner, focused without distress.

“Wait,” said Fet. “Leave them for Barnes’s FBI buddies.”

Eph, seeing the advantage of Fet’s idea, backed off, still with his lamp trained on them. “Now what?”

“Those others ran. There’s a way out.”

Eph looked at the next door. “You better be right,” he said.

Fet took the lead belowground, following the trail of dried urine fluorescing underneath the Luma lamps. The rooms gave way to a series of cellars, connected by old, hand-dug tunnels. The ammonia markings went in many different directions, Fet selecting one, turning off at a junction.

“I like this,” he said, stamping muck off his boots. “Just like rat hunting, following the trail. The UV light makes it easy.”

“But how do they know these routes?”

“They’ve been busy. Exploring, foraging. You never heard of the Volstead Grid?”

“Volstead? Like the Volstead Act? Prohibition?”

“Restaurants, bars, speakeasies, they had to open up their cellars, go underground. This is a city that just keeps building over itself. Combine the old cellars and houses under there with the tunnels, aqueducts, and old utility pipes—and some say you can move block to block, neighborhood to neighborhood, solely underground, between any two points in the city.”

“Bolivar’s place,” said Eph, remembering the rock star who had been one of the four survivors of Flight 753. His building was an old bootlegger’s house, with a secret gin cellar that linked to the subway tunnels below. Eph checked behind them as they passed a side tunnel. “How do you know where you’re going?”

Fet pointed to another hobo signal scratched into the stone, probably with one of the creature’s hardened talon nails. “We’re on to something here,” he said. “That’s all I know for sure. But I bet the Ferry Loop Station isn’t more than a block or two away.”

Nazareth, Pennsylvania

AUGUSTIN …

Augustin Elizalde got to his feet. He stood in a stew of absolute darkness. A palpable inky blackness without a hint of light. Like space with no stars. He blinked his eyes to make certain that they were open—and they were. No change.

Was this death? No place could be darker.

Must be. He was fucking dead.

Or—maybe they had turned him. Was he a vampire now, his body taken over, but this old part of him shut away in the darkness of his mind, like a prisoner in an attic? Maybe the coolness he felt and the hardness of the floor beneath his feet were just compensatory tricks of his brain. He was walled up forever inside his own head.

He crouched a bit, trying to establish his existence through movement and sensory impression. He grew dizzy due to the lack of a visual focal point, and set his feet wider apart. He reached up, jumping, but could feel no ceiling above him.

An occasional faint breeze rippled his shirt. It smelled like soil. Like earth.

He was underground. Buried alive.

Augustin …

Again. His mother’s voice calling to him as in a dream.

“Mama?”

His voice doubled back on him in a startling echo. He remembered her as he had left her: sitting in the bottom of her bedroom closet, under a great pile of clothes. Staring up at him with the leering hunger of a newly turned them.

Vampires, the old man said.

Gus turned, trying to guess in which direction the voice might have originated. He had nothing else to do but follow this voice.

He walked to a stone wall, feeling his way along its smooth and slowly curving face. His palms remained sore where the glass had cut him—the shard he had wielded in the murder (no—the destruction) of his brother-turned-vampire. He stopped to feel his wrists, and realized the handcuffs he had been wearing at the time of his escape from police custody—the ones whose chain the hunters had split—were now gone.

Those hunters. They had turned out to be vampires themselves, appearing on that street in Morningside Heights and battling the other vampires like two sides in a gang war. But the hunters were well equipped. They had weapons, and they were coordinated. They drove cars. They weren’t just the bloodthirsty attack drones like the ones Gus had faced and destroyed.

The last thing he remembered was them throwing Gus into the back of an SUV. But—why him?

Another puff of wind, like Mother Nature’s last breath, brushed against his face, and he followed it—hoping he was moving in the right direction. The wall ended at a sharp corner. He felt for the opposite side, his left, and found it the same: ending at a corner, with a gap in between. Just like a doorway.

Gus stepped through, and the new echo of his footsteps told him that this room was wider and higher-ceilinged than the rest. A faint smell here, familiar to him somehow. Trying to place it.

He got it. The cleaning solution he’d had to use in lockup, on maintenance detail. It was ammonia. Not enough to singe the inside of his nose.

Then something started to happen. He thought his mind was playing tricks, but then realized that, yes, light was coming to the room. The slowness of the illumination, and the general uncertainty of the situation, terrified him. Two tripod lamps set wide apart, near the far walls, were coming up gradually, diluting the thick blackness.

Gus drew his arms in tight, in the manner of the mixed-martial-arts fighters he watched on the Internet. The lights kept brightening, though so gradually that the wattage barely registered. But his pupils were so widely dilated by the darkness, his retina so exposed, that any light source would have caused a reaction.

He didn’t see it at first. The being was right in front of him, no more than ten or fifteen feet away, but its head and limbs were so pale and still and smooth that his eyes read them as part of the walls of rock.

The only thing that stood out was a pair of symmetrical dark holes. Not black holes, but almost black.

The deepest red. Blood red.

If they were eyes, they did not blink. Nor did they stare. They looked upon Gus with a remarkable lack of passion. These were eyes as indifferent as red stones. Blood-sodden eyes that had seen it all.

Gus glimpsed the outline of a robe on the being’s body, blending into the darkness like a cavity within the cavity. The being stood tall, if he was making it out correctly. But the stillness of this thing was deathlike. Gus did not move.

“What is this?” he said, his voice coming out a little funny, betraying his fear. “You think you’re eating Mexican tonight? You wanna think twice about that. How ’bout you come and choke on it, bitch.”

It radiated such silence and stillness that Gus might have been looking at some clothed statue. Its skull was hairless and smooth all over, lacking the cartilage of ears. Now Gus was aware of something, hearing—or, rather, feeling—a vibration like humming.

“Well?” he said, addressing the expressionless eyes. “What you waiting for? You like to play with your food before you eat it?” He pulled his fists in closer to his face. “Not this fucking chalupa, you undead piece of shit.”

Something other than movement drew his attention to the right—and he saw that there was another one. Standing there like part of the stone wall, a shade shorter than the first one, eyes shaped differently but similarly emotionless.

And then, to the left—gradually, to Gus’s eyes—a third.

Gus, who was not unfamiliar with courtrooms, felt like he was appearing before three alien judges inside a stone chamber. He was going out of his mind, but his reaction was to keep shooting off his mouth. To keep putting up the gangbanger front. The judges he had faced called it “contempt.” Gus called it “coping.” What he did when he felt looked down upon. When he felt he was being treated not as a unique human being but as an inconvenience, an obstacle dropped in someone’s way.

We will be brief.

Gus’s hands shot up to his temples. Not his ears: the voice was somehow inside his head. Coming from that same part of his brain where his own interior monologue originated—as though some pirate radio station had started broadcasting on his signal.

You are Augustin Elizalde.

He gripped his head but the voice was tight in there. No off switch.

“Yeah, I know who the fuck I am. Who the fuck are you? What the fuck are you? And how did you get inside my—”

You are not here as sustenance. We have plenty of livestock on hand for the snow season.

Livestock? “Oh, you mean people?” Gus had heard occasional yells, anguished voices echoing through the caves, but imagined they were cries in his dreams.

Free-range husbandry has suited our needs for thousands of years. Dumb animals make for plentiful food. On occasion, one shows unusual resourcefulness.

Gus barely followed that, wanting them to get to the point. “So—what, you’re saying you’re not going to try to turn me into … one of you?”

Our bloodline is pristine and privileged. To enter into our heritage is a gift. Entirely unique and very, very expensive.

They weren’t making any sense to Gus. “If you’re not going to drink my blood—then what the hell do you want?”

We have a proposal.

“A proposal?” Gus banged on the side of his head as though it were a malfunctioning appliance. “I guess I’m fucking listening—unless I have a choice.”

We need a daylight serf. A hunter. We are a nocturnal race of beings, you are diurnal.

“Diurnal?”

Your endogenous circadian rhythm corresponds directly to the light-dark cycle of what you call a twenty-four-hour day. Your kind’s inbred chronobiology is acclimated to this planet’s celestial timetable, in reverse of ours. You are a sun creature.

“Fucking what?”

We need someone who can move about freely during daylight hours. One who can withstand sun exposure, and, in fact, use its power, as well as any other weapons at his disposal, to massacre the unclean.

“Massacre the unclean? You are vampires, right? Are you saying you want me killing your own kind?”

Not our kind. This unclean strain spreading so promiscuously through your people—it is a scourge. It is out of control.

“What did you expect?”

We had no part in this. Before you, stand beings of great honor and discretion. This contagion represents the violation of a truce—an equilibrium—that has lasted for centuries. This is a direct affront.

Gus stepped back a few inches. He actually thought he was starting to understand now. “Somebody’s trying to move in on your block.”

We do not breed in the same random, chaotic manner as your kind. Ours is a process of careful consideration.

“You’re picky eaters.”

We eat what we want. Food is food. We dispose of it when we are satiated.

A laugh rose inside Gus’s chest, nearly choking him. Talking about people like they were three for a dollar at the corner market.

You find that humorous?

“No. The opposite. That’s why I’m laughing.”

When you consume an apple, do you throw away the core? Or do you conserve the seeds for planting more trees?

“I guess I throw it away.”

And a plastic receptacle? When you’ve emptied its contents?

“Fine, I get it. You throw back your pints of blood and then toss away the human bottle. Here’s what I want to know. Why me?”

Because you appear capable.

“How you figure that?”

Your criminal record, for one. You came to our attention through your arrest for murder in Manhattan.

The fat, naked guy rampaging through Times Square. The guy had attacked a family there, and at the time Gus was like, “Not in my city, freak.” Now, of course, he wished he had stayed back like all the rest.

Then you escaped police custody, slaying more uncleans in the process.

Gus frowned. “That ‘unclean’ was my compadre. How you know all this, living down here in this shithole?”

Be assured that we are connected with the human world at its uppermost levels. But, if balance is to be maintained, we cannot afford exposure—precisely what this unclean strain threatens us with now. That is where you come in.

“A gang war. That, I understand. But you left out something super-fucking important. Like—why the fuck should I help you?”

Three reasons.

“I’m counting. They better be good ones.”

The first is, you will leave this room alive.

“I’ll give you that one.”

The second is, your success in this endeavor will enrich you beyond that which you ever thought possible.

“Hmm. I don’t know. I can count pretty high.”

The third … is right behind you.

Gus turned. He saw a hunter first, one of the badass vamps who had grabbed him off the street. Its head was cowled inside a black hoodie, its red eyes glowing.

Next to the hunter was a vampire with that look of distant hunger now familiar to Gus. She was short and heavy, with tangled black hair, wearing a torn housedress, the upper front of her throat bulging with the interior architecture of the vampire stinger.

At the base of the stitched V of her dress collar was a highly stylized, black-and-red crucifix, a tattoo she said she regretted getting in her youth but which must have looked pretty fucking boss at the time, and which, since his youngest days, had always impressed Gusto, no matter what she said.

The vampire was his mother. Her eyes were blindfolded with a dark rag. Gus could see the throbbing of her throat, the want of her stinger.

She senses you. But her eyes must remain covered. Within her resides the will of our enemy. He sees through her. Hears through her. We cannot keep her in this chamber for long.

Gus’s eyes filled with angry tears. The sorrow ached in him, manifested in rage. Since about age eleven, he had done nothing but dishonor her. And now here she was before him: a beast, an undead monster.

Gus turned back to face the others. This fury surged within him, but here he was powerless, and he knew it.

The third is, you get to release her.

Dry sobs came up like sorrowful belches. He was sickened by this situation, appalled by it, and yet …

He turned back around. She was as good as kidnapped. Taken hostage by this “unclean” strain of vampire they kept talking about.

“Mama,” he said. Although she listened, she showed no change of expression.

Slaying his brother, Crispin, had been easy, because of the longstanding bad feelings between them. Because Crispin was an addict and even more of a failure than Gus. Doing Crispin through the neck with that shard of broken glass had been efficiency in action: family therapy and garbage disposal rolled into one. The rage he accumulated through decades had evaporated with every slash.

But delivering his madre from this curse, that would be an act of love.

Gus’s mother was removed from the chamber, but the hunter stayed behind. Gus looked back at the three, seeing them better now. Awful in their stillness. They never moved.

We will provide you with anything you need to achieve this task. Capital support is not an issue, as we have amassed vast fortunes of human treasure through time.

Those who received the gift of eternity had paid fortunes over the centuries. Within their vaults, the Ancient Ones held Mesopotamian coils of silver, Byzantine coins, sovereigns, Deutsche marks. The currency mattered nothing to them. Shells to trade with the natives. “So—you want me to fetch for you—is that it?”

Mr. Quinlan will provide you with anything you need. Anything. He is our best hunter. Efficient and loyal. In many respects, unique. Your only restriction is secrecy. Concealment of our existence is paramount. We leave it to you to recruit other hunters such as yourself. Invisible and unknown, yet skilled at killing.

Gus bridled, feeling the pull of his mother behind him. An outlet for his wrath: maybe this was just what he needed.

His lips pursed into an angry smile. He needed manpower. He needed killers.

He knew exactly where to go next.

IRT South Ferry Inner Loop Station

FET, WITH ONLY one false turn, led them to a tunnel that connected to the abandoned South Ferry Loop Station. Dozens of phantom subway stations dot the IRT, the IND, and the BMT systems. You don’t see them on the maps anymore, though they can be glimpsed through in-service subway car windows on active rails—if you know when and where to look.

The underground climate was more humid here, a dampness in the ground soil, the walls slick and weeping.

The glowing trail of strigoi waste became more scarce here. Fet looked around, puzzled. He knew that the route down Broadway was part of the city’s original subway project, South Ferry having opened for commuters in 1905. The underwater tunnel to Brooklyn opened three years later.

The original mosaic tiling featuring the station initials, SF, still stood, high on the wall, near an incongruously modern sign—

NO TRAINS STOP HERE

—as if anyone would make that mistake. Eph moved into a small maintenance bay, scanning with his Luma.

Out of the darkness, a voice cackled, “Are you IRT?”

Eph smelled the man before he saw him. The figure emerged from a nearby alcove stuffed with ripped and soiled mattresses—a toothless scarecrow of a man dressed in multiple layers of shirts, coats, and pants. His body scent patiently distilled and aged through all of them.

“No,” said Fet, taking over. “We’re not here rousting anybody.”

The man looked them over, rendering a snap judgment as to their trustworthiness. “Name’s Cray-Z,” he said. “You from up top?”

“Sure,” said Eph.

“What’s it like? I’m one of the last ones here.”

“Last ones?” said Eph. He noticed, for the first time, the shabby outline of a few tents and cardboard housings. After a moment, a few more spectral figures emerged. The “Mole People,” denizens of the urban abyss, the fallen, the disgraced, the disenfranchised, the “broken windows” of the Giuliani era. This was where they eventually found their way to, the city below, where it remained warm 24/7, even in the dead of winter. With luck and experience, one could camp at a site for as many as six months at a time, even more. Away from the busier stations, some resided for years without ever seeing a maintenance crew.

Cray-Z looked at Eph with his head turned to favor his one good eye. The other one was covered in granulated cataracts. “That’s right. Most all the colony is gone—just like the rats. Yeah, man. Vanished, leaving them fine valuables behind.”

He gestured at discarded piles of junk: ragged sleeping bags, muddy shoes, some coats. Fet felt a pang, knowing that these articles represented the sum total of the worldly possessions of the recently departed.

Cray-Z smiled a vacant smile. “Unusual, man. Downright spooky.”

Fet remembered something he had read in National Geographic, or maybe watched one night on the History channel: the story of a colony of settlers in the pre-America era—in Roanoke, maybe—who vanished one day. Over a hundred people, gone, leaving behind all of their belongings but no clues to their sudden and mysterious departure, nothing except two cryptic carvings: the word CROATOAN written into a post on their fort, and the letters CRO whittled into the bark of a nearby tree.

Fet looked again at the mosaic SF tiled onto the high wall.

“I know you,” said Eph, keeping a polite distance from the reeking Cray-Z. “I’ve seen you around—I mean, up there.” He pointed toward the surface. “You carry one of those signs, GOD IS WATCHING YOU, or something like that.”

Cray-Z smiled a mostly toothless smile and went and pulled out his hand-drawn placard, proud of his celebrity status. GOD IS WATCHING YOU!!! in bright red, with three exclamation points for emphasis.

Cray-Z was indeed a semi-delusional zealot. Down here, he was an outcast among outcasts. He had lived underground as long as anyone—maybe longer. He claimed that he could get anywhere in the city without surfacing—and yet he apparently lacked the ability to urinate without splashing the toes of his shoes.

Cray-Z moved alongside the tracks, motioning for Eph and Fet to follow. He ducked inside a tarp-and-pallet shack, where old, nibbled extension cords wound away up into the roof, wired into some hidden source of electricity on the great city grid.

It had begun to drizzle lightly within the tunnel, weeping ceiling pipes wetting the dirt, their water splattering onto Cray-Z’s tarp and running down into a waiting Gatorade bottle.

Cray-Z emerged carrying an old promotional cutout of former New York City Mayor Ed Koch, flashing his trademark “How’m I Doing?” smile. “Here,” he said, handing the life-sized photo to Eph. “Hold this.”

Cray-Z then walked them to the far tunnel, pointing down its tracks.

“Right into there,” he said. “That’s where they all went.”

“Who? The people?” said Eph, setting Mayor Koch down next to him. “They went into the tunnel?”

Cray-Z laughed. “No. Not just the tunnel, shithead. Down there. Where the pipes at the curve go under the East River, across to Governor’s Island, then over to mainland Brooklyn at Red Hook. That’s where they took them.”

“Took them?” said Eph, a chill trickling down his spine. “Who—who took them?”

Just then, a track signal lit up nearby. Eph jumped back. “This track still active?”

Fet said, “The 5 train still turns around on the inner loop.”

Cray-Z spat onto the tracks. “Man knows his trains.”

Light grew inside the space as the train approached, brightening the old station, bringing it briefly to life. Mayor Koch shook under Eph’s hand.

“You watch real close, now,” said Cray-Z. “No blinking!” He covered his blind eye and smiled his mostly toothless smile.

The train thundered past them, taking the turn a little faster than usual. The cars were nearly vacant inside, maybe one or two people visible through the windows, here and there a solitary straphanger. Abovegrounders just passing through.

Cray-Z gripped Eph’s forearm as the end of the train approached. “There—right there—”

In the flickering light of the passing train, Fet and Eph saw something on the rear exterior of the final car. A cluster of figures—of bodies, people—flat against the outside of the train. Clinging to it like remoras riding a steel shark.

“You see that?” exulted Cray-Z. “You see ’em all? The Other People.”

Eph shook loose of Cray-Z’s grip, taking a few steps forward away from him and Mayor Koch, the train finishing its loop and dwindling into darkness, the light leaving the tunnel like water down a drain.

Cray-Z started hustling back to his shack. “Somebody has to do something, right? You guys just decided it for me. These are the dark angels at the end of time. They’ll snatch us all if we let ’em.”

Fet took a few lumbering steps after the receding train, before stopping and looking back at Eph. “The tunnels. It’s how they get across. They can’t go over moving water, right? Not unassisted.”

Eph was right there with him. “But under the water. Nothing stops them from that.”

“Progress,” said Fet. “This is the trouble progress gets us in. What do you call it—when you figure out you can get away with shit that nobody made up a specific rule for?”

“A loophole,” said Eph.

“Exactly. This, right here?” Fet opened his arms, gesturing at their surroundings. “We just discovered one giant gaping loophole.”

The Coach

THE LUXURY COACH bus departed New Jersey’s St. Lucia’s Home for the Blind in the early afternoon, headed for an exclusive academy in Upstate New York.

The driver, with his corny stories and an entire catalog of knock-knock jokes, made the journey fun for his passengers, some sixty nervous children between the ages of seven and twelve. Their cases had been culled from emergency-room reports throughout the tristate area. These children were recently visually impaired—all had been accidentally blinded by the recent lunar occultation—and, for many, this was their first trip without a parent present.

Their scholarships, all offered and provided by the Palmer Foundation, included this orientation-like camp outing, an immersive retreat in adaptive techniques for the newly blind. Their chaperones—nine young adult graduates of St. Lucia’s—were each legally blind, meaning their central visual acuity rated 20/200 or less, though they had some residual light perception. The children in their care were all clinically NLP, or “no light perception,” meaning totally blind. The driver was the only sighted person on board.

The traffic was slow in many spots, due to the jam-ups surrounding Greater New York, but the driver kept the children entertained with riddles and banter. At other times, he narrated the ride, or described the interesting things he could see out the window, or invented details in order to make the mundane interesting. He was a longtime employee of St. Lucia’s, who didn’t mind playing the clown. He knew that one secret to unlocking the potential of these traumatized children, and opening their hearts to the challenges ahead, was to feed their imagination and involve and engage them.

“Knock-knock.”

Who’s there?

“Disguise.”

Disguise who?

“Disguise jokes are killing me.”

The stop at McDonald’s went well, all things considered, except that the Happy Meal toy was a hologram card. The driver sat apart from the group, watching the youngsters finding their French fries with tentative hands, having not yet learned to “clock” their meal for ease of consumption. At the same time, unlike the majority of blind children who were born sight-impaired, McDonald’s had visual meaning for them, and they seemed to find comfort in the smooth plastic swivel chairs and oversize drinking straws.

Back on the road, the three-hour ride stretched into double that amount of time. The chaperones led the children singing in rounds, then broadcast some audiobooks on the overhead video screens. A number of the younger children, their biological clocks thrown off by blindness, dozed on and off.

The chaperones perceived the change in light quality through the coach windows, aware of darkness falling outside. The coach moved more swiftly as they got into New York State—until all at once they felt it decelerate suddenly, enough so that stuffed animals and drink cups fell to the floor.

The coach pulled to the side and stopped.

“What is it?” asked the lead chaperone, a twenty-four-year-old assistant teacher named Joni, sitting closest to the front of the bus.

“Don’t know … something strange. Just sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

Then the driver was gone, but the chaperones were too busy to worry—anytime the coach stopped, hands went up for assistance to the restroom in back.

Some ten minutes later, the driver returned. He started up the bus without a word, despite the fact that the chaperones were still supervising bathroom trips. Joni’s request to him to wait was ignored, but the kids were eventually helped back to their seats, and everyone was okay.

The coach rolled on quietly from there. The audio program was not continued. The driver’s banter ceased, and, in fact, he refused to respond to any questions Joni asked, seated right behind him in the first row. She grew alarmed, but decided she must not let the others sense her concern. She told herself that the coach was still moving properly, they were traveling at an appropriate rate of speed, and anyway they had to be close to their destination by now.

Some time later, the coach turned onto a dirt road, waking everyone up. Then it rolled onto even rougher ground, everyone holding on, drinks spilling into laps as the bus bumped along. They endured this shaking for one full minute—until the bus abruptly stopped.

The driver turned off the engine and they heard the door fold open with a pneumatic hiss. He departed without a word, his keys jingling faintly into the distance.

Joni instructed the chaperones to wait. If they had indeed arrived at the academy, as Joni hoped, they would be greeted by the staff at any moment. The problem of the silent bus driver could be addressed at the appropriate time.

Increasingly, however, it seemed that this was not the case, and that no one was coming to greet them.

Joni gripped the back of her seat and stood, feeling her way to the open door. She called into the darkness:

“Hello?”

She heard nothing other than the popping and pinging of the coach’s cooling engine, and the flutter of a passing bird’s wings.

She turned to the young passengers in her care. She sensed their exhaustion and their anxiety. A long trip, now with an uncertain end. Some of the children in back were crying.

Joni called a chaperone meeting at the front. Amid frantic whispering, no one knew what to do.

“Out of range,” explained Joni’s cell phone, in an annoyingly patient voice.

One of them felt along the large dashboard for the operator’s radio but could not locate the handset. He did notice that the driver’s seat of cushioned plastic was still exceedingly warm.

Another chaperone, a brash nineteen-year-old named Joel, finally unfolded his cane and picked his way down the bus steps to the ground.

“It’s a grassy field,” he reported back. Then he yelled, to the driver or to anyone else who might be within earshot: “Hello! Is anybody there?”

“This is so wrong,” said Joni, who, as the lead chaperone, felt as helpless as the little ones in her care. “I just can’t understand it.”

“Wait,” said Joel, talking over her. “Do you hear that?”

They were all quiet, listening.

“Yes,” said another.

Joni heard nothing aside from an owl hooting in the distance. “What?”

“I don’t know. A … a humming.”

“What? Mechanical?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. It’s more like … almost like a mantra from yoga class. You know, one of those sacred syllables?”

She listened longer. “I don’t hear a thing, but … okay. Look, we have two choices. Close the door and stay here, and be helpless—or get everybody outside and mobilize them to find help.”

No one wanted to stay. They had been on the bus too long.

“What if this is some test?” speculated Joel. “You know, part of the weekend.”

Another murmured her agreement.

That sparked something in Joni. “Fine,” she said. “If this is a test, then we’re going to ace it.”

They unloaded the children by rows, and shepherded them into tight columns where they could walk with one hand resting on the shoulder of the child in front of them. Some of the children acknowledged the “hum,” responding to it, trying to replicate the noise for the others. Its presence seemed to calm them. Its source gave them all a destination.

Three chaperones led the way, sweeping their sticks over the surface of the field. The ground was rugged but largely clear of rocks or other treacherous obstacles.

Soon, they heard animal noises in the distance. Someone guessed donkeys, but most agreed no. It sounded like pigs.

A farm? Maybe the humming was a large generator? Some sort of feed machine grinding at night?

Their pace quickened until they reached an impediment: a low wooden rail fence. Two of the three leaders split up left and right, searching for an opening. One was located, and the group was herded to it, moving inside. The grass turned to dirt beneath their shoes, and the pig noises grew louder, nearer. They were on some sort of broad path, and the chaperones drew the children into tighter columns, striding forward until they reached a building of some sort. The path led directly to a large, open doorway, and they entered, calling out but receiving no answer.

They were inside a vast room of various contrapuntal noises. The hogs reacted to their presence with squeals of curiosity that frightened the children. They butted their tight pens and scraped their hooves against the straw-laden floor. Joni felt for the stalls lining either side of the group. The smell was of animal excrement, but also … something more foul. Something like charnel.

They had found the inside of the swine wing of a slaughterhouse, though none of them would have called it by that name.

The hum had become a voice for some of them. Those children felt compelled to break ranks, apparently responding to something familiar in the voice—and the chaperones had to round them up again, some by force. They initiated a new head count to make sure they were all still together.

While she was participating in the count, Joni finally heard the voice. She recognized it as her own, the strangest sensation—the voice seeming to originate inside her own head, hailing her, as in a dream.

They followed the call of the voice, walking forward down a wide ramp to a common area thick with the smell of charnel.

“Hello?” said Joni, her voice trembling—still hoping that the corny bus driver would answer them. “Can you help us?”

A being awaited them. A shadow akin to an eclipse. They felt its heat and sensed its immensity. The droning noise swelled, filled their heads beyond distraction, blanketing their most profound remaining sense—aural recognition—and leaving them in a state of near-suspended animation.

None of them heard the tender crinkling of the Master’s burned flesh as he moved.

INTERLUDE I

FALL 1944

THE OX-DRIVEN CART BUMPED OVER DIRT AND MATTED grass, rolling stubbornly through the countryside. The oxen were agreeable beasts, as are most castrated draught animals, their thin, braided tails swaying in sync like pendulum rods.

The driver’s hands were leathered where he gripped the driving rope. The man seated next to the driver, his passenger, wore a long black gown over black pants. Around his neck hung the long holy beads of a Polish priest.

Yet this young man dressed in holy vestments was not a priest. He was not even Catholic.

He was a Jew in disguise.

An automobile approached from behind. It drew even with them on the rutted road, a military vehicle transporting Russian soldiers, then passed them on the left. The driver did not wave or even turn his head in acknowledgment, using his long stick to prod the slowed oxen as they pushed through the smoky exhaust of the diesel engine. “Doesn’t matter how fast you travel,” he said, once the fumes cleared. “In the end we all arrive at the same destination, eh, Father?”

Abraham Setrakian did not answer. Because he wasn’t certain anymore that what the man said was true.

The thick bandage Setrakian wore around his neck was a ruse. He had learned to understand much of the Polish language, but he could not speak it well enough to pass.

“They beat you, Father,” said the oxcart driver. “Broke your hands.”

Setrakian regarded his young, mangled hands. The smashed knuckles had healed improperly during his time on the run. A local surgeon took pity on him and re-broke and reset the middle joints, which relieved some of the bone-on-bone grinding. He had some mobility in them now, more so than he might have hoped. The surgeon told him his joints would get progressively worse as he aged. Setrakian flexed them throughout the day, up to and then well past the point of pain, in an effort to increase their flexibility. The war cast a dark shadow over any man’s hope for a long and productive life, but Setrakian had decided that, however much time he had left, he would never be considered a cripple.

He did not recognize this part of the countryside upon his return—but then how would he? He had arrived to this locale inside a closed, windowless train. He had never left camp until the uprising, and then—on the run, deep into the woods. He looked now for the train tracks, but, apparently, they had been pulled up. The train’s path remained, however, its telltale scar running through the farmland. One year’s time was not long enough for nature to reclaim that trail of infamy.

Setrakian climbed down off the cart near the final turn, with a blessing for the peasant driver. “Do not stay here long, Father,” said the driver, before whipping his oxen into action. “There’s a pall over this place.”

Setrakian watched his beasts amble off, then walked up the beaten path. He came to a modest brick farmhouse set alongside an overgrown field tended to by a few workers. The extermination camp known as Treblinka was constructed to be impermanent. It was conceived as a temporary human slaughterhouse, constructed for maximum efficiency and intended to disappear completely once its purpose had been served. No tattooed arms as at Auschwitz; very little paperwork whatsoever. The camp was disguised as a train station complete with a false ticket window, a false station name (“Obermajdan”), and a fictitious list of connecting stations. The architects of the Operation Reinhard death camps had planned the perfect crime on a genocidal scale.

Soon after the prisoner uprising, Treblinka was indeed dismantled, torn down in the fall of 1943. The land was ploughed over, and a farm was erected on the site, with the intention of discouraging locals from trespassing and scavenging. The farmhouse was constructed using bricks recovered from the old gas chambers, and a former Ukrainian guard named Strebel and his family were installed as its occupants. The Ukrainian camp workers were former Soviet prisoners of war conscripted into service. The work of the camp—mass murder—affected one and all. Setrakian had seen for himself how these former prisoners themselves—especially the Ukrainians of German extraction, who were given greater responsibilities, such as commanding platoons or squads—succumbed to the corruption of the death camp and its opportunities for sadism as well as personal enrichment.

This man, Strebel, Setrakian could not conjure his face by name alone, but he remembered well the Ukrainians’ black uniforms, as well as their carbines—and their cruelty. Word had reached Setrakian that Strebel and his family had only recently abandoned this farmland, fleeing ahead of the advancing Red Army. But Setrakian, in his position as country priest some sixty miles away, also was privy to tales describing a plague of evil that had settled over the region surrounding the former death camp. It was whispered that the Strebel family had disappeared one night without a word, without taking any possessions with them.

It was this last tale that intrigued Setrakian the most.

He had come to suspect he had gone at least partly, if not fully, insane inside the death camp. Had he seen what he thought he’d seen? Or was this great vampire feasting on Jewish prisoners some figment of his imagination, a coping mechanism, a golem to stand for the Nazi atrocities his mind could not bear to accept?

Only now did he feel strong enough to seek an answer. He went out past the brick house, walking among the workers tilling the field—only to discover that they were not laborers at all, but locals bearing digging tools from home, turning over soil in search of Jewish gold and jewelry lost in the massacre. Yet all they kept unearthing were barbed wire and the occasional chunk of bone.

They looked upon him with suspicion, as though there was a distinct code of conduct for looters, never mind vaguely defined areas of claim. Even his vestments did not slow their digging or melt their resolve. A few may have slowed and looked down—not in shame exactly, but in the manner of those who know better—and then waited for him to continue on before resuming their grave-robbing.

Setrakian walked on from the old camp site, leaving its outline and retracing his old escape route into the forest. After many wrong turns, he arrived at the old Roman ruin, which looked unchanged to his eye. He entered the cave where he had faced and destroyed the Nazi Zimmer, broken hands and all—hauling the being into the light of day and watching it cook in the sun.

As he looked around inside, he realized something. The scores on the floor, the worn path inside the entrance: the cave showed signs of recent habitation.

Setrakian exited quickly and felt his chest constrict as he stood outside the foul ruin. He did sense evil in the area. The sun was dipping low in the west, darkness soon to take the region.

Setrakian closed his eyes in the manner of a priest in prayer. But he was not appealing to a higher being. He was centering himself, pushing down his fear and accepting the task that had presented itself to him.

By the time he had returned to the farmhouse, the locals had all gone home, the fields as still and gray as the graveyard they were.

Setrakian entered the farmhouse. He poked about a bit, just enough to make sure that he was indeed alone there. In the parlor, he received a fright. On the small reading table next to the best chair in the room, a finely carved wooden smoking pipe lay on its side. Setrakian reached for the pipe, taking it into his crooked fingers—and knew instantly.

The handiwork was indeed his. He had crafted four of these, carved at the order of a Ukrainian captain at Christmastime 1942, to be given away as gifts.

The pipe trembled in Setrakian’s hand as he imagined the guard Strebel sitting in this very room with his family, surrounded by the bricks of the death house, enjoying his tobacco and the fine ribbon of smoke trailing toward the ceiling—on the very site where the fire pits roared and the stench of human immolation rose like screams to the unhearing heavens.

Setrakian broke the pipe in his hands, snapping it in two, then dropping it to the floor and further crushing it with his heel, shivering with a fury he had not experienced in many months.

And then, as suddenly as it came—the mania passed. He was calm again.

He returned to the modest kitchen. He lit a single candle and placed it in the window facing the woods. And then he sat at the table.

Alone in the home, flexing his broken hands while he waited, he recalled the day he came upon the village church. He went seeking food, a man on the run, and discovered the religious house empty. All the Catholic priests had been rounded up and taken away. Setrakian discovered warm vestments in the small rectory adjacent to the church, and more out of necessity than any sort of plan—his clothes were tattered beyond repair, marking him as a refugee of some stripe, and the nights were very cold—he pulled them on. He came upon the ruse of the bandage, which no one questioned in a time of war. Even in silence, and perhaps out of a hunger for religion in that dark year, the villagers took to him, airing their confessions to this young man in holy garb who could only offer them a blessing with his mangled hands.

Setrakian was not the rabbi his family had intended him to become. He was something much different, and yet so oddly similar.

It was there, in that abandoned church, that he wrestled with what he had seen, at times wondering how any of it—from the sadism of the Nazis to the grotesquery of the great Vampire—could have been real. He had only his broken hands as proof. By then, the camp, as he had been told by other refugees to whom he offered “his” church as sanctuary—peasants on the run from the Armia Krajowa, deserters from the Wehrmacht or the Gestapo—had been wiped off the face of the earth.

After dusk, when full night had claimed the countryside, an eerie silence settled over the farm. The countryside is anything but quiet at night, and yet the zone surrounding the former death camp was hushed and solemn. It was as though the night were holding its breath.

A visitor arrived soon enough. He appeared in the window, his worm-white face illuminated by the candle flame flickering against the thin, imperfect glass. Setrakian had left the door unlocked, and the visitor walked inside, moving stiffly as though recovering from some great, debilitating disease.

Setrakian turned to face the man with trembling disbelief. SS-Sturmscharführer Hauptmann, his former taskmaster inside the camp. The man responsible for the carpentry shop, and all of the so-called “court Jews” who supplied skilled personal services to the SS and the Ukrainian staff. His familiar, all-black Schutzstaffel uniform—always pristine—was now in tatters, the hanging shreds revealing twin SS tattoos on his now-hairless forearms. His polished buttons were missing, as were his belt and black cap. The death-head insignia of the SS-Totenkopfverbände remained on his worn black collar. His black leather boots, always buffed to a high sheen, were now cracked and caked with grime. His hands, mouth, and neck were stained with the dried black blood of former victims, and a halo of flies clouded the air around his head.

He carried burlap sacks in his long hands. For what reason, wondered Setrakian, had this former ranking officer of the Schutzstaffel come to collect earth from the site of the former Treblinka camp? This loam fertilized with the gas and ash of genocide?

The vampire looked down upon him with rusty red eyes, its gaze remote.

Abraham Setrakian.

The voice came from somewhere, not the vampire’s mouth. Its bloodied lips never moved.

You escaped the pit.

The voice within Setrakian was deep and broad, reverberating in him as though his spine were a tuning fork. That same, many-tongued voice.

The great vampire. The very one he had encountered inside the camp—speaking through Hauptmann.

“Sardu,” said Setrakian, addressing him by the name of the human form he had taken, the noble giant of legend, Jusef Sardu.

I see you are dressed as a holy man. You once spoke of your God. Do you believe He delivered you from the burning pit?

Setrakian said, “No.”

Do you still wish to destroy me?

Setrakian did not speak. But the answer was yes.

It seemed to read his thought, its voice burbling with what could only be described as pleasure.

You are resilient, Abraham Setrakian. Like the leaf that refuses to fall.

“What is this now? Why are you still here?”

You mean Hauptmann. He was made to facilitate my involvement in the camp. In the end, I turned him. And he then fed upon the young officers he once favored. He had a taste for pure Aryan blood.

“Then—there are others.”

The chief administrator. And the camp doctor.

Eichhorst, thought Setrakian. And Dr. Dreverhaven. Yes indeed. Setrakian remembered them both well.

“And Strebel and his family?”

Strebel interested me not at all, except as a meal. Those bodies we destroy after feeding, before they begin to turn. You see, food here has become scarce. Your war is a nuisance. Why create more mouths to feed?

“Then—what do you want here?”

Hauptmann’s head tilted unnaturally, his full throat clucking once, like a frog’s.

Why don’t we call it nostalgia. I miss the efficiencies of the camp. I have become spoiled by the convenience of a human buffet. And now—I am tired of answering your questions.

“One more then.” Setrakian looked again at the sacks of soil in Hauptmann’s hands. “One month before the uprising, Hauptmann directed me to construct a very large cabinet. He even supplied the wood, a very thick ebony grain, imported. I was given a drawing to copy, carving into the top doors.”

Indeed. You do good work, Jew.

A “special project,” Hauptmann had called it. At the time, Setrakian, having no choice in the matter, feared he was building furniture for an SS officer in Berlin. Perhaps even Hitler himself.

But no. It was much worse.

History told me the camp would not last. None of the great experiments do. I knew that the feast would end, and that I would be moving soon. One of the Allies’ bombs had struck an unintended target: my bed. So I needed a new one. Now I am sure to keep it with me at all times.

Setrakian’s anger, not fear, was the cause of his shaking.

He had built the great vampire’s coffin.

And now, Hauptmann must feed. I am not at all surprised that you returned here, Abraham Setrakian. It seems we are both sentimental about this place.

Hauptmann dropped his bags of dirt. Setrakian stood as the vampire started toward the table, backing up against the wall.

Do not worry, Abraham Setrakian. I will not give you to the animals after. I think you should join us. Your character is strong. Your bones will heal, and your hands will again serve us.

Up close, Setrakian felt Hauptmann’s uncanny heat. The vampire radiated its fever, and stunk of the earth it had been collecting. Its lipless mouth parted and Setrakian could see the tip of the stinger inside, ready to strike at him.

He looked into vampire Hauptmann’s red eyes, and hoped that the Sardu Thing was indeed looking back.

Hauptmann’s dirty hand closed around the bandage covering Setrakian’s neck. The vampire pulled the gauze away, and in doing so uncovered a bright silver throat piece covering the esophagus and major arteries. Hauptmann’s eyes widened as it stumbled backward, repelled by the protective silver plate Setrakian had hired his village smith to fashion.

Hauptmann felt the opposite wall at his back. He groaned, weakened and confused. But Setrakian could see that he was only readying his next attack.

Resilient to the end.

As Hauptmann ran at Setrakian, Setrakian produced, from the folds of his robe, a silver crucifix whose long end had been sharpened to a point, and met him halfway.

The slaying of the Nazi vampire was, in the end, an act of pure release. For Setrakian, it represented an opportunity for revenge upon Treblinka soil, as well as a blow against the great vampire and his mysterious ways. But, more than any of that, it served as confirmation of Setrakian’s sanity.

Yes, he had seen what he had seen in the camp.

Yes, the myth was true.

And yes, the truth was terrible.

The slaying sealed Setrakian’s fate. He thenceforth dedicated his life to educating himself about the strigoi—and hunting them down.

He shed his priestly vestments that night, trading them for the garments of a simple farmer, and burned clean the whitish tip of his crucifixion dagger. On his way out, he overturned the candle onto his robe and some rags, and walked off with the light from the flames of the cursed farmhouse flashing against his back.

COLD WIND BLOWING

Knickerbocker Loans and Curios, East 118th Street, Spanish Harlem

SETRAKIAN UNLOCKED THE pawnshop door and raised the security gate, and Fet, waiting outside like a customer, imagined the old man repeating this routine every day for the past thirty-five years. The shop-owner came out into the sunlight, and for just a moment everything might have been normal. An old man squinting into the sun on a street in New York City. The moment inspired nostalgia in Fet, rather than encouragement. It did not seem to him that there were many more “normal” moments left.

Setrakian, in a tweed vest without jacket, white shirtsleeves rolled just past his wrists, looked at the large van. The door and side wall read: MANHATTAN DEPARTMENT OF PUBLIC WORKS.

Fet told him, “I borrowed it.”

The old professor appeared pleased and intrigued. “I wonder, can you get another?”

“Why? Where are we going?”

“We cannot remain here any longer.”

Eph sat down on the flat exercise mat inside the odd-angled storage room on the top floor of Setrakian’s home. Zack sat there with one leg bent, his knee as high as his cheek, arms hugging his thigh. Zack looked ragged, like a boy sent off to sleepaway camp who came back changed, and not for the better. Silver-backed mirrors surrounded them, giving Eph the feeling of being watched by many old eyes. The window frame within the iron bars had been hastily boarded over, a bandage uglier than the wound it covered.

Eph studied his son’s face, trying to read it. He was worried about the boy’s sanity, as he was worried about his own. He rubbed his mouth in preparation for talking, and felt roughness around the edges of his lips and chin, realizing he hadn’t shaved in days.

“I checked the parenting handbook earlier,” he began. “Unfortunately there was no chapter about vampires.”

He tried to smile, but wasn’t sure it worked. He wasn’t sure his smile was persuasive anymore. He wasn’t sure anyone should be smiling now.

“Okay, so, this is going to sound twisted—and it is twisted. But let me get it out. You know your mom loved you, Z. More even than you know, as much as a mother can love a son. That’s why she and I went through all we did, what felt to you at times like a tug-of-war—because neither one of us could bear being apart from you. Because you’re it. I know that children sometimes blame themselves for their parents’ breakup. But you were the one thing holding us together. And driving us crazy fighting over you.”

“Dad, you don’t have to—”

“I know, I know. Cut to it, right? But no. This stuff you need to hear, and right now. Maybe I need to hear it too, okay? We need to set each other straight. Put it right out in front of us. A mother’s love is … it’s like a force. It’s beyond simple human affection. It’s soul-deep. A father’s love—my love for you, Z—it’s the strongest thing in my life, absolutely it is. But this thing has made me realize that there’s something about maternal love—it might just be the strongest human spiritual bond there is.”

He checked to see how this was going with Zack. Couldn’t tell.

“And now this thing, this plague, this awful … it’s taken who she was and burned off all that was good in her. All that was right and true. All that was, as we understand it, human. Your mom … she was beautiful, she was caring, she was … she was also crazy, in the way all devoted mothers are. But you were her great gift to the world. That’s how she saw you. That’s what you are still. That part of her lives on. But now—she is not herself anymore. She is not Kelly Goodweather, not Mom—and this is hard for both of us to accept. All that remains of what she was, as far as I can tell, is her bond with you. Because that bond is sacred, and it never dies. What we call love, in our sappy greeting-card way, is evidently something much deeper than we humans imagined. Her human love for you has … it seems to have shifted, has morphed, into this kind of want, this need. Where she is now, this bad place? She wants you there with her. It’s not bad to her, or evil, or dangerous. She just wants you with her. And what you need to know is that this is all because your mother loved you so completely.”

Zack nodded. He couldn’t or wouldn’t speak.

“Now, that said, we have to keep you safe from her. She looks different now, right? That’s because she is different—fundamentally different—and it’s not easy to face that. I can’t make this right for you except to protect you from her. From what she has become. That’s my new job now, as your parent, as your father. If you think of your mom, as she originally was, and what she would do to save you from any threat to your health, to your safety … well, you tell me. What would she do?”

Zack nodded, answering immediately. “She would hide me.”

“She would take you away. Remove you from the threat, get you to a safe place.” Eph listened to what he was saying. “Just pick you up and … run. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“You’re right,” said Zack.

“Okay, so—being the overprotective mom? That’s my job now.”

Brooklyn

ERIC JACKSON PHOTOGRAPHED the window burn from three different angles. He always carried a small Canon digital camera when he was on duty, along with his gun and his badge.

Acid etching was the thing now. Craft-store etching product usually mixed with shoe polish, marking on glass or Plexiglas. It didn’t show up immediately, burning into the glass in the space of hours. The longer the acid-etched tag remained, the more permanent it became.

He stood back to size up the shape. Six black appendages radiating from a red center mass. He clicked back through his camera memory. Another one, taken yesterday in Bay Ridge, only not as well-defined. And another, in Canarsie, looking more like an oversized asterisk but evincing the same tight lines.

Jackson knew Phade’s work anywhere. True, this wasn’t like his usual throw-ups—this was amateur work compared to that—but the fine arcs and perfect free-hand proportion were unmistakable.

Dude was going all-city, sometimes in one night. How was that possible?

Eric Jackson was a member of the New York Police Department’s Citywide Vandals Taskforce, his job to track and prevent vandalism. He believed in the gospel of the NYPD as it pertained to graffiti. Even the most beautifully colored and detailed graffiti throw-up represented an affront to public order. An invitation to others to consider the urban environment theirs to do with as they pleased. Freedom of expression was always the miscreant’s way out, but littering was an act of expression also, and you still got nicked for it. Order was a fragile thing, with chaos always just a few steps away.

The city was seeing that now, firsthand.

Riots had claimed whole blocks in the South Bronx. Nighttime was the worst. Jackson kept waiting for a call from a captain that would put him back in the old uniform and out on the street. But no word yet. Not a lot of radio chatter at all, whenever he switched it on inside his car. So he kept on doing what he was paid to do.

The governor had resisted calls for the National Guard, but he was just a guy in Albany, weighing his political future. Supposedly, with so many units still in Iraq and Afghanistan, the guard was undermanned and underequipped—but, looking at the black smoke in the distant sky, Jackson would have welcomed any help.

Jackson dealt with vandals in all five boroughs, but nobody bombed as much of the city’s façade as Phade. Dude was everywhere. Must have slept all day, tagged all night. He was fifteen or sixteen now, had been getting up since he was twelve. That was the age most taggers start, toying up at schools, on newspaper boxes, etc. In surveillance photos, Phade’s face was always obscured, usually by a Yankees cap tucked underneath a sweatshirt hood, sometimes even an aerosol mask. He wore typical tagger get-up: cargo pants with many pockets, a backpack for his Krylons, hi-top kicks.

Most vandals work in tagging crews, but not Phade. He was a young legend, moving with apparent impunity throughout diverse neighborhoods. He was said to carry a stolen set of transit keys, including a skeleton that unlocked subway cars. His tags earned respect. The typical profile of a young tagger is low self-esteem, a desire for peer recognition, a distorted view of fame. Phade fit none of these traits. His signature wasn’t a tag—usually a nickname or a repetitive motif—but his style itself. His pieces jumped off walls. Jackson’s own suspicion—long since moved from a hunch to a foregone certainty—was that Phade was likely obsessive-compulsive, perhaps showing symptoms of Asperger’s syndrome or even full-spectrum autism.

Jackson understood this, in part, because he was an obsessive himself. He carried a full book on Phade, quite similar in appearance to the “piece books” taggers carried, featuring their graffiti outlines in a black-cover Cachet sketchbook. As one of five officers assigned to the GHOST unit within the Vandals Taskforce—the Graffiti Habitual Offender Suppression Team—he was responsible for maintaining a graffiti offender databank cross-referencing tags and throw-ups with addresses. People who consider graffiti a kind of “street art” think of brightly colored, Wild Style bubble bombs on building murals and subway cars. They don’t think of tagging crews etching storefronts, competing for high-profile—and often dangerous—“gets.” Or, more often, marking gang territory, establishing name recognition and intimidation.

The other four GHOST cops had stopped showing up for shifts. Some radio reports had NYPD officers deserting the city like the New Orleans cops after Hurricane Katrina, but Jackson couldn’t believe that. Something else was happening—something beyond this sickness spreading throughout the boroughs. You’re sick, you bang in. You get your shift covered so you don’t leave a brother to pick up your slack. These claims of abandonment and cowardice offended him like some incompetent tagger’s clumsy-ass signature over a freshly painted wall. Jackson would believe this crazy vampire shit people were talking before he’d accept that his guys had turned tail and skedaddled to Jersey.

He got inside his unmarked car and drove down the quiet street to Coney Island. He did this three days a week, at least. It was his favorite spot growing up, but his parents didn’t take him there nearly as much as he’d have liked. While he’d abandoned his pledge to go every day when he was a grown-up, he went often enough for lunch to make it okay.

The boardwalk was empty, as he had expected. The autumn day was certainly warm enough, but with the mad flu, amusement was the last thing on people’s minds. He hit Nathan’s Famous and found the place deserted but not locked up. Abandoned. He had worked at this very hot-dog stand after high school, so he went back behind the counter and into the kitchen. He shooed away two rats, then wiped down the cooking surface. The fridge was still cold inside, so he pulled out two beef dogs. He found the buns and a cellophane-covered tin of red onions. He liked onions, especially the way the vandals winced when he got up in their face after lunch.

The dogs cooked fast, and he stepped outside to eat. The Cyclone and the Wonder Wheel were still and quiet, seagulls perched on the uppermost railings. Another seagull flew close, then darted away from the top of the wheel at the last moment. Jackson looked closer and realized that the critters sitting atop the structure weren’t birds at all.

They were rats. Lots of rats, dotting the top edges of the structure. Trying to grab birds. What in the hell?

He continued down the boardwalk, passing Shoot the Freak, one of Coney Island’s landmark attractions. From a railed promontory, he looked down into the alley-like shooting gallery cluttered with fencing, spattered barrels, and assorted mannequin heads and bowling pins set upon rusted racks for target practice. Along the railing were six paintball guns chained to a table. The sign listed the prices, promising a LIVE HUMAN TARGET.

The brick side walls were decorated with graffiti, creating more character. But among the fake white Krylon tags and weak bubble throw-ups, Jackson noticed another of Phade’s designs. Another six-limbed figure, this one in black and orange. And, near it, in the same colors, a design of lines and dots similar to the code he had been seeing all over town.

Then he saw the freak. The freak was dressed in heavy black armor, like riot gear, covering his entire body. A helmet and mask with protective goggles hid his face. The orange-painted shield he normally carried in order to deflect paintball projectiles stood against a low section of chain-link fence.

The freak stood at the far corner of the shooting alley, a can of spray paint in its gloved hand, marking up the wall.

“Hey!” Jackson called down to him.

The freak didn’t acknowledge him. It kept right on tagging.

“Hey!” called Jackson, louder now. “NYPD! I wanna talk to you!”

Still no response or reaction.

Jackson picked up each of the carbine-like paintball guns, hoping for a free shot. He found one with a handful of orange balls still inside its opaque plastic feeder. He shouldered the weapon and fired low, the carbine kicking and the paintball exploding in the dirt at the freak’s boot.

The freak didn’t flinch. It finished its tag and then dropped the empty can and started toward the underside of the railing where Jackson stood.

“Hey, asshole, I said I wanna talk to you.”

The freak did not stop. Jackson unloaded three blasts at its chest, exploding red. Then the freak passed below Jackson’s angle of fire, heading underneath him.

Jackson went to the railing, lifting himself over it and dangling a moment before dropping down. From there, he had a better view of the freak’s handiwork.

It was Phade. No doubt in Jackson’s mind. His pulse quickened and he started for the only door.

Inside was a tiny changing room, the floor spattered with paint. Beyond was a narrow hallway, and along it he saw, discarded, the freak’s helmet, gloves, goggles, body armor overalls, and other gear. Jackson realized then what he had only previously begun to understand: Phade wasn’t just an opportunist using the riots as cover to blanket the city with his tags. No—Phade was linked to the unrest somehow. His markings, his throw-ups: he was part of this.

At the end, he turned into a small office with a counter and a phone, stacks of paintball loads in egg cartons, and broken carbines.

On the swivel chair was an open backpack stuffed with Krylon cans and loose markers. Phade’s gear.

Then a noise behind him and he whipped around. There was the tagger, shorter than Jackson had imagined, wearing a paint-stained hoodie, a silver-on-black Yankees cap, and an aerosol mask.

“Hey,” said Jackson, all he could think to say at first. It had been such a long hunt, he never expected to find his man so abruptly. “I wanna talk to you.”

Phade said nothing, staring, his eyes dark and low beneath the brim of his ball cap. Jackson moved to the side in case Phade was thinking of ditching his backpack and trying to make a run for it.

“You’re a pretty slippery character,” Jackson said. Jackson had his camera in his jacket pocket, ready as ever. “First of all, take off the face mask and hat. I want you to smile for the birdie.”

Phade moved slowly—not at all, at first, but then its paint-spattered hands came up, pulling back its hood, removing its cap, and pulling down its aerosol mask.

The camera remained at Jackson’s eye, but he never pushed the button. What he saw through the lens surprised him at first—then transfixed him.

This wasn’t Phade at all. Couldn’t be. This was a Puerto Rican girl.

She had red paint around her mouth, as though she had been huffing it, getting high. But no: huffed paint leaves an even, thin coat around the mouth. These were thick drops of red, some of it dried below her chin. Her chin dropped then, and the stinger lashed out, the vampire artist leaping onto Jackson’s chest and shoulders and driving him back against the counter, drinking him dry.

The Flatlands

FLATLANDS WAS A neighborhood near the southern shore of Brooklyn between Canarsie and the coastal Marine Park. As with most New York City neighborhoods, it had undergone many significant demographical changes throughout the twentieth century. The library currently offered French-Creole books for Haitian residents and immigrants from other Caribbean nations, as well as reading programs in coordination with local yeshivas for children from Orthodox Jewish families.

Fet’s shop was a small storefront in a strip mall around the corner from Flatlands Avenue. No electricity, but Fet’s old telephone still gave out a dial tone. The front of the store was used mostly for storage, and not designed to service walk-in customers; in fact, the rat sign over the door was specifically meant to discourage window shoppers. His workshop and garage were in back; that was where they loaded in the most essential items from Setrakian’s basement armory—books, weapons, and other wares.

The similarity between Setrakian’s basement armory and Fet’s workshop was not lost on Eph. Fet’s enemies were rodents and insects, and, for that reason, the space was filled with cages, telescoping syringe poles, black-light wands, and miners’ helmets for night hunting. Snake tongs, animal control poles, odor eliminators, dart guns, even throw nets. Powders, trapping gloves, and a lab area over a small sink, with some rudimentary veterinary equipment for taking blood or sampling captured prey.

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.

Setrakian 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.”

“You’re telling me that all we are looking for is the most expensive White Pages in the world?” said Eph.

Setrakian smiled gently and handed over the catalog to Eph. “I understand your skepticism. I do. To a modern man, a man of science—even one who has seen all that you have—ancient knowledge seems archaic. Creaky. A curiosity. But know this. Names do hold the essence of the thing. And, yes—even names listed in a directory. Names, letters, numbers, when known in depth, possess enormous power. Everything in our universe is ciphered and to know the cipher is to know the thing—and to know the thing is to command it. I once met a man, a very wise man, who could cause instant death by enunciating a six-syllable word. One word, Eph—but very few men know it. Now, imagine what that book contains …”

Nora read the catalog over Eph’s shoulder. “And it’s coming up for auction in two days?”

Setrakian said, “Something of an incredible coincidence, don’t you think?”

Eph looked at him. “I doubt it.”

“Correct. I believe this is all part of a puzzle. This book has a very dark and complicated provenance. When I tell you it is believed to be cursed, I don’t mean that someone fell sick once after reading it. I mean that terrible occurrences surround its very appearance whenever it surfaces. Two auction houses that listed it previously burned to the ground before the bidding began. A third withdrew the item and closed its doors permanently. The item is now valued at between fifteen and twenty-five million dollars.”

“Fifteen and twenty-five …” said Nora, puffing her cheeks. “This is a book we’re talking about?”

“Not just any book.” Setrakian took back the catalog. “We must acquire it. There is no other alternative.”

Nora said, “Do they take personal checks?”

“That is the problem. At this price, there is very little chance we may procure it by legitimate means.”

Eph darkened. “That’s Eldritch Palmer money,” he said.

“Precisely,” said Setrakian, nodding ever so slightly. “And through him, Sardu—the Master.”

Fet’s Blog

BACK AGAIN. STILL trying to sort this thing out.

See, I think people’s problem is, they’re paralyzed by disbelief.

A vamp is some guy in a satin cape. Slicked-back hair, white makeup, funny accent. Two holes in the neck, and he turns into a bat, flies away.

I’ve seen that movie, right? Whatever.

Okay. Now look up Sacculina.

What the hell, you’re already on the Internet anyway.

Go ahead. I did.

You back already? Good.

Now you know that Sacculina is a genus of parasitic barnacles that attack crabs.

And who cares, right? Why am I wasting your time?

What the female Sacculina does after her larva molts is she injects herself into the crab’s body through a vulnerable joint in its armor. She gets in there and begins sprouting these root-like appendages that spread all throughout the crab’s body, even around its eyestalks.

Now, once the crab’s body is enslaved, the female then emerges as a sac. The male Sacculina joins her now, and guess what? Mating time.

Eggs incubate and mature inside the hostage crab, which is forced to devote all its energy to caring for this family of parasites that controls it.

The crab is a host. A drone. Utterly possessed by this different species, and compelled to care for the invader’s eggs as if they were its own.

Who cares, right? Barnacles and crabs?

My point is: there are plenty of examples of this in nature.

Creatures invading bodies of species completely unlike their own and changing their essential function.

It’s proven. It’s known.

And yet we believe we’re above all this. We’re humans, right? Top of the food chain. We eat, we don’t get eaten. We take, not get taken.

It’s said that Copernicus (I can’t be the only one who thought it was Galileo) took Earth out of the center of the universe.

And Darwin took humans out of the center of the living world.

So why do we still insist on believing we are somehow something more than animals?

Look at us. Essentially a collection of cells coordinated by chemical signals.

What if some invading organism seized control of these signals? Started to take us over, one by one. Rewriting our very nature, converting us to their own means?

Impossible, you say?

Why? You think the human race is “too big to fail”?

Okay. Now stop reading this. Stop cruising the Internet for answers and go out and grab yourself some silver and rise up against these things—before it is too late.

The Black Forest Solutions Facility

GABRIEL BOLIVAR, THE only remaining member of the original four “survivors” of Regis Air Flight 753, waited in a dirt-walled hollow deep beneath the drainage floor of Slaughterhouse #3, two stories below the Black Forest Solutions meatpacking facility.

The Master’s oversize coffin lay atop a beam of rock and soil, in the absolute darkness of the underground chamber—and yet its heat signature was strong and distinct, the coffin glowing in Bolivar’s vision, as though lit brightly from within. Enough so that Bolivar could perceive the detail of the carved edging near the double-hinged top doors.

Such was the intensity of the Master’s ambient body temperature, radiating its glory.

Bolivar was well into the second stage of vampiric evolution. The pain of the transformation had all but receded, alleviated in large part by daily feedings, the red blood meal nourishing his body in a manner akin to protein and water building human muscle.

His new circulatory system was complete, his arteries now delivering sustenance to the chambers of his torso. His digestive system had become simplified, waste departing his body through one single hole. His flesh had become entirely hairless and glass-smooth. His extended middle fingers were thickened, talon-like digits with stone-hard nails, while the rest of his fingernails had molted away, as unnecessary to his current state as hair and genitals. His eyes were all pupil, save for a red ring that had eclipsed the human white. He perceived heat in gray scale, and his auditory function—an interior organ, distinct from the useless cartilage clinging to the sides of his smooth head—was greatly enhanced: he could hear the insects squirming in the dirt walls.

He relied more on animal instincts now than his failing human senses. He was intensely aware of the solar cycle, even when far beneath the planet’s surface: he knew that night was arriving above. His body ran about 323 degrees Kelvin, or 50 degrees Celsius—or 120 degrees Fahrenheit. He felt, beneath the earth’s surface, claustrophobia, a kinship with the darkness and the dampness, and an affinity for tight, enclosed spaces. He felt comfortable and safe underground, pulling the cold earth over himself during the day as a human would a warm blanket.

Beyond all that, he experienced a level of fellowship with the Master beyond the normal psychic link enjoyed by all the Master’s children. Bolivar felt himself being groomed for some larger purpose within the growing clan. For instance, he alone knew the location of the Master’s nesting place. He was aware that his consciousness was broader and deeper than the others. This he understood without forming any emotional response or independent opinion on it.

It simply was.

He was called to be at the Master’s side at the time of rising.

The top cabinet doors opened out at either side. Immense hands appeared first, fingers gripping the sides of the open coffin one at a time, with the graceful coordination of spider legs. The Master pulled itself erect at the waist, clumps of old sod falling from its giant upper half back into the soil bed.

Its eyes were open. The Master was already seeing a great many things, far beyond the confines of this darkened subterranean hollow.

The solar exposure, following its encounter with the vampire hunter Setrakian, the doctor Goodweather, and the exterminator Fet, had darkened the Master both physically and mentally. Its formerly pellucid flesh was now coarse and leathery. This skin crinkled when the Master moved, cracking and starting to peel away. It picked chips of flesh off its body like molting black feathers. The Master was missing over forty percent of its flesh now, which gave it the appearance of some horrible thing emerging from a cast of crumbling black plaster. For its flesh was not regenerating but merely the outer epidermis flaking off to reveal a lower, rawer, vascular level of skin: the dermis, and, in spots, the subcutis below, exposing the superficial fascia. In color, it ranged from gory red to a fatty yellow, like a glistening paste of beet and custard. The Master’s capillary worms were more prominent all over, but especially its face, swimming just beneath the surface of its exposed dermis, rippling and racing throughout its giant body.

The Master felt the nearness of its acolyte Bolivar. It swung its massive legs over the side walls of the old cabinet, lowering itself crinklingly to the dirt floor. Some of its bed soil clung to the Master, clumps of dirt and flakes of flesh falling to the floor as it moved. Normally, a smooth-fleshed vampire slips out of soil as cleanly as a human rises from a bath of water.

The Master plucked a few larger chunks of flesh off its torso. It found that it could not move quickly and freely without shedding some of its wretched exterior. This host vehicle would not last. Bolivar, standing ready near the low burrow that was the room’s exit, was an available option and an acceptable short-term physical candidate for this great honor. For Bolivar had no Dear Ones to cling to, which was one prerequisite for hosting. But Bolivar had only just begun the second stage of evolution. He was not fully mature yet.

It could wait. It would wait. The Master had much to do at present.

The Master led the way, stooping and claw-wriggling out of the chamber, swiftly clambering along the low, winding tunnels, Bolivar following right behind. It emerged into a larger chamber, nearer to the surface, the wide floor a soft bed of damp soil like that of a perfect, empty garden. Here, the ceiling was high enough even for the Master to stand erect.

As the unseen sun set above, darkness beginning its nightly rule, the soil around the Master began to stir. Limbs appeared, a small hand here, a thin leg there, like shoots of vegetation growing out of the ground. Young heads, still topped with hair, rising slowly. Some of them blank-faced, others twisted with the pain of their night rebirth.

These were the blind bus children, hatching sightless and hungry like newborn grubs. Doubly cursed by the sun—at first blinded by its occulted rays, now banished by its fatal ultraviolet spectrum—they were to become “feelers” in the Master’s expanding militia: beings blessed with perception more advanced than the rest of the clan. Their special acuity would make them indispensable both as hunters and assassins.

See this.

So the Master commanded Bolivar, putting into Bolivar’s mind Kelly Goodweather’s point of view as she faced the old professor on the rooftop in Spanish Harlem, in the recent past.

The old man’s heat signature glowed gray and cool, while the sword in his hand shone so brightly that Bolivar’s nictitating eyelid lowered in a defensive squint.

Kelly escaped across the rooftops, Bolivar sharing her perspective as she leaped and ran—until she started down the side of a building.

The Master then put into Bolivar’s head an animal-like perception of the building’s location within the clan’s ever-expanding atlas of subterranean transit.

The old man. He is yours.

IRT South Ferry Inner Loop Station

FET REACHED THE homeless encampment before nightfall. He carried the egg-timer explosive and his nail gun in a duffel bag. He ducked down below at the Bowling Green station, picking his way along the tracks toward the South Ferry encampment.

There, he struggled to locate Cray-Z’s pad. Only a few items remained: a few wood shards from his pallets, and the smiling face of Mayor Koch. But it was enough to give Fet a marker. He turned and set out in the general direction of the ducts.

He heard a commotion echoing back through the tunnel. Loud metallic banging, and a rumor of distant voices.

He pulled out his nail gun and made his way toward the loop. There he found Cray-Z, now stripped down to his dirty underwear, brown skin glistening with tunnel seepage and sweat, his ragged braid swinging behind him as he worked to pull up his ratty sofa.

Here was his dismantled home shack, the debris piled up along with the detritus of the other abandoned shacks, forming an obstruction across the tracks. The mound of refuse crested five foot high at its tallest, where he had added some broken track ties for good measure.

“Hey, brother!” called Fet. “What the hell are you doing?”

Cray-Z turned around, standing atop his junk pile like an artist in the throes of madness. He wielded a section of steel pipe in his hand. “It’s time!” he yelled, as though from the summit of a mountain. “Somebody had to do something!”

Fet was a moment finding his voice. “You’re gonna derail the goddamn train!”

“Now you’re down with the plan!” Cray-Z responded.

Now some of the other remaining moles ambled over, witnessing Cray-Z’s creation. “What have you done?” said one. His name was Caver Carl, a former trackman himself who found he could not leave the familiarity of the tunnels upon his retirement, and so returned to them like a sailor retiring to the seas. Carl wore a headlamp, the beam moving with the shaking of his head.

Cray-Z, bothered by the light beam, let out a battle cry from the top of his barricade. “I am God’s fool, but they won’t take me this soon!”

Caver Carl and some others moved forward, attempting to tear down the pile. “One of the trains crash, they’ll drive us out of here for good!”

In an instant, Cray-Z leaped down from his pile, landing next to Fet. Fet went to him with arms outstretched, trying to calm the situation, hoping to put these folks to work for him. “Hold on everyone—”

Cray-Z wasn’t in the mood for talking. He swung his steel pipe at Fet, who instinctively blocked the blow with his left forearm. The pipe cracked the bone.

Fet howled, and then, using the heavy nail gun as a club, struck Cray-Z hard across the temple. It staggered the madman, but he kept coming. Fet cracked Cray-Z in the ribs, then kicked at the calf of his right leg, dislocating his leg at the knee, finally bringing him down.

“Listen!” yelled Caver Carl.

Fet stopped and did so.

The telltale rumble. He turned and saw, down the length of the track, a dusting of light against the curve in the tunnel wall.

The 5 train was approaching its U-turn.

The other moles continued to pull at the pieces of the pile, but it was no use. Cray-Z used his pipe to get up onto his one good leg, hopping up and down.

“Fucking sinners!” he howled. “You moles are all blind! Here they come! Now you have no choice but to fight them. Fight for your lives!”

The train bore down on them, and Fet saw that there was no time. He backed off from the impending catastrophe, the brightening train light illuminating Cray-Z’s dance: a mad jig on his bent leg.

As the train blew past him, Fet caught a glimpse of the driver’s face. She stared straight ahead, without expression. She had to have seen the debris. And yet she never applied the brake, she never did anything.

She had the thousand-yard-stare of a newly turned vampire.

WHAM, the train impacted the obstruction, wheels spinning, churning. The front car punched into the debris, exploding it, chewing and carrying the larger objects for some thirty feet before jumping the track. The cars lurched to the right, striking the edge of the platform at the head of the loop, still skidding, trailing a comet of sparks. The engine car of the train then wobbled the other way, the cars behind it ribboning along—the train jackknifing in the narrow track space.

The grating, metallic screech was nearly human in its outrage and its pain. Given the tunnels and their throat-like propensity for echoes, the cars stopped long before the awful sound did.

This train had many more bodies riding its exterior. Some were killed instantly—ground against and smeared along the edge of the platform. The rest rode the spectacular crash until the end. Once the cars came to a stop, they separated from the train like leeches detaching from flesh, dropping to the ground, getting their bearings.

Slowly, they turned toward the moles still standing there, staring in disbelief.

The riders walked out of the dust and smoke of the calamity, unfazed but for an odd, slinking gait. Their joints emitted a soft popping noise as they advanced.

Fet quickly went into his duffel bag, retrieving Setrakian’s improvised time bomb. He felt an intense burning in the right calf and looked down. A long, thin, needle-sharp piece of debris had somehow pierced his leg, all the way through. If he pulled it loose, the bleeding would be savage—and right now, blood was the last thing he wanted to smell of. He left it painfully lodged in his muscle mass.

Closer to the tracks, Cray-Z looked on in amazement. How could so many have survived?

Then, as the riders moved closer, even Cray-Z noticed that something was missing from these people. He detected traces of humanity in their faces, but it was only that: traces. Like the glimmer of greedy humanoid intelligence one sees inside the eyes of a hungry dog.

He recognized some of them, women and men from underground. Fellow moles—except for one figure. A lanky creature, pale and bare-chested, sculpted like an ivory figurine. A few strands of hair framed an angular, handsome, yet wholly possessed face.

It was Gabriel Bolivar. His music had not permeated the under-city demographic, and yet every eye fell upon him. He stood out from the rest that much, the showman he was in life carrying over into un-death. He wore black leather pants and cowboy boots, with no shirt. Every vein, muscle, and sinew in his torso was visible beneath his delicate, translucent skin.

Flanking him were two broken females. One’s arm was sliced open, a deep cut, slashing through flesh, muscle, and bone, nearly severing the limb. The cut did not bleed, but rather oozed—and not red blood, but a white substance more viscous than milk yet thinner in consistency than cream.

Caver Carl began to pray. His softly sobbing voice was so high, so full of fear, that Fet at first thought it belonged to a boy.

Bolivar pointed at the staring moles—and at once the riders were upon them.

The woman-thing ran straight at Caver Carl, knocking him back off his feet, landing on his chest, and pinning him to the ground. She smelled of moldy orange peels and spoiled meat. He tried to fend her off, but she gripped his arm and twisted it in the socket, snapping it instantly.

Her hot hand pushed at his chin with enormous strength. Carl’s head was forced back to the breaking point, his neck extended and fully exposed. From his upside-down perspective, by the light of his miner’s helmet, all he could see were legs and unlaced shoes and bare feet running past. A horde of creatures—reinforcements—came at them from the tunnels, a full-on invasion trampling through camp, beings clustered over twitching bodies.

A second creature joined the woman on him, tearing away his shirt in a frenzy. He felt a hard bite at his neck. Not a hinged bite—not teeth—but a puncture, followed immediately by a suction-like latching. The other clawed at the inseam of his trousers, shredding them below his groin and clamping onto the inside of his thigh.

Pain at first, a sharp burning. Then, within moments … numbness. The sensation was like that of a piston thumping against his muscle and flesh.

He was being drained. Carl attempted to scream, his open mouth finding no voice but only four long, hot fingers. The creature grabbed hold of his cheek from the inside, its talon-like nail slicing his gum all the way to the jawbone. Its flesh tasted salty, tangy—until it was overwhelmed by the coppery flavor of his own blood.

Fet had retreated immediately after the crash, knowing a losing battle when he saw one. The screaming was nearly unbearable, yet he had a mission to complete, and that was his focus.

He climbed backward into one of the ducts, finding there was barely enough space to accommodate him. One advantage to fear was that the adrenaline coursing through him had the effect of dilating his pupils, and he found he could see his environs with unnatural clarity.

He unwrapped the rags and twisted the timer one full rotation. Three minutes. One hundred eighty seconds. A soft-boiled egg.

He cursed his luck, now realizing that, with the vampire battle in the tunnel, he would have to travel deeper into the ducts used by vampires to transverse the river, but also backward, with his arm badly bruised and his leg dripping blood.

Before releasing the timer, he saw the bodies of the moles on the ground, squirming as they were consumed by clusters of vampires. They were already infected, already lost—all except for Cray-Z. He stood near a concrete pillar, watching like a blissful fool. And yet he was untouched by these dark things, unmolested as they rampaged past him.

Then Fet saw the lanky figure of Gabriel Bolivar approach Cray-Z. Cray-Z fell to his knees before the singer, the two of them outlined in smoke and dusty light, like figures in a Bible stamp.

Bolivar lay his hand upon Cray-Z’s head, and the madman bowed. He then kissed the hand, praying.

Fet had seen enough. He set the device down inside a gap and took his hand off the dial … one … two … three … counting in time with the ticking as he grabbed his duffel bag and retreated backward.

Fet kept pushing back, feeling his body ease after a while, lubricated by his own flowing blood.

… forty … forty-one … forty-two …

A cluster of creatures moved toward the duct entrance, attracted by the smell of Fet’s ambrosia. Fet saw their outline in the small aperture, and lost all hope.

… seventy-three … seventy-four … seventy-five …

He skidded as fast as he could, opening his duffel bag and removing his nail gun. He fired the silver nails as he retreated—screaming like a soldier emptying a machine gun into the enemy’s nest.

The nails embedded deep into the cheekbone and forehead of the first charging vampire, a nicely suited man in his sixties. Fet fired again, popping the man’s eye and gagging him with silver, the brad buried in the soft flesh of its throat.

The thing squealed and recoiled. Others scrambled over their fallen comrade, snaking quickly through the duct. Fet saw it approach—this one a slender woman in jogging sweats, her shoulder wounded, exposing her collarbone, scraping it against the tube walls.

… one hundred fifty … one hundred fifty-one … one hundred fifty-two …

Fet shot at the approaching creature. It kept creeping toward him even as its face was festooned with silver. Its goddamn stinger shot out of its pincushion face, fully extended, nearly touching Fet, forcing him to scramble harder, slipping on his blood, his next shot missing, the nail ricocheting past the lead vampire and burying itself in the throat of the creature behind it.

How far along was he? Fifty feet from the explosion? A hundred feet?

Not enough.

Three sticks of dynamite and a soft-fucking-boiled egg later, he would find out.

He remembered the photos of the houses with their windows all lit up inside as he kept shooting and screaming. Houses that never needed exterminators. If there was any way he could survive this, he promised himself he would light up all the windows in his apartment and go out on the street just to look back.

… one-seventy-six … one-seventy-seven … one-seventy—

As the explosion rose behind the creature, and the blast of heat hit Vasiliy, he felt his body pushed by the searing piston of displaced air, and a body—that of a singed vampire—hit him full-on … knocking him out.

As he faded into a serene void, a word out of the depths of his mind replaced the cadence of the counting in his head:

CRO … CRO …

CROATOAN

Arlington Park, Jersey City

TEN THIRTY AT NIGHT.

Alfonso Creem had been at the park an hour already, selecting a strategic spot.

He was picky that way.

The only thing he didn’t like about the location was the security light above, shining down in orange. So he had his lieutenant Royal—just Royal—bust the lock on the base and pop out the plate and jam a tire iron inside. Problem solved. The light flickered out above, and Creem nodded his approval.

He took his place under the shadows. His muscular arms hung out from his sides, too big to cross over his chest. His midsection was broad and nearly square. The head of the Jersey Sapphires was a black Colombian, the son of a Brit father and a Colombian mother. The Jersey Sapphires ran every block surrounding Arlington Park. They could have the park too, if they wanted it, but it wasn’t worth the trouble. The park was a criminal bazaar at night, and cleaning it out was a job for the cops and good citizens, not the Sapphires. Indeed, it was to Creem’s advantage to have this dead zone here in the middle of Jersey City: a public toilet that drew the scumbags away from his blocks.

Creem had won every street corner by sheer force. He rolled in like a Sherman tank and battered the opposing force into submission. Every time he earned another corner, he celebrated by having one of his teeth capped in silver. Creem had a brilliant and intimidating smile. Silver bling dressed his fingers as well. He had chains, too, but tonight he had left his neckwear back at his crib; it’s the first thing desperate people grab when they know they’re about to be murdered.

Royal stood near Creem, sweating inside a fur-lined parka, an ace of spades sewn into the front of his black knit cap. “He didn’t say to meet alone?”

Creem said, “Just that he wanted to parlay.”

“Huh. So what’s the plan?”

“His plan? No fucking idea. My plan? A nice puto scar.” Creem used his thick thumb to mime a straight razor cutting deep across Royal’s face. “I fucking hate most Mexicans, but this one ’specially.”

“I wondered why the park.”

Murders in the park didn’t get solved. Because there was no outcry. If you were brave enough to enter A Park after dark, then you were dumb enough to die. Just in case, Creem had coated his fingertips with Crazy Glue to obscure his fingerprints, and had readied a flat razor’s handle with Vaseline and bleach—just like he would with a gun handle—to avoid leaving any DNA traces.

A long, black car pulled down the street. Not quite a limousine, but something swankier than a tricked-out Cadillac. It slowed at the curb, stopped. Tinted windows stayed up. The driver didn’t get out.

Royal looked at Creem. Creem looked at Royal.

The back door opened to the curb. The occupant got out, wearing sunglasses. Also a checked shirt unbuttoned over a white tank, baggy pants, new black boots. He removed his pinch-front hat, revealing a tight red do-rag beneath, and tossed the hat back onto the seat of the car.

Royal said, under his breath, “What the fuck is this?”

The puto crossed the sidewalk, entering through the opening in the fence. His white tank shirt glowed with what was bright in the night as he strolled over grass and dirt.

Creem didn’t believe his own eyes until the dude was near enough that his collarbone tat showed plain.

SOY COMO SOY. I am what I am.

Creem said, “Am I supposed to be impressed?”

Gus Elizalde of Spanish Harlem’s La Mugre gang smiled but said nothing.

The car remained idling at the curb.

Creem said, “What? You come all the way here to tell me you won the fucking lottery?”

“Sort of like that.”

Creem dismissed him with a look up and down.

Gus said, “Fact, I’m here to offer you a percentage of the winning ticket.”

Creem snarled, trying to figure out the Mexican’s play. “What you thinking, homes? Riding that thing into my territory?”

“Everything is a dis with you, Creem,” said Gus. “Why you stuck forever in Jersey City.”

“You talking to the king of JC. Now who else you got with you in that sled?”

“Funny you should ask.” Gus looked back with a chin nod, and the driver’s door opened. Instead of a chauffeur with a cap, a large man stood out wearing a hoodie, his face obscured in shadow. He came around and stood before the front wheel, head down, waiting.

Creem said, “So you boosted a ride in from the airport. Big man.”

“The old ways are over, Creem. I’ve seen it, man. I’ve seen the fucking end. Turf battles? This block-by-block shit is so two-thousand-late. Means nothing. The only turf battle that matters now is all or nothing. Us or them.”

“Them who?”

“You gotta know something’s going down. And not just in the big island across the river.”

“Big island? That’s your problem.”

“Look at this park. Where your junkies at? Crack whores? Where’s the action? Dead in here. ’Cause they take the night people first.”

Creem snarled. He didn’t like Gus making sense. “I do know that business is down.”

“Business is set to vanish, homes. There’s a new drug hot on the street. Check it out. It’s called human fucking blood. And it’s free for the taking if you got the taste.”

Royal said, “You’re one of those vampire nuts. Loco.”

“They got my madre and my brother, yo. You remember Crispin?”

Gus’s junkie brother. Creem said, “I remember.”

“Well, you won’t be seeing him around this park much anymore. But I don’t grudge, Creem. Not no more. This here is a new day. I gotta set personal feelings aside. Because right now I am pulling together the best team of motherfucking hard-asses I can find.”

“If you’re here to talk up some shit-ass scheme to take down a bank or some shit, capitalizing on all this chaos, that’s already been—”

“Looting’s for amateurs. Them’s day wages. I got real work, for real pay, lined up. Call in your boys, so they can hear this.”

“What boys?”

“Creem. The ones set to dust me tonight, get them in here.”

Creem flat-eyed Gus for a few moments. Then he whistled. Creem was a champion whistler. The silver on his teeth made for a shrill signal.

Three other Sapphires came out of the trees, hands in pockets. Gus kept his hands out and open where they could see him.

“Okay,” said Creem. “Talk fast, Mex.”

“I’ll talk slow. You listen good.”

He laid it out for them. The turf battle between the Ancients and the rogue Master.

“You been smoking,” said Creem.

But Gus saw the fire in his eyes. He saw the fuse of excitement already burning. “What I am offering you is more money than you could ever clear in the powder trade. The opportunity to kill and maim at will—and never see jail for it. I am offering you a once-in-a-lifetime chance to kick unlimited ass in five boroughs. And—do the job right, we’re all set for life.”

“And if we don’t do the job right?”

“Then I don’t see how money’s gonna mean shit anyway. But at least you’ll have gotten your fucking rocks off, ’cause, if nothing else, this is about going out with a bang, know what I mean?”

Creem said, “Fuck, you’re a little too good to be true. I need to see some green first.”

Gus chuckled. “Tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna show you three colors, Creem. Silver, green, and white.”

He raised his hand in signal to the hooded driver. The driver went to the trunk, popped it open, and retrieved two bags. He ported them through the fence opening to the meeting place, and set them down.

One was a large black duffel bag, the other a moderately sized, two-handled leather clutch.

“Who your homie?” said Creem. The driver was big, wearing heavy Doc Martens, blue jeans, and the large hoodie. Creem couldn’t see the driver’s face under the hood, but it was obvious this close that this guy was all wrong.

“They call him Mr. Quinlan,” said Gus.

A scream arose from the other end of the park—a man’s scream, more terrible to the ears than a woman’s scream. The others turned.

Gus said, “Let’s hurry. First—the silver.”

He knelt and drew the zipper across the duffel. There wasn’t much light. Gus pulled out the long gun and felt the Sapphires reach for theirs. Gus flipped the switch on the barrel-mounted lamp, thinking it was a normal incandescent bulb, but it was ultraviolet. Of course.

He used the inky-purple light to show the rest of the weapons. A crossbow, its bolt load tipped with a silver impact charge. A flat, fan-shaped silver blade with a curved wooden handle. A sword fashioned like a wide-bladed scimitar with a generous curve and a rugged, leather-bound handle.

Gus said, “You like silver, Creem, don’t you?”

The exotic-looking weaponry piqued Creem’s interest. But he was still wary of the driver, Quinlan. “All right. What about the green?”

Quinlan opened the handles of the leather bag. Filled with bundles of cash, anti-counterfeiting threads glowing under the indigo eye of Gus’s UV light.

Creem started to reach into the bag—then stopped. He noticed Quinlan’s hands gripping the bag handles. Most of his fingernails were gone, his flesh entirely smooth. But the fucked-up thing was his middle fingers. Twice as long as the rest of the digits, and crooked at the end—so much so that the tip curled around his palm to the side of his hand.

Another scream split the night, followed by a kind of growl. Quinlan closed the bag, looking forward into the trees. He handed the money bag to Gus, trading him for the long gun. Then, with unbelievable power and speed, he went sprinting into the trees.

Creem said, “What the …?”

If there was a path, this Quinlan ignored it. The gangsters heard branches cracking.

Gus slung the weapons bag onto his shoulder. “Come on. You don’t want to miss this.”

He was easy to follow, because Quinlan had cleared a path of downed branches, pointing the way straight ahead, weaving only for tree trunks. They hustled along, coming upon Quinlan in a clearing on the other side, finding him standing quietly with the gun cradled against his chest.

His hood had fallen back. Creem, huffing, saw the driver’s smooth bald head from behind. In the darkness, it looked like the guy had no ears. Creem came around to see his face better—and the human tank shivered like a little flower in a storm.

The thing called Quinlan had no ears and barely any nose left. A thick throat. Translucent skin, nearly iridescent. And blood-red eyes—the brightest eyes Creem had ever seen—set deep within his pale, smooth head.

Just then a figure broke from the upper branches, dropping to the ground with ease and loping across the clearing. Quinlan sprinted out to intercept it like a cougar tracking a gazelle. They collided, Quinlan dropping his shoulder for an open-field hit.

The figure went down sprawling with a squeal, rolling hard—before popping right back up.

In an instant, Quinlan turned the barrel light on the figure. The figure hissed and flailed back, the torture in its face evident even from that distance. Then Quinlan pulled the trigger. An exploding cone of bright silver buckshot obliterated the figure’s head.

Only—the figure didn’t die like a man dies. A white substance geysered out from its neck trunk and it tucked in its arms and collapsed to the ground.

Quinlan turned his head fast—even before the next figure darted from the trees. A female this time, racing away from Quinlan, toward the others. At the others. Gus pulled the scimitar from the bag. The female—dressed in tatters like the filthiest crack whore you’ve ever seen, except that she was nimble and her eyes shone red—reeled back from the sight of the weapon, but too late. With a single, clean move, Gus connected with the tops of her shoulders and her neck, her head falling one way, her body the other. When it all settled to the ground, a pasty-white liquid oozed out of her wounds.

“And there’s the white,” Gus said.

Quinlan returned to them, pumping the long gun and raising his thick cotton hood back over his head.

“Okay, yeah,” said Creem, dancing from side to side like a kid who had to go to the bathroom on Christmas morning. “Yeah, I’d say we’re fucking in.”

The Flatlands

USING A STRAIGHT razor taken from the pawnshop, Eph shaved half his face before losing interest. He zoned out, staring into the mirror over the sink of milky water, his right cheek still covered in foam.

He was thinking of the book—the Occido Lumen—and how everything was going against him. Palmer and his fortune. Blocking every move they could make. What would become of them—of Zack—if he failed?

The edge of the razor drew blood. A thin nick turning red and flowing. He looked at the blade with the smear of blood on the steel, and drifted back eleven years to Zack’s birth.

Following one miscarriage and a stillbirth at twenty-nine weeks, Kelly had been on two months’ bed rest with Zack before going into labor. She had a specific birth plan going in: no epidural or drugs of any kind, no cesarean section. Ten hours later, there was little progression. Her doctor suggested Pitocin in order to speed things up, but Kelly declined, sticking to her plan. Eight hours of labor later, she relented, and the Pitocin drip was begun. Two hours after that, after enduring almost a full day of painful contractions, she finally consented to an epidural. The Pitocin dose was gradually increased until it was as high as the baby’s heart rate would allow.

At the twenty-seventh hour, her doctor offered her the option of a cesarean, but Kelly refused. Having given in on every other point, she held out for natural birth. The fetus’s heart monitor showed that it was doing okay, her cervix had dilated to eight centimeters, and Kelly was intent on pushing her baby out into the world.

But five hours later, despite a vigorous belly-massage from a veteran nurse, the baby remained stubbornly sideways, and Kelly’s cervix was stuck at eight. The pain of the contractions was registering now, despite the successful epidural. Kelly’s doctor rolled a stool over to her bedside, again offered her a cesarean. This time Kelly accepted.

Eph gowned up and accompanied her to the glowing white operating room through the double doors at the end of the hall. The fetal heart monitor reassured him with its swift, metronomic tock-tock-tock.
The attending nurse swabbed Kelly’s swollen belly with yellow-brown antiseptic, and then the obstetrician sliced left to right low on her abdomen with confident, broad strokes: the fascia was parted, then the twin vertical belts of the beefy abdominal muscle, and then the thin peritoneum membrane, revealing the thick, plum wall of the uterus. The surgeon switched to bandage scissors so as to minimize any risk of lacerating the fetus, and made the final incision.

Gloved hands reached in and pulled out a brand-new human being—but Zack was not yet born. He was “in the caul,” as they say; that is, still surrounded by the filmy, intact amniotic sac. It ballooned like a bubble, an opaque membrane encircling the fetal infant like a nylon egg. Zack was still, in that moment, feeding off Kelly, still receiving nutrients and oxygen through the umbilical cord. The obstetrician and attending nurses worked to retain their professional poise, but Kelly and Eph both felt their apparent alarm. Only later would Eph learn that caul babies occur in fewer than one in a thousand births, with the number rising into the tens of thousands for babies not born prematurely.

This strange moment lingered, the unborn baby still tethered to his exhausted mother, delivered and yet unborn. Then the membrane spontaneously ruptured, peeling back from Zack’s head to reveal his glistening face. Another moment of suspended time … and then he cried out, and was placed dripping onto Kelly’s chest.

Tension lingered in the operating room, mixed with obvious joy, Kelly pulling at Zack’s feet and hands to count the digits. She searched him thoroughly for signs of deformity, and found only joy. He was eight pounds even, bald as a lump of bread dough and just as pale. His Apgar score was eight after two minutes, nine after five minutes.

Healthy baby.

Kelly, however, experienced a big letdown postpartum. Nothing as deep and debilitating as true depression, but a dark funk nonetheless. The marathon labor was so debilitating that her milk did not come in, which, combined with her abandoned birth plan, left her feeling like a failure. At one point, Kelly told Eph that she felt she had let him down, which mystified him. She felt corrupted inside. Everything in life had come so easily, to both of them, before this.

Once she got better—once she embraced the golden boy who was her newborn son—she never let Zack go. She became, for a time, obsessed with the caul birth, researching its significance. Some sources claimed the oddity was an omen of good luck, even forecasting greatness. Other legends indicated that caul-bearers, as they were known, were clairvoyant, would never drown, and had been marked by angels with shielded souls. She looked for meaning in literature, citing various fictional caul-bearers, such as David Copperfield and the little boy in The Shining. Famous men in real life, such as Sigmund Freud, Lord Byron, and Napoleon Bonaparte. In time, she came to discount all negative associations—in fact, in certain European countries it was said that a child born with a caul might be cursed—countering her own unfortunate feelings of inadequacy with the determination that her boy, this creation of hers, was exceptional.

It was these impulses that, over time, poisoned her relationship with Eph, leading to a divorce he never wanted, and the ensuing custody battle: a battle that had, since her turning, morphed into a life-or-death struggle. Kelly had decided that if she couldn’t be perfect for so exacting a man, then she would be nothing to him. And so it was that Eph’s personal downfall—his drinking—secretly thrilled her at the same time as it terrified her. Kelly’s awful wish had come true. For it showed that even Ephraim Goodweather could not live up to his own exacting standards.

Eph smiled derisively at his half-shaven self in the mirror. He reached for his bottle of apricot schnapps and toasted his fucking perfection, downing two sweetly harsh gulps.

“You don’t need to do that.”

Nora had entered, easing the bathroom door shut behind her. She was barefoot, having changed into fresh jeans and a loose T-shirt, her dark hair clipped up in back of her head.

Eph addressed her mirror reflection. “We’re outmoded, you know. Our time has passed. The twentieth century was viruses. The twenty-first? Vampires.” He drank again, as proof that he was all right with it, and demonstrating that no rational argument could dissuade him. “I don’t get how you don’t drink. This is exactly what booze was made for. The only way to swallow this new reality is by chasing it with some of the good stuff.” Another drink, then looked again at the label. “If only I had some good stuff.”

“I don’t like you like this.”

“I am what experts refer to as a ‘high-functioning alcoholic.’ Or I could go around hiding it, if you prefer.”

She crossed her arms, leaning sideways against the wall, staring at his back and knowing she was getting nowhere. “It’s only a matter of time, you know. Before Kelly’s blood-yearning leads her back here, to Zack. And that means, through her, the Master. Leading him straight to Setrakian.”

If the bottle had been empty, Eph might have whipped it against the wall. “It’s fucking insanity. But it’s real. I’ve never had a nightmare that’s even come close to this.”

“I’m saying I think you need to get Zack away from here.”

Eph nodded, both hands gripping the edge of the sink. “I know. I’ve been slowly coming around to that determination myself.”

“And I think you need to go with him.”

Eph considered it a moment, he truly did, before turning from the mirror to face her. “Is this like when the first lieutenant informs the captain he’s not fit for duty?”

Nora said, “This is like when someone cares enough for you that they are afraid you will hurt yourself. It’s best for him—and better for you.”

That disarmed him. “I can’t leave you here in my place, Nora. We both know the city is falling. New York City is over. Better it falls on me than on you.”

“That’s bullshit barroom talk.”

“You are right about one thing. With Zack here, I can’t fully commit myself to this fight. He needs to go. I need to know he’s out of here, he’s safe. There is this place, in Vermont—”

“I am not leaving.”

Eph took a breath. “Just listen.”

“I am not leaving, Eph. You think you’re doing the chivalrous thing, when, in fact, you are insulting me. This is my city more than it is yours. Zack is a great kid, you know I think that, but I am not here to do the women’s work and watch the children and lay out your clothes. I am a medical scientist just like you.”

“I know all that, believe me. I was thinking about your mother.”

That stopped her in her tracks. Nora’s lips remained parted, ready to fire back, but his words had stolen the breath from her mouth.

“I know she’s not well,” he went on. “She’s in early-phase dementia, and I know she weighs on your mind constantly, same as Zack does on mine. This is your chance to get her out too. I’m trying to tell you that Kelly’s folks had this place on a mountain in Vermont—”

“I can do more good here.”

“Can you, though? I mean—can I? I don’t even know. What’s most important now? Survival, I’d say. That’s the absolute best we can hope for. At least this way, one of us will be safe. And I know it’s not what you want. And I know it’s a ton to ask of you. You’re right—were this a normal viral pandemic, you and I would be the most essential people in this city. We would be at the crux of this thing—for all the right reasons. As it is now, this strain has leapfrogged our expertise entirely. The world doesn’t need us anymore, Nora. It doesn’t need doctors or scientists. It needs exorcists. It needs Abraham Setrakian.” Eph crossed to her. “I know just enough to be dangerous. And so—dangerous I must be.”

That brought her forward from the wall. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m expendable. Or, at least, as expendable as the next man. Unless the next man in question is an aging pawnbroker with a bad heart. Hell—Fet brings much more to this fight than I do now. He’s more valuable to the old man than I am.”

“I don’t like the way you’re talking.”

He was impatient that she accept the realities as he understood them. That he make her understand. “I want to fight. I want to give it my all. But I can’t, not with Kelly coming after the people I care about most. I need to know that my Dear Ones are safe. That means Zack. And that means you.”

He reached for her hand. Their fingers intertwined. The sensation was profound, and it occurred to Eph: how many days now had it been since he had experienced a simple physical contact with another person?

“What is it you plan to do?” asked Nora.

He knit his fingers more firmly into hers, exploring the fit as he reaffirmed the plan taking form in his mind. Dangerous and desperate, but effective. Maybe a game-changer.

He answered, “Simply to be useful.”

He turned away, trying to reach back for the bottle on the sink edge, but she gripped his arm and pulled him back toward her. “Leave it there,” she said. “Please.” Her tea-brown eyes were so beautiful, so sad—so human. “You don’t need it.”

“But I want it. And it wants me.”

He wanted to turn but she held him fast. “Kelly couldn’t get you to stop?”

Eph thought about that. “You know, I’m not sure she ever really tried.”

Nora reached for his face, her hand touching first his bristly, unshaven cheek, then the smooth side, stroking it gently with the backs of her fingers. The contact melted them both.

“I could make you stop,” she said, very close to his face.

She kissed the rough side first. Then he met her lips and experienced a surge of hope and passion so powerful, it was like a first-time embrace. Everything about their previous two sexual encounters came swarming back to him in a hot, anticipatory rush, and yet it was the fundamental human contact that supercharged the exchange. That which had been missing was now craved.

Exhausted, strung out, and utterly unprepared, they clung to each other as Eph pressed Nora back against the tile wall, his hands wanting only her flesh. In the face of such terror and dehumanization, human passion itself was an act of defiance.

INTERLUDE II

OCCIDO LUMEN:
THE STORY OF THE BOOK

THE BROWN-SKINNED BROKER IN THE BLACK VELVET Nehru jacket twisted a blue opal ring around the base of his pinkie finger as he strolled the canal. “I have never met Mynheer Blaak, mind you. He prefers it that way.”

Setrakian walked alongside the broker. Setrakian was traveling with a Belgian passport, under the name Roald Pirk, his occupation listed as “antique bookseller.” The document was an expert forgery.

The year was 1972. Setrakian was forty-six years old.

“Though I can assure you he is very wealthy,” the broker continued. “Do you like money very much, Monsieur Pirk?”

“I do.”

“Then you will like Mynheer Blaak very much. This volume he seeks, he will pay you quite handsomely. I am authorized to say that he will match your price, which, itself, I would characterize as aggressive. This makes you happy?”

“Yes.”

“As it should. You are fortunate indeed to have acquired such a rare volume. I am sure you are aware of its provenance. You are not a superstitious man?”

“In fact, I am. By trade.”

“Ah. And that is why you have chosen to part with it? Myself, I think of this volume as the book version of ‘The Bottle Imp.’ You are familiar with the tale?”

“Stevenson, wasn’t it?”

“Indeed. Oh, I hope you aren’t thinking that I am testing your knowledge of literature in order to gauge your bona fides. I reference Stevenson only because I recently brokered the sale of an extremely rare edition of The Master of Ballantrae. But in ‘Imp,’ as you evidently remember, the accursed bottle must be sold each time for less than it was purchased. Not so with this volume. No, no. Quite the opposite.”

The broker’s eyes flashed with interest at one of the brightly lit display windows they strolled past. Unlike most of the other showcases along De Wallen, the red-light district of Amsterdam, the occupant of this particular window was a ladyboy, not the usual female prostitute.

The broker smoothed his mustache and redirected his eyes to the brick-paved street. “In any event,” he continued, “the book has a troubling legacy. I myself will not handle it. Mynheer Blaak is an avid collector, a connoisseur of the first rank. His tastes run to the discriminating and the obscure, and his checks always clear. But I feel it is only fair to warn you, there have been a few attempts at fraud.”

“I see.”

“I, of course, can accept no responsibility for what became of these crooked sellers. Though I must say, Mynheer Blaak’s interest in the volume is keen, because he has paid half of my commission on every unsuccessful transaction. In order that I might continue my search and keep potential suitors arriving at his door, so to speak.”

The broker casually pulled out a pair of fine white cotton gloves and fitted them over his manicured hands.

“If you will forgive me,” said Setrakian, “I did not journey to Amsterdam to walk its beautiful canals. I am a superstitious man, as I stated, and I should like to unload myself of the burden of such a valuable book at the earliest convenience. To be frank, I am even more concerned about robbers than curses.”

“I see, yes. You are a practical man.”

“Where and when will Mynheer Blaak be available to conduct this transaction?”

“The book is with you, then?”

Setrakian nodded. “It is here.”

The broker pointed to the twin-handled, twin-buckled portmanteau of stiff, black leather in Setrakian’s hand. “On your person?”

“No, much too risky.” Setrakian moved the suitcase from one hand to the other, hoping to signal otherwise. “But it is here. In Amsterdam. It is near.”

“Please forgive my boldness then. But, if you are indeed in possession of the Lumen then you are familiar with its content. Its raison d’être, yes?”

Setrakian stopped. For the first time he noticed they had wandered off the crowded streets and were now in a narrow alley with no one in sight. The broker folded his arms behind his back as if in casual conversation.

“I do,” said Setrakian. “But it would be foolish for me to divulge much.”

“Indeed,” said the broker. “And we don’t expect you to do so but—could you effectively summarize your impressions of it? A few words if you would.”

Setrakian perceived a metallic flash behind the broker’s back—or was it one of the man’s gloved hands? Either way, Setrakian felt no fear. He had prepared for this.

“Mal’akh Elohim. Messengers of God. Angels. Archangels. In this case, Fallen Ones. And their corrupt lineage on this Earth.”

The broker’s eyes flared a moment, then were still. “Wonderful. Well, Mynheer Blaak is most interested to meet you, and will be in contact very soon.”

The broker offered Setrakian a white-gloved hand. Setrakian wore black gloves, and the broker certainly felt the crooked digits of his hand as they shook—but, aside from an impolite stiffening, did not otherwise react. Setrakian said, “Shall I give you my local address?”

The broker waved his gloved hand brusquely. “I am to know nothing. Monsieur, I wish you every success.” He was starting away, back the way they came.

“But how will he contact me?” asked Setrakian, after him.

“I know only that he will,” the broker responded over a velvet-lined shoulder. “A very good evening to you, Monsieur Pirk.”

Setrakian watched the dapper man walk on, long enough to see him turn in toward the window they had passed and knock pleasantly. Setrakian turned up the collar of his overcoat and walked west, away from the inky water of the canals toward the Dam Platz.

Amsterdam, being a city of canals, was an unusual residence for a strigoi, forbidden by nature to cross over moving water. But all his years spent in pursuit of the Nazi doctor Werner Dreverhaven, the camp physician at Treblinka, had led Setrakian into a network of underground antique booksellers. That, in turn, had put him on the path to the object of Dreverhaven’s obsession, this extraordinarily rare Latin translation of an obscure Mesopotamian text.

De Wallen was known more for its macabre mix of drugs, coffee bars, sex clubs, brothels, and window girls and boys. But the narrow alleys and canals of this port city were also home to a small but highly influential group of antique book merchants who traded manuscripts all over the world.

Setrakian had learned that Dreverhaven—under the guise of a bibliophile named Jan-Piet Blaak—had fled to the Low Countries in the years following the war, traveling throughout Belgium until the early 1950s, crossing into the Netherlands and settling in Amsterdam in 1955. In De Wallen, he could move freely at night, along paths proscribed by the waterways, and burrow undetected during the day. The canals discouraged his staying there, but apparently the lure of the bibliophile trade—and the Occido Lumen in particular—was too seductive. He had established a nest here, and made the city his permanent home.

The middle of the town was island-like, radiating from the Dam Platz, surrounded in part, but not bisected by, the canals. Setrakian walked past three-hundred-year-old gabled buildings, the fragrance of hash smoke wafting out the windows with American folk music. A young woman rushed past, hobbling in one broken heel, late for a night of work, her gartered legs and fishnet stockings showing beneath the hem of a coat of faux mink.

Setrakian came upon two pigeons on the cobblestones, who did not alight at his approach. He slowed and looked to see what had captured their interest.

The pigeons were picking apart a gutter rat.

“I am told you have the Lumen?”

Setrakian stiffened. The presence was very near—in fact, right behind him. But the voice originated inside his head.

Setrakian half-turned, frightened. “Mynheer Blaak?”

He was mistaken. There was no one behind him.

“Monsieur Pirk, I presume?”

Setrakian jerked to his right. In the shadowy entrance to an alleyway stood a portly figure dressed in a long, formal coat and a top hat, supporting himself with a thin, metal-tipped cane.

Setrakian swallowed his adrenaline, his anticipation, his fear. “How did you ever find me, sir?”

“The book. That is all that matters. Is it in your possession, Pirk?”

“I … I have it near.”

“Where is your hotel?”

“I have rented a flat near the station. If you like, I would be happy to conduct our transaction there—”

“I am afraid I cannot travel that far conveniently, for I have a bad case of the gout.”

Setrakian turned more fully toward the shadowed being. There were a few people out in the square, and he dared to take a step toward Dreverhaven, in the manner of an unsuspecting man. He did not smell the usual earthy musk of the strigoi, though the hash smoke acted on the night like a perfume. “What would you suggest, then? I would very much like to conclude this sale this evening.”

“And yet, you would have to return to your flat first.”

“Yes. I guess I would.”

“Hmm.” The figure ventured forward a step, tapping the metal toe of its cane on a cobblestone. Wings fluttered, the pigeons taking flight behind Setrakian. Blaak said, “I wonder why a man traveling in an unfamiliar city would entrust such a valuable article to his flat rather than the security of his own person.”

Setrakian switched his portmanteau from one hand to the other. “Your point?”

“I do not believe a true collector would risk allowing such a precious item out of his sight. Or his grip.”

Setrakian said, “There are thieves about.”

“And thieves within. If indeed you want to relieve yourself of the burden of this cursed artifact for a premium price, you will now follow me, Pirk. My residence is just a few paces this way.”

Dreverhaven turned and started into the alley, using the cane but not reliant upon it. Setrakian steadied himself, licking his lips and feeling the bristles of his disguising beard as he followed the undead war criminal into the stone alleyway.

The only time Setrakian was allowed outside Treblinka’s camouflaged barbwire fences was to work on Dreverhaven’s library. Herr Doktor maintained a house just a few minutes’ drive from the camp, workers transported there one at a time by a three-man squad of armed Ukrainian guards. Setrakian had little contact with Dreverhaven at the house, and, much more fortunately, no contact with him whatsoever inside the camp surgery, where Dreverhaven sought to satisfy his medical and scientific curiosity in the manner of an indulged boy left alone to cut worms in half and burn the wings off flies.

Dreverhaven was a bibliophile even then, using the spoils of war and genocide—gold and diamonds stolen from the walking dead—to spend outrageous sums on rare texts from Poland, France, Great Britain, and Italy, appropriated with dubious provenance during the black market chaos of the war years. Setrakian had been ordered to do finish work on a two-room library of rich oak, complete with a rolling iron ladder and a stained-glass window portraying the rod of Asclepius. Often confused with the caduceus, the Asclepius image of a serpent or long worm coiled about a staff is the symbol for medicine and doctors. But the head of the staff on Dreverhaven’s stained-glass representation depicted a death’s head, the symbol of the Nazi SS.

Dreverhaven personally inspected Setrakian’s craftsmanship once, his blue eyes crystal-cold as his fingers traced the underside of the shelves, seeking out any rough spots. He praised the young Jew with a nod and dismissed him.

They met one more time, when Setrakian faced the “Burning Hole,” the doctor overseeing the slaughter with the same cold blue eyes. They did not recognize Setrakian then: too many faces, all indistinguishable to him. Still, the experimenter was busy, an assistant timing the interlude between the gunshot entering the back of the head and the last agonal twitching of the victim.

Setrakian’s scholarship in the folklore and the occult history of vampires dovetailed with his hunt for the camp Nazis in his search for the ancient text known as Occido Lumen.

Setrakian gave “Blaak” plenty of leeway, trailing him by three paces, just out of stinger range. Dreverhaven walked on with his cane, apparently unconcerned about the vulnerability of having a stranger at his back. Perhaps he laid his trust in the many pedestrians circling the Wallen at night, their presence discouraging any attack. Or perhaps he merely wanted to give the impression of guilelessness.

In other words, perhaps the cat was acting like a mouse.

Between two red-lit window girls, Dreverhaven turned a key in a door lock, and Setrakian followed him up a red-carpeted flight of stairs. Dreverhaven had the top two floors, handsomely decorated if not well-lived-in. The bulb wattage was kept low, downturned lamps shining dimly onto soft rugs. The front windows faced east. They lacked heavy shades. There were no back windows, and, in sizing up the room dimensions, Setrakian determined them to be too narrow. He remembered, at once, harboring this same suspicion at his house near Treblinka—a suspicion informed by camp rumors of a secret examining room at Dreverhaven’s house, a hidden surgery.

Dreverhaven moved to a lit table, upon which he rested his cane. On a porcelain tray, Setrakian recognized the paperwork he had earlier provided the broker: provenance documents establishing a plausible link to the 1911 Marseilles auction, all expensive forgeries.

Dreverhaven removed his hat and placed it on a table, yet still he did not turn around. “May I interest you in an aperitif?”

“Regrettably, no,” answered Setrakian, undoing the twin buckles on his portmanteau while leaving the top clasp closed. “Travel upsets my digestive system.”

“Ah. Mine is ironclad.”

“Please don’t deny yourself on my account.”

Dreverhaven turned around, slowly, in the gloom. “I couldn’t, Monsieur Pirk. It is my practice never to drink alone.”

Instead of the time-worn strigoi Setrakian expected, he was stunned—though he tried to hide it—to find Dreverhaven looking exactly as he had decades before. Those same crystalline eyes. Raven-black hair falling over the back of his neck. Setrakian tasted a pang of acid, but he had little reason to fear: Dreverhaven had not recognized him at the pit, and surely would not recognize him now, more than a quarter century later.

“So,” Dreverhaven said. “Let us consummate our happy transaction then.”

Setrakian’s greatest test of will involved masking his amazement at the vampire’s speech. Or, more accurately, his play at speech. The vampire communicated in the usual telepathic manner, “speaking” directly into Setrakian’s head—but it had learned to manipulate its useless lips in a pantomime of human speech. Setrakian now understood how, in this manner, “Jan-Piet Blaak” moved about nocturnal Amsterdam without fear of discovery.

Setrakian scanned the room for another way out. He needed to know the strigoi was trapped before springing on him. He had come too far to allow Dreverhaven to slip free of his grasp.

Setrakian said, “Am I to understand, then, that you have no concerns about the book, given the misfortune that seems to befall those who possess it?”

Dreverhaven stood with his hands behind his back. “I am a man who embraces the accursed, Monsieur Pirk. And besides—it seems no misfortune has befallen you yet.”

“No … not yet,” lied Setrakian. “And why this book, if I may ask?”

“A scholarly interest, if you will. You might think of me as a broker myself. In fact, I have undertaken this global search for another interested party. The book is rare indeed, not having surfaced in more than half a century. Many believe that the sole remaining edition was destroyed. But—according to your papers—perhaps it has survived. Or there is a second edition. You are prepared to produce it now?”

“I am. First, I should like to see payment.”

“Ah. Naturally. In the case on the corner chair behind you.”

Setrakian moved laterally, with a casualness he did not feel, finding the latch with his finger and opening the top. The case was filled with banded guilders.

“Very good,” said Setrakian.

“Trading paper for paper, Monsieur Pirk. Now if you will reciprocate?”

Setrakian left the case open and returned to his portmanteau. He undid the clasp, one eye on Dreverhaven the entire time. “You might know, it has a very unusual binding.”

“I am aware of that, yes.”

“Though I am assured it is only partially responsible for the book’s outrageous price.”

“May I remind you, Monsieur, that you set the price. And do not judge a book by its cover. As with most clichés, that is good advice often ignored.”

Setrakian carried the portmanteau to the table containing the papers of provenance. He pulled open the top under the faint lamp light, then withdrew. “As you will, sir.”

“Please,” said the vampire. “I should like you to remove it. I insist.”

“Very well.”

Setrakian returned to the bag and reached inside with his black-gloved hands. He pulled out the book, which was bound in silver and fronted and backed with smooth silver plates.

He offered it to Dreverhaven. The vampire’s eyes narrowed, glowing.

Setrakian took a step toward him. “You would like to inspect it, of course?”

“Set it down on that table, Monsieur.”

“That table? But the light is so much more favorable over here.”

“You will please set it down on that table.”

Setrakian did not immediately comply. He remained still, the heavy silver book in his hands. “But you must want to examine it.”

Dreverhaven’s eyes rose from the silver cover of the tome to take in Setrakian’s face. “Your beard, Monsieur Pirk. It obscures your face. It gives you a Hebraic mien.”

“Is that right? I take it you don’t like Jews.”

“They don’t like me. Your scent, Pirk—it is familiar.”

“Why don’t you take a closer look at this book.”

“I do not need to. It is a fake.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps, indeed. But the silver—I can assure you that the silver is quite real.”

Setrakian advanced on Dreverhaven, the book held out in front of him. Dreverhaven backed off, then slowed. “Your hands,” he said. “You are crippled.” Dreverhaven’s eyes went back to Setrakian’s face. “The woodworker. So it is you.”

Setrakian swept open his coat, removing from the interior left fold a sword with a silver blade of modest size. “You have become indolent, Herr Doktor.”

Dreverhaven lashed out with his stinger. Not full-length, merely a feint, the bloated vampire leaping backward against the wall, and then quickly down again.

Setrakian anticipated the ploy. Indeed, the doctor was considerably less agile than many others Setrakian had encountered. Setrakian stood fast with his back to the windows, the vampire’s only escape.

“You are too slow, doctor,” Setrakian said. “Your hunting here has been too easy.”

Dreverhaven hissed. Concern showed in the beast’s eyes as the heat of exertion began to melt its facial cosmetics.

Dreverhaven glanced at the door, but Setrakian wasn’t buying. These creatures always built in an emergency exit. Even a bloated tick like Dreverhaven.

Setrakian feigned an attack, keeping the strigoi off-balance, forcing him to react. Dreverhaven snapped out his stinger, another aborted thrust. Setrakian responded with a quick sweep of his blade, which would have lopped it off at full length.

Dreverhaven made his break then, rushing laterally along the back bookcases, but Setrakian was just as fast. He still held the book in one hand, and hurled it at the fat vampire, the creature recoiling from its toxic silver. Then Setrakian was upon him.

He held the point of his silver blade at Dreverhaven’s upper throat. The vampire’s head tipped back, its crown resting against the spines of his precious books along the upper shelf, his eyes staring at Setrakian.

The silver weakened him, keeping his stinger in check. Setrakian went into his deepest coat pocket—it was lead-lined—and removed a band of thick silver baubles wrapped in a mesh of fine steel, strung along a length of cable.

The vampire’s eyes widened, but it was unable to move as Setrakian lay the necklace over its head, resting it upon the creature’s shoulders.

The silver collar weighed on the strigoi like a chain of hundred-pound stones. Setrakian pulled over a chair just in time for Dreverhaven to collapse into it, keeping the vampire from falling to the floor. The creature’s head dipped to one side, its hands shivering helplessly in its lap.

Setrakian picked up the book—it was, in fact, a sixth-edition copy of Darwin’s Origin of the Species, backed and bound in Britannia silver—and dropped it back into his portmanteau. Sword in hand, he returned to the bookcase toward which the desperate Dreverhaven had lunged.

After some careful searching, wary of booby-traps, Setrakian found the trigger volume. He heard a click and felt the shelf unit give, and then shoved open the swinging wall on its rotating axis.

The smell met him first. Dreverhaven’s rear quarters were windowless and unventilated, a nest of discarded books and trash and reeking rags. But this was not the source of the most offensive stench. That came from the top floor, accessible via a blood-spattered staircase.

An operating theater, a stainless-steel table set in black tile seemingly grouted in caked human blood. Decades of grime and gore covered every surface, flies buzzing angrily around a blood-smeared meat refrigerator in the corner.

Setrakian held his breath and opened the fridge, because he had to. It contained only items of perversion, nothing of real interest. No information to further Setrakian’s quest. Setrakian realized he was becoming inured to depravity and butchering.

He returned to the creature suffering in the chair. Dreverhaven’s face had by now melted away, unveiling the strigoi beneath. Setrakian stepped to the windows, dawn just beginning to filter in, soon to trumpet into the apartment, cleaning it of darkness and of vampires.

“How I dreaded each dawn in the camp,” said Setrakian. “The start of another day in the death farm. I did not fear death, but I did not choose it either. I chose survival. And in doing so, I chose dread.”

I am happy to die.

Setrakian looked at Dreverhaven. The strigoi no longer bothered with the ruse of moving his lips.

All my lusts have long since been satisfied. I have gone as far as one can go in this life, man or beast. I hunger for nothing any longer. Repetition only extinguishes pleasure.

“The book,” said Setrakian, daringly close to Dreverhaven. “It no longer exists.”

It does exist. But only a fool would dare to pursue it. Pursuing the Occido Lumen means you are pursuing the Master. You might be able to take a tired acolyte like myself, but if you go against him, the odds will certainly be against you. As they were against your dear wife.

So indeed the vampire had a little bit of perversion left in him. He still possessed the capacity, however small and vain, for sick pleasure. The vampire’s gaze never left Setrakian’s.

Morning was upon them now, the sun appearing at an angle through the windows. Setrakian stood and suddenly grasped the back of Dreverhaven’s chair, tipping it onto its hind legs and dragging it through the bookcase to the hidden rear quarters, leaving twin scores in the wood floor.

“Sunlight,” Setrakian declared, “is too good for you, Herr Doktor.”

The strigoi stared at him, eyes full of anticipation. Here, finally for him, was the unexpected. Dreverhaven longed to be part of any perversion, no matter the role he might play.

Setrakian remained in tight control of his rage.

“Immortality is no friend to the perverse, you say?” Setrakian put his shoulder to the bookshelf, sealing out the sun. “Then immortality you shall enjoy.”

That’s it, woodworker. There is your passion, Jew. What have you in mind?

The plan took three days. For seventy-two hours, Setrakian worked nonstop in a vengeful daze. Dismembering the strigoi upon Dreverhaven’s own operating table, severing and cauterizing all four stumps, was the most dangerous part. He then procured lead tulip planters in order to fashion a dirt-less coffin for the silver-necklaced strigoi, in order to cut off the vampire from communication with the Master. Into the sarcophagus he packed the abomination and its severed limbs. Setrakian chartered a small boat and loaded the planter onto it. Then he sailed alone deep into the North Sea. After a struggle, he managed to put the box overboard without sinking the boat in the process—thereby stranding the creature between land masses, safe from the killing sun and yet impotent for all eternity.

Not until the box sank to the ocean floor did Dreverhaven’s taunting voice finally leave Setrakian’s mind, like a madness finding its cure. Setrakian looked at his crooked fingers, bruised and bleeding, stinging with the salt water—and clenched them into tangled fists.

He was indeed going the way of madness. It was time to go underground, he realized, just as the strigoi had. To continue his work in private, and to await his chance.

His chance at the book. At the Master.

It was time to repair to America.

The Master—Part II

THE MASTER WAS, above all things, compulsive in both action and thought. The Master had considered every potential permutation of the plan. It felt vaguely anxious for this all to come to fruition, but one thing the Master did not lack was conviction.

The Ancients would be exterminated all at once, and in a matter of hours.

They would not even see it coming. How could they? After all, hadn’t the Master orchestrated the demise of one of them, along with six serfs, some years ago in the city of Sofia, Bulgaria? The Master itself had shared in the pain of the anguish of death at the very moment it occurred, feeling the maelstrom pull of the darkness—the implacable nothing—and savoring it.

On the 26th of April, 1986, several hundred meters below at the center of the Bulgarian city, a solar flash—a fission approximating the power of the sun—occurred inside a vaulted cellar within fifteen-foot-thick concrete walls. The city above was shaken by a deep rumble and a seismic movement, its epicenter tracked to Pirotska Street—but there were no injuries, and very little damage to property.

The event had been a mere bleep in the news, barely worth mentioning. It was to become completely overshadowed by the meltdown of the reactor at Chernobyl, and yet, in a manner unknown to most, intimately related to it.

Of the original seven, the Master had remained the most ambitious, the hungriest—and, in a sense, the youngest. This was only natural. The Master was the last one to arise, and from whence it was created was the mouth, the throat, the thirst.

Divided by this thirst, the others were scattered and hidden. Concealed, yet connected.

These notions buzzed inside the great consciousness of the Master. Its thoughts wandered to the time the Master first visited Armageddon on this Earth—to cities long forgotten, with pillars of alabaster and floors of polished onyx.

To the first time it had tasted blood.

Quickly, the Master reasserted control over its thoughts. Memories were a dangerous thing. They individuated the Master’s mind, and when that happened, even in this protected environment, the other Ancients could hear too. For in those moments of clarity, their minds became one. As they once had been, and were meant to be forever.

They were all created as one, and, thus, the Master had no name of its own. They all shared the one—Sariel—just as they shared one nature and one purpose. Their emotions and thought were naturally connected, in exactly the way the Master connected with the brood it was fostering, and all that would spring forth after that. The bond between the Ancients could be blocked but could never be broken. Their instincts and thoughts naturally yearned for connection.

In order to succeed, the Master had to subvert such an occurrence.

FALLEN LEAVES

The Sewer

WHEN VASILIY REGAINED consciousness, he found himself half-submerged in dirty water. All around him, ruptured pipes vomited gallons upon gallons of sewage water into the growing pool beneath him. Fet tried to get up, but leaned on his bad arm and groaned. He remembered what had happened: the explosion, the strigoi. The air was thick with the disturbing aroma of cooked flesh, mixed with toxic fumes. Somewhere in the distance—above him? beneath him?—he heard sirens and the squelch of police radios. Ahead, the faint glow of fire outlined a distant duct mouth.

His injured leg was submerged, still bleeding, adding to the murkiness of the water. His ears were still ringing, or, rather, just one. Fet raised his hand to it, and crusted blood flaked off into his fingers. He feared he had a blown eardrum.

He had no idea of where he was, or how he could get out, but the blast must have propelled him quite a way, and now, all around him, he found a little bit of free space.

He turned and located a loose grate near his flank. Rusty steel, rotten screws, rattling to his touch. He pried it loose a bit—and already he could feel a rush of fresh air. He was close to freedom, but his fingers were not enough to pry open the grate.

He felt around for something to use as a lever. He located a twisted length of steel—and then, lying facedown, the charred body of the strigoi.

As he looked at the burned remains, a moment of panic struck Fet. The blood worms. Had they seeped out of their host and blindly sought another body in this dank hole? If so, then … were they already in him? The wound in his leg? Would he feel any different if he was infected?

Then, the body moved.

It twitched.

Ever so slightly.

It was still functioning. Still alive—as alive as a vampire can be.

That was the reason the worms had not seeped out.

It stirred and sat up out of the water. Its back was charred, but not its front. Something was wrong with its eyes, and Fet knew in a moment that it no longer could see. It moved with sloppy determination, many of its bones fully dislocated yet its musculature still intact. Its jaw was no longer in place, ripped away by the blast, such that its stinger waved loosely in the air, like a tentacle.

The being splayed itself aggressively, a blind predator ready to charge. But Fet was transfixed by the sight of the exposed stinger. This was the first time he could see it completely. It was attached at two points, both at the base of the throat and at the back portion of the palate. The root was engorged and had a rippling, muscular structure. At the back of the throat, a sphincter-like hole gaped open in demand for food. Vasiliy thought he had seen a similar structure before—but where?

In the gloomy half-light, Fet felt around, looking for his nail gun. The creature’s head turned to the water sounds, trying to orient itself. Fet was about to give up when he stumbled upon the nail gun—completely submerged in the water. Damn, he thought, trying to control his anger.

But the thing had locked on him, somehow—and charged. Fet moved as fast as he could, but now the creature, blindly adapted to the shape of the duct around it and its damaged limbs, instinctively found its footing, moving with uncanny coordination.

Fet raised the gun and hoped for luck. He pulled back on the trigger—twice—and found he was out of ammo. He had emptied the entire payload before being knocked out, and now was left with an empty industrial tool in his hand.

The thing was on top of him in a matter of seconds, tackling Fet, pushing him down.

Fet had its entire weight on top of him. What was left of its mouth trembled as the stinger recoiled, ready to shoot.

Reflexively, Vasiliy grabbed the stinger as he would a rabid rat. He pulled on it, bending it free of the structure of the thing’s open throat. The thing squirmed and yelped, its dislocated arms unable to fight Fet’s grip. The stinger was like a heavily muscled snake, slimy and squirming, bucking, trying to get loose. But now Vasiliy was angry. The harder the thing pulled back, the stronger Fet pulled forward. He would not give up his tight grip, his good arm pulling with all his might.

And Fet’s might was immense.

In one final yank, Vasiliy overpowered the strigoi and ripped the stinger and part of the glandular structure and trachea from the thing’s neck.

The entity squirmed in his hand, moving like an independent animal, even as the host body twitched spasmodically, falling back.

One thick blood worm emerged from the writhing mess, crawling quickly over Fet’s fist. It slithered past his wrist and, all at once, began boring into his arm. It was drilling straight for the forearm veins, and Fet tossed away the stinger structure, watching this parasite invade his arm. It was halfway in when Vasiliy grabbed it by its visible, wriggling end, and yanked. He tore it back out, howling in pain and disgust. Again, reflex took over and he snapped the revolting parasite in two.

In his hands, before his eyes, the two halves regenerated themselves—as if by magic—into complete parasites again.

Fet tossed them away. He saw, exiting the vampire’s body, dozens of worms oozing out, slithering toward him through the fetid water.

His length of twisted steel gone, Fet said fuck it, ripping at the grate with his bare hands, pumped with adrenaline, tearing it loose and grabbing his empty nail gun as he jumped out of the duct and rushed to freedom.

The Silver Angel

HE LIVED ALONE in a tenement building in Jersey City, two blocks from Journal Square. One of the few neighborhoods that had not become gentrified. So many yuppies had taken over the rest—and where do they come from? How come they never end?

He climbed the steps to his fourth-floor apartment, his right knee creaking—literally creaking with every step—a squeak of pain jolting his body again and again.

His name was Angel Guzman Hurtado and he used to be big. He still was big, physically, but at age sixty-five his rebuilt knee hurt all the time and his body fat—what his American doctor called his BMI and what any Mexican would call panza—had overtaken his otherwise powerful figure. He sagged where he used to be taut, and he was taut where he had once been flexible—but big? Angel was always big. Both as a man and as a star—or at least what resembled it in his past life.

Angel had been a wrestler—the Wrestler back in Mexico City. El Angel de Plata. The Silver Angel.

He had begun his career in the 1960s as a rudo wrestler (one of the “bad guys”), but soon found himself embraced, with his trademark silver mask, by the adoring public, and so adjusted his style and altered his persona into a tecnico, one of the “good guys.” Through the years he fashioned himself into an industry: comic books, fotonovelas (corny photo-illustrated magazines narrating his strange and often ridiculous exploits), films, and TV spots. He opened two gyms and bought half a dozen tenements throughout Mexico City, becoming, in his own right, a superhero of sorts. His films spanned all genres: western, horror, sci-fi, secret agent—many times within the same feature. He took on amphibian creatures as well as Soviet spies with equal aplomb in badly choreographed scenes full of library sound effects—always ending with his trademark knockout blow known as the “Angel Kiss.”

But it was with vampires that he discovered his true niche. The silver-masked marvel battled every form of vampire: male, female, thin, fat—and, occasionally, even nude, for alternate versions exhibited only overseas.

But the eventual fall equaled the height of his climb. The more he expanded his brand empire, the more infrequently he trained, and wrestling became a nuisance he needed to put up with. When his movies were box-office hits and his popularity still high, he performed wrestling exhibitions only once or twice a year. His movie Angel vs. The Return of the Vampires (a title that made no syntactic sense, and yet encapsulated his film oeuvre perfectly) found new life in repeated TV airings, and Angel felt compelled by fading fame to produce a cinematic rematch with those caped, fanged creatures that had given him so much.

And so it came to pass that one fine morning he found himself face-to-face with a group of young wrestlers made up as vampires in cheap greasepaint and rubber teeth. Angel himself walked them through a change in fight choreography that would have him wrapped three hours early—his focus less on the film at hand than on enjoying an afternoon martini back at the Intercontinental Hotel.

In the scene, one of the vampires would nearly unmask Angel until he miraculously freed himself with an open-palm blow, his trademark “Angel Kiss.”

But as the scene progressed, filmed amid sweaty technicians at a stifling stage in Churubusco Studios, the younger vampire thespian, perhaps enraptured by the glory of his cinematic debut, applied a bit more force than necessary to their skirmish, and threw the middle-aged wrestler down. As they fell, the vampire adversary landed, both awkwardly and tragically, on his venerable master’s leg.

Angel’s knee snapped with a moist, loud crack, bending into an almost perfect L—the wrestler’s anguished scream muffled by his halfway torn silver mask.

He awoke hours later in a private room at one of Mexico’s best hospitals, surrounded by flowers, serenaded by well-wishers shouting from the street below.

But his leg. It was shattered. Irreparably.

The good doctor explained this to him with genial forthrightness, a man with whom Angel had shared a few afternoons of craps at the country club across from the film studios.

In the months and years that followed, Angel spent a great deal of his fortune trying to repair his broken limb—in hopes of mending his fractured career and recovering his technique—but his skin hardened from the multiple scars crisscrossing the knee, and his bones refused to heal properly.

In a final humiliation, a newspaper revealed his identity to the public, and, without the ambiguity and the mystery of the silver mask, Angel the common man became too pitied to be adored.

The rest happened quickly. As his investments faltered, he worked as a trainer, then bodyguard, then as a bouncer, but his pride remained, and soon he found himself a burly old guy who scared no one. Fifteen years ago, he followed a woman to New York City and overstayed his visa. Now—like most people who end up in tenements—he had no clear idea how he had gotten here, only that he was indeed here, a resident in a building quite similar to one of six he used to own outright.

But thinking of the past was dangerous and painful.

Evenings, he worked as the dishwasher at the Tandoori Palace downstairs, just next door. He was able to stand for hours on busy nights by wrapping lengths of duct tape around two broad splints on either side of his knee, beneath his trousers. And there were many busy nights. Now and then, he cleaned the toilets and swept the sidewalks, giving the Guptas enough reason to keep him around. He had fallen to the bottom of this caste system—so low that now his most valuable possession was anonymity. No one had to know who he once was. In a way, he was wearing a mask again.

For the past two evenings, the Tandoori Palace had remained closed—as had the grocery store next door, the other half of the neo-Bengali emporium the Guptas owned. No word from them, and no sign of their presence, no answer at their phone. Angel started to worry—no, not about them, truthfully, but about his income. The radio talked of quarantine, which was good for health but very bad for business. Had the Guptas fled the city? Perhaps they had gotten caught in some of the violence that had cropped up? In all this chaos, how would he know if they had been shot?

Three months before, they had sent him out to make duplicates of the keys to both places. He had made triplicates—he didn’t know what had possessed him, certainly no dark impulse on his part but only a lesson learned in life: to be prepared for anything.

Tonight, he decided, he would take a look. He needed to know. Just before dusk, Angel hauled himself down to the Guptas’ store. The street was quiet except for a dog, a black husky he had never seen in the neighborhood, barking at him from across the sidewalk—though something stopped the dog from crossing the street.

The Guptas’ store had once been called The Taj Mahal, but now, after generations of graffiti and pamphlet removal, the painted logo had worn away so that only the rosy illustration of the Indian Wonder of the World remained. Strangely, it exhibited too many minarets.

Now, someone had defaced the logo even further, spray-painting a cryptic design of lines and dots in fluorescent orange. The design, cryptic though it was, was fresh. The paint still glistened, a few threads of it slowly dripping at the corners.

Vandals. Here. Yet the locks were in place, the door undamaged.

Angel turned the key. When both bolts slid free, he limped inside.

Everything was silent. The power had been cut, and so the refrigerator was off, all the meats and fish inside gone to waste. Light from the last of the sunset filtered in through the steel shutters over the windows, like an orange-gold mist. Deeper inside, the store was dark. Angel had brought two busted cell phones with him. The call functions did not work, but the screens and batteries still did, and he found that—thanks to a picture of his white wall he snapped during daylight—the screens made excellent lights for hanging on his belt or even strapped to his head for close work.

The store was in absolute disarray. Rice and lentils covered the floor, spilled from several overturned containers. The Guptas would never have allowed this.

Something, Angel knew, was deeply wrong.

Above all else was the stench of ammonia. Not the eye-watering odor of the off-the-shelf cleaner kind he used to clean the toilets, but something more foul. Not pure like a chemical, but messy and organic. His phone illuminated several streaking trails of orange-tinged fluid along the floor, sticky and still wet. They led to the cellar door.

The basement beneath the store communicated with the restaurant and, ultimately, with the belowground floors of his tenement building.

Angel put a shoulder to the Guptas’ office door. He knew they kept an old handgun inside the desk. He found it, the weapon feeling heavy and oily, not at all like the shiny prop guns he used to wave around. He tucked one of the phones into his tight belt and returned to the cellar door.

With his leg hurting more than ever, the old wrestler started down the slick steps. At the bottom, a door. This one had been broken, Angel saw—but from the inside. Someone had broken in from the cellar up to the store.

Beyond the storeroom, Angel heard a hissing sound, evenly measured and prolonged. He went in with both the gun and his phone out.

Another design defaced the wall. It resembled a bloom of six petals, or perhaps an inkblot: the center done in gold, the petals painted black. The paint still glistened, and he ran his light over all of it—maybe a bug, not a flower—before squeezing through the doorway into the next room.

The ceiling was low, spaced with wooden beams for support. Angel knew the layout well. One passage led to a narrow stairway to the sidewalk, where they received food shipments three times a week. The other burrowed through to his tenement building. He started ahead toward his building when the toe of his shoe hit something.

He aimed his phone light down onto the floor. At first he did not understand it. A person, sleeping. Then another. And two more near the stack of chairs.

They weren’t sleeping, because he didn’t hear any snoring or deep breathing, and yet they weren’t dead, because he didn’t smell death.

At that very moment, outside, the last of the sun’s direct rays disappeared from the East Coast sky. Night was upon the city, and newly turned vampires, those in their first days, responded very literally to the cosmic edict of sundown and sunup.

The slumbering vampires began to stir. Angel had stumbled unwittingly into a vast nest of undead. He did not need to wait to see their faces to know that this—people rising en masse from the floor of a darkened cellar—was not anything he wanted to be part of, nor indeed present for.

He moved to the narrow space in the wall toward the burrow to his building—one he had seen both ends of but never had the occasion to cross—only to see more figures beginning to rise, blocking his way.

He did not yell or give any warning. He fired the weapon, but was not prepared for the intensity of light and sound inside that constricted space.

Nor were his targets, who appeared more affected by the reports and the bright flash of flame than they were by the lead rounds that pierced their bodies. He fired three more times, achieving the same effect, and then twice behind him, sensing the others’ approach.

The gun clicked empty.

He threw it down. Only one option remained. An old door he had never opened—because he had never been able to, a door with no knob or handle, stuck within a compressed wooden frame surrounded by rock wall.

Angel pretended it was a prop door. Told himself it was a breakaway piece of balsa wood. He had to. He gripped the phone in his fist and lowered his shoulder and ran at it full-force.

The old wood scraped away from its frame, dislodging dust and dirt as the lock cracked and it burst open. Angel and his balky leg stumbled through—nearly falling into a gang of punks on the other side.

The bangers raised guns and silver swords at him, staggered by his bulk, about to slay him.

“Madre Santisima!” exclaimed Angel. Holy Mother of God!

Gus, at the head of the pack, was about to run this vampire motherfucker through when he heard him speak—and speak Spanish. The words stopped Gus—and the vampire-hunting Sapphires behind him—just in time.

“Me lleva la chingada—que haces tu aca, muchachon?” said Gus. What the fuck are you doing here, big boy?

Angel said nothing, letting his facial expression do all the talking as he turned and pointed behind him.

“More bloodsuckers,” said Gus, understanding. “That’s what we’re here for.” He stared at the big man. There was something noble and familiar about him.

“Te conozco?” said Gus. Do I know you? To which the wrestler answered with a quick shrug, but no more words.

Alfonso Creem charged through the doorway, armed with a thick silver rapier with a bell-cup hilt to protect his hand from the blood worms. That protection was negated by the use of his other hand, bare except for a silver-knuckled multi-finger ring inscribed with fake diamonds spelling C-R-E-E-M.

He went after the vampires with furious chops and brutal blows. Gus was right behind him, a UV lamp in one hand, a silver sword in the other. More Sapphires followed close behind.

Never fight in a basement was a tenet of both street fighting and warfare, but it couldn’t be avoided in a vamp hunt. Gus would have preferred to firebomb the place, if he could be guaranteed full mortality. But these vamps always seemed to have another way out.

There were more nesting vamps than they had bargained for, and the white blood spilled like sludgy, sour milk. Still, they cut and chopped their way through, and, when they were done, they returned to Angel, who remained standing on the other side of the broken door.

Angel was in a state of shock. He had recognized the Guptas among Creem’s victims, and he couldn’t get over their undead faces, and the creature howls they emitted when the Colombian hacked at their white-blooded throats.

These were the types of punks he used to slap around in his movies. “Que chingados pasa?” What is all this?

“The end of the world,” said Gus. “Who are you?”

“I’m … I am nobody,” Angel said, recovering. “I worked here.” He pointed up at an angle. “Live there.”

“Your entire building is infested, man.”

“Infested? Are they really …?”

“Vampires? You bet your ass.”

Angel felt dizzy—disoriented—this couldn’t be happening. Not to him. A whirl of emotions overtook him and amid them he was able to recognize one that had long ago deserted him.

It was excitement.

Creem was flexing his silver fist. “Leave him. These freaks are waking up all over the place, and I still got some more killing in me.”

“What do you say?” asked Gus, turning back to his fellow countryman. “Nothing for you here.”

“Look at that knee,” said Creem. “No one’s going to slow me up, get me turned into one of them stingers.”

Gus pulled a small sword from the Sapphires’ equipment bag and handed it to Angel. “This is his building. Let’s see if he can earn his keep.”

As though some sort of psychic alarm had been sounded, the vampire residents of Angel’s building were ready for battle. The undead emerged from every doorway, climbing effortlessly through obstacles and staircases.

During a stairway battle, Angel saw a neighbor of his, a seventy-three-year-old woman with a walker, use the banister as a jumping point to traverse the stairwell between floors. She and others moved with the stupefying grace of primates.

In his movies, the enemy announced itself with a glower, and accommodated the hero by moving slowly for the kill. Angel didn’t exactly “earn his keep,” though his brute strength did give him certain advantages. His wrestling knowledge came back to him in close combat situations, despite his limited mobility. And he felt like an action hero once again.

Like evil spirits, the undead kept coming. As though summoned from the surrounding buildings, wave after wave of pale, slithery-tongued creatures swarmed up from the lower floors, and the tenement walls ran white. They fought them the way firemen fight fires, pushing back, tamping out flare-ups, and attacking hot spots. They functioned as a stone-cold execution squad, and Angel would later be amazed to learn that this was their inaugural nighttime assault. Two of the Colombians were stung, lost to the scourge—and yet when they were done, the punks only seemed to want more.

Compared to this, they said, daylight hunting was a breeze.

Once they had stemmed the tide, one of the Colombians found a carton of smokes and they all lit up. Angel hadn’t smoked in years, but the taste and the smell blocked out the stench of the dead things. Gus watched the smoke dissipate and offered up a silent prayer for the departed.

“There is a man,” said Gus. “An old pawnbroker over in Manhattan. He was the first to clue me to these vamps. Saved my soul.”

“No chance,” said Creem. “Why go all the way across the river when there is killing galore here?”

“You meet this guy, you’ll understand why.”

“How do you know he’s still kickin’ it?”

“I sure hope he is. We’re going over the bridge at first light.”

Angel took a minute then to return to his apartment for the last time. His knee ached as he looked around: unwashed clothes heaped in the corner, dirty dishes in his sink, the general squalor of the place. He had never taken any pride in his living condition—and it shamed him now. Perhaps, he sensed, he knew all the time that he was destined for something better—something he could never have foreseen—and he was just waiting for the call.

He threw some extra clothes into a grocery bag, including his knee brace, and then lastly—almost ashamedly, because taking it was like admitting it was his most cherished possession, all he had left of who he once was—he grabbed the silver mask.

He folded the mask into his jacket pocket and, with it next to his heart, he realized that, for the first time in decades, he felt good about himself.

The Flatlands

EPH FINISHED TENDING to Vasiliy’s injuries, giving particular attention to cleaning out the worm hole in his forearm. The rat-catcher had sustained a great deal of damage, but none of it permanent, except maybe the hearing loss and ringing in his right ear. The metal shard came out of his leg and he hobbled on it but did not complain. He was still standing. Eph admired that, and felt a bit like an Ivy League momma’s boy by his side. For all his education and scholarly achievements, Eph felt infinitely less useful to the cause than Fet.

But that would soon change.

The exterminator opened his poison closet, showing Setrakian his bait packs and traps, his halothane bottles and toxic blue kibble. Rats, he explained, lacked the biological mechanism for vomiting. The main function of emesis is to purge a body of toxic substances, which was why rats were particularly susceptible to poisoning. Why they had evolved and developed other traits to compensate for this. One was that they could ingest just about anything, including nonfood materials such as clay or concrete, which helped to dilute a toxin’s effect on the rat’s body until they could get rid of the poison as waste. The other was the rats’ intelligence, their complex food-avoidance strategies that aided in their survival.

“Funny thing,” said Fet, “is that when I ripped out that thing’s throat, and got a good look in there?”

“Yes?” said Setrakian.

“The way it looked to me, I’d bet dollars to doughnuts they can’t puke either.”

Setrakian nodded, thinking on that. “I believe you are correct,” he said. “May I ask, what is the chemical makeup of these rodenticides?”

“Depends,” said Fet. “These use thallium sulfate, a heavy metal salt that attacks the liver, brain, and muscle. Odorless, colorless, and highly toxic. These over here use a common mammalian blood-thinner.”

“Mammalian? What, something like Coumadin?”

“No, not something like. Exactly like.”

Setrakian looked at the bottle. “So I myself have been taking rat poison for some years now.”

“Yep. You and millions of other people.”

“And this does what?”

“Same thing it would do to you if you took too much of it. The anticoagulant leads to internal hemorrhaging. Rats bleed out. It’s not pretty.”

In picking up the bottle to examine its label, Setrakian noticed something on the shelf behind it. “I do not wish to alarm you, Vasiliy. But aren’t these mouse droppings?”

Fet pushed his way in for a closer look. “Motherfucker!” he said. “How can this be?”

“A minor infestation, I’m sure,” said Setrakian.

“Minor, major, what does it matter? This is supposed to be Fort Knox!” Fet knocked over a few bottles, trying to see better. “This is like vampires breaking into a silver mine.”

While Fet was obsessively searching the back of the closet for more evidence, Eph watched Setrakian slip one of the bottles inside his coat pocket.

Eph followed Setrakian away from the closet, catching him alone. “What are you going to do with that?” he said.

Setrakian showed no guilt at having been discovered. The old man’s cheeks were sunken, his flesh a pale shade of gray. “He said it is essentially blood thinner. With all the pharmacies being raided, I would not like to run out.”

Eph studied the old man, trying to see the truth behind his lie.

Setrakian said, “Nora and Zack are ready for their journey to Vermont?”

“Just about. But not Vermont. Nora had a good point—it’s Kelly’s parents’ place, she might be drawn to it. There’s a girls’ camp Nora knows, from growing up in Philadelphia. It’s off-season now. Three cabins on a small island in the middle of a lake.”

“Good,” said Setrakian. “The water will keep them safe. How soon do you leave for the train station?”

“Soon,” said Eph, checking his wristwatch. “We still have a little time.”

“They could take a car. You do realize that we are out of the epicenter now. This neighborhood, with its lack of direct subway service and comparatively few apartment buildings conducive to rapid infestation, has yet to be totally colonized. We are not in a bad spot here.”

Eph shook his head. “The train is the fastest and surest way out of this plague.”

Setrakian said, “Fet told me about the off-duty policemen who came to the pawnshop. Who resorted to vigilantism once their families were safely away from the city. You have something similar in mind, I think.”

Eph was stunned. Had the old man intuited his plan somehow? He was about to tell him when Nora entered carrying an open carton. “What is this stuff for?” she asked, setting it down near the raccoon cages. Inside were chemicals and trays. “You setting up a dark room?”

Setrakian turned from Eph. “There are certain silver emulsions that I want to test on blood worms. I am optimistic that a fine mist of silver, if possible to derive, synthesize, and direct, will be an effective weapon for mass killing of the creatures.”

Nora said, “But how are you going to test it? Where are you going to get a blood worm?”

Setrakian lifted the lid off a Styrofoam cooler, revealing the jar containing his slowly pulsing vampire heart. “I will segment the worm powering this organ.”

Eph said, “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Only if I make a mistake. I have segmented the parasites in the past. Each section regenerates a fully functioning worm.”

“Yeah,” said Fet, returning from the poison closet. “I’ve seen it.”

Nora lifted out the jar, looking at the heart the old man had fed for more than thirty years, keeping it alive with his own blood. “Wow,” she said. “It’s like a symbol, isn’t it?”

Setrakian looked at her with keen interest. “How do you mean?”

“This diseased heart kept in a jar. I don’t know. I think it exemplifies that which will be our ultimate downfall.”

Eph said, “Being what?”

Nora looked at him with an expression of both sadness and sympathy. “Love,” she said.

“Ah,” said Setrakian, his acknowledgment confirming her insight.

“The undead returning for their Dear Ones,” Nora said. “Human love corrupted into vampiric need.”

Setrakian said, “That may indeed be the most insidious evil of this plague. That is why you have to destroy Kelly.”

Nora quickly agreed. “You must release her from the Master’s grip. Release Zack. And, by extension, all of us.”

Eph was shocked but knew all too well that she was right. “I know,” he said.

“But it is not enough to know what is the correct course of action,” said Setrakian. “You are being called upon to perform a deed that goes against every human instinct. And, in the act of releasing a loved one … you taste what it is to be turned. To go against everything you are. That act changes one forever.”

Setrakian’s words had power, and the others were silent. Then Zack—evidently tired of playing the handheld video game Eph had found for him, or perhaps the battery had finally given out—returned from the van, finding them gathered in conversation. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, young man—talking strategy,” said Setrakian, taking a seat on one of the cartons, resting his legs. “Vasiliy and I have an appointment in Manhattan, so, with your father’s permission, we will catch a ride with you back over the bridge.”

Eph said, “What kind of appointment?”

“At Sotheby’s, a preview of their next auction.”

“I thought they weren’t offering that item for preview.”

“They are not,” said Setrakian. “But we have to try. This is my absolute last chance. At the very least, it will give Vasiliy the opportunity to observe their security.”

Zack looked at his dad and said, “Can’t we do the James Bond security stuff instead of getting on a train?”

Eph said, “’Fraid not, little ninja. You gotta go.”

Nora said, “But how will you all keep in touch and connect afterward?” She pulled out her phone. “This thing is just a camera now. They’re toppling cell towers in every borough.”

Setrakian said, “If worst comes to worse, we can always meet back here. Perhaps you should use the ground line to contact your mother, tell her we are on the way.”

Nora left to do just that, and Fet went out to start the van. Then it was just Eph and Zack, the father with his arm around his son, facing the old man.

“You know, Zachary,” said Setrakian, “in the camp I was telling you about, the conditions were so brutal that many times I wanted to grab a rock, a hammer, a shovel, and take down one, maybe two guards. I would have died with them, for certain—and yet, in the searing heat of the moment of choice, at least I would have accomplished something. At least my life—my death—would have meaning.

Setrakian never looked at Eph, only the boy, though Eph knew this speech was meant for him.

“That was how I thought. And every day I despised myself for not going through with it. Every moment of inaction feels like cowardice in the face of such inhuman oppression. Survival often feels like an indignity. But—and this is the lesson as I see it now, as an old man—sometimes the most difficult decision is to not martyr yourself for someone, but instead to choose to live for them. Because of them.”

Only then did he look at Eph.

“I do hope you will take that to heart.”

The Black Forest Solutions Facility

THE CUSTOM VAN in the middle of a three-vehicle motorcade pulled to a stop right outside the canopied entrance of the Black Forest Solutions meatpacking facility in Upstate New York.

Handlers from both the lead and trailing SUVs opened large black umbrellas as the rear van doors opened and an automatic ramp was lowered to the driveway.

A wheelchair was rolled out backward, its occupant immediately surrounded by the umbrellas and quickly shuttled inside.

The umbrellas did not come down until the chair reached a windowless expanse among the animal pens. The occupant of the wheelchair was a sun-shy figure wearing a burka-like habit.

Eldritch Palmer, watching the entrance from the side, made no attempt to greet the occupant, but instead awaited its unveiling. Palmer was supposed to be meeting with the Master, not one of its wretched Third Reich flunkies. But the Dark One was nowhere to be seen. Palmer realized then that he had not had an audience with the Master since its run-in with Setrakian.

A small, impolite smile curled the edges of Palmer’s lips. Was he pleased that the disgraced professor had shown the Master some disgrace? No, not exactly. Palmer had zero affection for lost causes such as Abraham Setrakian. Still, as a man used to being president and CEO, Palmer didn’t mind that the Master had been shown something in the way of humility.

He chastised himself then, admonishing himself to never let these thoughts enter his mind in the presence of the Dark One.

The Nazi removed his coverings layer by layer. Thomas Eichhorst, the Nazi who had once headed the Treblinka extermination camp, arose from the wheelchair, the black sun-coverings piled at his feet like so many sloughed layers of flesh. His face retained the arrogance of a camp commandant, though the decades had worn away the edges like a fine acid. His flesh was smooth as a mask of ivory. Unlike any other Eternal Palmer had ever met, Eichhorst insisted on wearing a suit and tie, maintaining the bearing of an undead gentleman.

Palmer’s dislike for the Nazi had nothing whatsoever to do with his crimes against humanity. Palmer was in the midst of overseeing a genocide himself. Rather, his distaste for Eichhorst was borne out of envy. He resented Eichhorst’s blessing of Eternity—the great gift of the Master—because he coveted it so.

Palmer then recalled his first introduction to the Master, a meeting facilitated by Eichhorst. This had followed three full decades of searching and researching, of exploring that seam where myth and legend met historical reality. Palmer finally tracked down the Ancients themselves, and finagled an introduction. They turned down his request to join their Eternal clan, refusing him flatly, even though Palmer knew they had accepted into their rare breed men whose net worth was significantly lower than his. Their unqualified scorn, after so many years of hope, was a humiliation that Eldritch Palmer simply could not bear. It meant his mortality and the surrender of all that he had accomplished in this pre-life. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust: that was fine for the masses, but for Palmer, only immortality would do. The corruption of his body—which had never been a friend to him—was but a small price to pay.

And so commenced another decade of searching—but this time, in pursuit of the legend of the rogue Ancient, the seventh immortal, whose power was said to rival any of the others. This journey brought Palmer to the craven Eichhorst, who arranged the summit.

It occurred inside the Zone of Alienation surrounding the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant in the Ukraine, a little more than a decade after the 1986 reactor disaster. Palmer had to enter the Zone without his usual motorcade support (his unmarked ambulance and security detail), the reason being that moving vehicles kick up radioactive dust, laced with cesium-137, so you don’t want to follow any other moving vehicles. So Mr. Fitzwilliam—Palmer’s bodyguard and medic—drove him alone, and drove fast.

Their meeting took place after nightfall, of course, in one of the so-called black villages surrounding the plant: evacuated settlements that dotted the most blighted ten-square-kilometer area of the planet.

Pripyat, the largest of these settlements, had been founded in 1970 to house plant workers, its population having grown to fifty thousand at the time of the accident and radiation exposure. The city was fully evacuated three days later. A carnival had been built in a large downtown lot, set to open on May 1, 1986: five days after the disaster, two days after the city was emptied forever.

Palmer met the Master at the foot of the never-operated Ferris wheel, sitting as still as a giant stopped clock. It was there that a deal was struck, and the Ten-year Plan set into motion—with the Earth’s occultation designated as the time of the crossing.

In return, Palmer was promised his Eternity, and a seat at the right hand of the Master. Not as one of his errand-boy acolytes but as a partner in apocalypse, pending his delivery of the human race as promised.

Before the meeting ended, the Master grasped Palmer by the arm and ran up the side of the giant Ferris wheel. At the top, the terrified Palmer was shown Chernobyl, the red beacon of the #4 reactor in the distance, pulsing steadily atop the sarcophagus of lead and steel, sealing in one hundred tons of labile uranium.

And now here he was, ten years on, Palmer at the verge of delivering everything he had pledged to the Master on that dark night in a diseased land. The plague was spreading faster every hour now, throughout the country and across the globe—and still he was being made to bear the indignity of this vampire bureaucrat.

Eichhorst’s expertise was in the construction of animal pens and the coordination of maximally efficient abattoirs. Palmer had financed the “refurbishing” of dozens of meat plants nationwide, all of them redesigned according to Eichhorst’s exact specifications.

I trust everything is in order, said Eichhorst.

“Naturally,” said Palmer, barely able to mask his distaste for the creature. “What I want to know is, when will the Master uphold his end of the bargain?”

In due time. All in due time.

“My time is due now,” said Palmer. “You know the condition of my health. You know that I have fulfilled every promise, that I have met every deadline, that I have served your Master faithfully and completely. Now the hour grows late. I am due some consideration.”

The Dark Lord sees everything and forgets nothing.

“I will remind you of his—and your—unfinished business with Setrakian, your former pet prisoner.”

His resistance is doomed.

“Agreed, of course. And yet his operations and his diligence do pose a threat to some individuals. Including yourself. And me.”

Eichhorst was silent a moment, as though conceding his agreement.

The Master will settle his affairs with the Juden in a matter of hours. Now—I have not fed for some time, and I was promised a fresh meal.

Palmer hid a frown of disgust. How quickly his human revulsion would turn to hunger, to need. How soon he would look back upon his naiveté here the way an adult looks back upon the needs of a child. “Everything has been arranged.”

Eichhorst motioned to one of his handlers who stepped away into one of the larger pens. Palmer heard whimpering and checked his watch, wanting to be done with this.

Eichhorst’s handler returned holding, by the back of his neck, much as a farmer might lift up a piglet, a boy of no more than eleven years of age. Blindfolded and shivering, the boy pawed at the air before him, kicking, trying to see beneath the cloth covering his eyes.

Eichhorst turned his head at the smell of his victim, his chin tipped in a gesture of appreciation.

Palmer observed the Nazi and wondered for a moment what it would feel like, after the pain of the turning. What will it mean to exist as a creature who feeds on man?

Palmer turned and signaled to Mr. Fitzwilliam to start the car. “I will leave you to eat in peace,” he said, and left the vampire to its meal.

International Space Station

TWO HUNDRED AND twenty miles above Earth, the concepts of day and night had little meaning. Orbiting the planet once every hour and a half provided all the dawns and sunsets a person could handle.

Astronaut Thalia Charles gently snored inside a sleeping bag strapped to the wall. The American flight engineer was entering her 466th day in Low Earth orbit, with only 6 more to go before the space shuttle docking that was to be her ride back home.

Mission Control set their sleep schedules, and today was to be an “early” day, readying the ISS to receive Endeavor and the next research facility module it carried. She heard the voice summoning her, and spent a pleasant few seconds transforming from sleep to wakefulness. The floating sensation of dreaming is a constant in zero gravity. She wondered how her head would react to a pillow upon her return. What it would be like to come under the benevolent dictatorship of Earth’s gravity once again.

She removed her eye mask and neck pad, tucking each inside the sleeping bag before loosening the straps and wriggling out. She undid her elastic and shook out her long, black hair, combing it apart with her fingers, then turning a half-somersault to regather it and wind the elastic back around in a double loop.

The voice of Mission Control from Houston’s Johnson Space Center called her to the laptop in the Unity module for a teleconference uplink. This was unusual but not, in itself, a cause for alarm. Bandwidth in space is in high demand, and very carefully allocated. She wondered if there hadn’t been another orbital collision of space junk, its debris rocketed through orbit with the force of a shotgun blast. She disdained having to take shelter inside the attached Soyuz-TMA spacecraft, as a precaution. The Soyuz was their emergency escape from the ISS. A similar threat had occurred two months ago, necessitating an eight-day stay inside its bell-shaped crew module. Space-junk hazards posed the greatest threat to the viability of the ISS, and to the psychological well-being of its crew.

The news, as she found out, was even worse.

“We’re scrapping the Endeavor launch for now,” said Mission Control head Nicole Fairley.

“Scrapping? You mean postponing?” said Thalia, trying not to betray too much disappointment.

“Postponing indefinitely. There’s a lot going on down here. Some troubling developments. We need to wait this out.”

“What? The thrusters again?”

“No, nothing mechanical. Endeavor is sound. This is not a technical problem.”

“Okay …”

“To be honest, I don’t know what this is. You may have noticed you haven’t received any news updates these past few days.”

There was no direct Internet access in space. Astronauts received data, video, and e-mail through a KU-band data link. “Do we have another virus?” All the laptops on the ISS operated on a wireless intranet, segregated from the mainframe.

“Not a computer virus, no.”

Thalia gripped the handlebar to hold herself still in front of the screen. “Okay. I’m going to stop asking questions now and just listen.”

“We are in the midst of a rather mystifying global pandemic. It apparently started in Manhattan and has been popping up in various cities and spreading ever since. Concurrently, and apparently in direct relation, there have been a large number of disappearances reported. At first, these vanishings were attributed to sick people staying home from work, people seeking medical attention. Now there are riots. I’m talking entire blocks of New York City. The violence has spread across state lines. The first report of attacks in London came four days ago, then at Narita Airport in Japan. Each country has been guarding its flank and its international profile, trying to avoid a meltdown of travel and commerce, which—as I understand it—is, in fact, exactly what each country should be seeking. The World Health Organization held a press conference yesterday in Berlin. Half of its members were absent. They officially moved the pandemic from a phase five to a phase-six alert.”

Thalia couldn’t believe it. “Is it the eclipse?” she said.

“What’s that?”

“The occultation. When I watched it from up here … the great black blot that was the shadow of the moon, spreading over the northeastern U.S. like a dead spot … I guess I had this … I had a premonition of sorts.”

“Well—it does seem to have started around then.”

“It was just the way it looked. So ominous.”

“We have had a few major incidents here in Houston, and more in Austin and Dallas. Mission Control is operating at about seventy percent manpower now, our numbers shrinking every day. With operation personnel levels unreliable, we have no choice but to push back the launch at this time.”

“Okay. I understand.”

“The Russian transport that went up two months ago left you plenty of food and batteries, enough to last up to a year if rationing becomes necessary.”

“A year?” said Thalia, more forcefully than she would have liked.

“Just thinking worst-case. Hopefully things get back under control here and we can get you back maybe two or three weeks out.”

“Great. So until then, more freeze-dried borscht.”

“This same message is being relayed to Commander Demidov and Engineer Maigny by their respective agencies. We are aware of your disappointment, Thalia.”

“I haven’t received any e-mail from my husband in a few days. Have you been holding those back as well?”

“No, we haven’t. A few days, you say?”

Thalia nodded. She pictured Billy as she always did, working inside the kitchen of their home in West Hartford, dishrag over his shoulder, cooking up some ambitious feast over the stove. “Contact him for me, will you? He’ll want to know about the postponement.”

“We did attempt to contact him. No answer. Either at your house, or his restaurant.”

Thalia swallowed hard. She worked quickly to regain her composure.

He’s fine, she thought. I’m the one orbiting the planet in a spaceship. He’s down there, both feet on the ground. He’s fine.

She showed Mission Control only confidence and fortitude, but she had never felt so far away from her husband as at that moment.

Knickerbocker Loans and Curios, East 118th Street, Spanish Harlem

THE BLOCK WAS already burning when Gus arrived with the Sapphires and Angel.

They saw smoke from the bridge on the way over: thick and black, rising in various spots uptown and down, Harlem and the Lower East Side and points between. As though the city had seen a coordinated military attack.

The morning sun was overhead, the city quiet. They shot up Riverside Drive, weaving around abandoned vehicles. Seeing smoke rising from city blocks was like watching a person bleed. Gus felt alternately helpless and anxious—the city was falling to shit all around him, and time was of the essence.

Creem and the other Jersey punks looked upon Manhattan burning with a kind of satisfaction. To them it was like watching a disaster movie. But to Gus, this was like watching his turf going up in flames.

The block they were headed to was the epicenter of the biggest uptown blaze: all the streets surrounding the pawnshop were blacked out by the thick veil of smoke, turning day into a strange, storm-like night.

“Those motherfuckers,” said Gus. “They blocked out the sun.”

The entire side of the street raged in flames—except the pawnshop on the corner. Its large front windows were shattered, security grates pulled off the building overhang and lying twisted on the sidewalk.

The rest of the city was quieter than a cold Christmas morning, but this block—the 118th Street intersection—was, at that dark daylight hour, teeming with vamps laying siege to the pawnshop.

They were after the old man.

Inside the apartment above the shop, Gabriel Bolivar moved from room to room. Silver-backed mirrors covered the walls instead of pictures, as though some strange spell had converted artwork into glass. The former rock star’s blurry reflection moved with him from room to room in his search for the old man Setrakian and his accomplices.

Bolivar stopped in the room the mother of the boy had tried to enter—the wall boarded behind an iron cage.

No one.

It looked as though they had cleared out. Bolivar wished the mother had accompanied them here. Her blood link to the boy would have proved valuable. But the Master had tasked Bolivar, and its will would be done.

The job of bloodhound instead fell to the feelers, the newly turned blind children. Bolivar came out to the kitchen to see one there, a boy with fully black eyes, crouching down on all fours. He was “looking” out the window toward the street, using his extrasensory perception.

The basement? said Bolivar.

No one, said the boy.

But Bolivar needed to see it for himself, needed to be sure, moving past him to the stairs. Bolivar rode the spiral railing down on his hands and bare feet, down one floor to the street level, where the other feelers had retreated to the shop—then continuing his descent to the basement and a locked door.

Bolivar’s soldiers were already there, in answer to his telepathic command. They tore at the locked door with powerful, oversize hands, digging into the iron-bolted frame with the hardened nails of their talon-like middle fingers until they gained purchase, then joined forces to rip the door back from its frame.

The first few to enter tripped the ultraviolet lamps surrounding the interior of the doorway, the electric indigo rays cooking their virus-rich bodies, the vampires dissipating with screams and clouds of dust. The rest were repulsed by the light, pushed backward against the spiral staircase, shading their eyes. They were unable to see through the doorway.

Bolivar was the first to haul himself hand over hand up the staircase, ahead of the crush. The old man still could be inside there.

Bolivar had to find another way in.

He noticed then the feelers tensed on the floor, facing the smashed windows and the street beyond, like pointer dogs responding to a scent. The first among them—a girl in soiled briefs and an undershirt—snarled and then leaped through the jagged shards of glass to the street.

The little girl came right at Angel, loping on all fours with fawn-like grace. The old wrestler backed up into the street, wanting no part of her, but she had locked in on the biggest target and was set on taking him down. She sprang up from the road, black-eyed, open-mouthed—and Angel reverted into wrestler mode, handling her as though she were a challenger throwing herself at him from the top turnbuckle. He applied the Angel Kiss, his open-palm blow smacking the girl out of the air in mid-leap, sending her lithe little body flying a good dozen yards away, tumbling to the road.

Angel recoiled immediately. One of the great disappointments of his life was not knowing any of the children he had sired. She was a vampire, but she looked so human—a child, still—and he started toward her with his bare hand outstretched. She turned and hissed, her blind eyes like two black bird’s eggs, her stinger darting out at him, maybe three feet in length, considerably shorter than an adult vampire’s. The tip flailed before his eyes like a devil’s tail, and Angel was transfixed.

Gus intervened quickly, finishing her with a hard swipe of his sword that scored the surface of the road, scraping up sparks.

This slaying sent the other vamps into an attack frenzy. A brutal battle, Gus and the Sapphires outnumbered at first three to one, then four to one as vamps fled from the pawnshop and emerged from the basements of the adjacent buildings burning along the street. Either they had been psychically summoned into battle, or simply heard the ringing dinner bell. Destroy one, and two more came at you.

Then a shotgun blast exploded near Gus and a marauding vamp was cut in two. He turned to see Mr. Quinlan, the Ancients’ chief hunter, picking off rioting white-bloods with military precision. He must have come up from underneath like these others. Unless he had been shadowing Gus and the Sapphires the entire time, from the darkness of the underground.

Gus noticed, in that moment—his senses heightened by the adrenaline of battle—that no blood worms coursed beneath the surface of Quinlan’s translucent skin. All the old ones, including the other hunters, crawled with worms, and yet his nearly iridescent flesh was as still and smooth as skin on a pudding.

But the fight was on, and the revelation passed in an instant. Mr. Quinlan’s killing cleared some much-needed space, and the Sapphires, no longer in danger of being surrounded, moved the fight from the middle of the street toward the pawnshop. The children waited, on all fours, on the periphery of the battle, like wolf cubs awaiting a weakened deer to kill. Quinlan sent one blast in their direction, the blind creatures scattering with a high-pitched squeal as he reloaded.

Angel snapped a vampire’s neck with a sharp twist of his hands, and then, in a single, swift move, rare for a man his age—and girth—he turned and used his massive elbow to crack the skull of another one against the wall.

Gus saw his chance, and broke away from the melee, running inside with his sword in search of the old man. The shop was empty, so he ran up the stairs, into an old, prewar apartment.

The many mirrors told him he was in the right place—but no old man.

He met two female vamps on the way back down, introducing them to the heel of his boot before running them through with silver. Their shrieks adrenalized him as he jumped over their bodies, avoiding the white blood oozing down the steps.

The stairs continued belowground, but he had to return to his compadres fighting for their lives and their souls beneath the smoke-blotted sky.

Before exiting, he noticed a section of busted wall near the stairs, exposing old copper water pipes running vertically. He set his sword down on a display case of brooches and cameos, finding a Chuck Knoblauch – autographed Louisville Slugger baseball bat with a $39.99 price tag. He hacked away at the old wallboard, smashing it open until he located the gas line. An old cast-iron pipe. Three good hacks with the bat, and it separated at a coupling—fortunately, without producing any sparks.

The smell of natural gas filled the room, escaping from the ruptured pipe not with a cool hiss but with a hoarse roar.

The feelers swarmed around Bolivar, who felt their distress.

This fighter with the shotgun. He was not human. He was vampire.

But he was different.

The feelers could not read him. Even if he were of a different clan—and, clearly, he was—they should have been able to impart some knowledge of him to Bolivar, so long as he was of the worm.

Bolivar was mystified by this strange presence, and made to attack. But the feelers, reading his intent, leaped into his path. He tried to pull them off, but their dogged insistence was strange enough to merit his attention.

Something was about to happen, and he needed to take heed.

Gus reclaimed his sword and slashed his way out through another vamp—this one dressed in doctor’s scrubs—on his way outside and into the next building. There, he ripped away a burning section of windowsill, running with the flaming plank back into battle. He drove it, sharp point – down, into the back of a slain vamp, so that the wood stood like a torch.

“Creem!” he called, needing the silver-blinged killer to cover him as he went into the gear bag for the crossbow. He rummaged for a silver bolt, finding one. Gus tore off a piece of the downed vamp’s shirt, wrapping it around the bolt head and tying it tight, then loading the bolt into the cross, dipping the wrapping into the flames, and raising the crossbow toward the store.

A vamp wearing bloody gym clothes came wilding at Gus, and Quinlan stopped the creature with a crushing punch to the throat. Gus advanced to the curb, hollering, “Get back, cabrones!” then aiming and letting the flaming bolt go, watching it drive through the smashed window frame and across the shop, landing in the rear wall.

Gus was racing away when the building shattered in a single blast. The brick face collapsed, spilling into the street, the roof and its wooden underpinnings bursting apart like the top paper of a firecracker.

The shockwave knocked the unaware vampires to the street. The suck of oxygen brought an odd, post-detonation silence to the block, which was compounded by the ringing in their ears.

Gus got to his knees, then his feet. The corner building was no more, flattened as though by a giant foot. Dust billowed out, the surviving vamps starting to rise all around them. Only those few who had been beaned by flying bricks stayed dead. The others recovered quickly from the blast, and once again turned their hungry gaze on the Sapphires.

From the corner of his eye, Gus saw Quinlan running away to the opposite side of the street, leaping down a short stairwell leading to a basement apartment. Gus didn’t understand his retreat until he looked back to the destruction he had caused.

The explosive punch to the immediate atmosphere had rolled up to the smoke cover, the burst of moving air creating a rupture. A breach parted the blackness, allowing bright, cleansing sunlight to come pouring down.

The smoke opened, the sun line riding out from the impact site, spreading in a bright yellow cone of irradiating power—the dumb vamps sensing the impending rays only too late.

Gus watched them dissipate around him with ghostly screams. Their bodies fell, reduced instantaneously to steam and cinder. Those few who were at a safe distance from the sun turned and ran into neighboring buildings for cover.

Only the feelers reacted intelligently, anticipating the spreading sun and grabbing Bolivar. The little ones fought him, working together to drag him back from the approaching line of killing sun—just in time, yanking up a sidewalk vent grate and pulling him, clawing, down into the underground.

Suddenly the Sapphires and Angel and Gus were alone on a sunny street. They still had their weapons in hand, but no enemy stood before them.

Just another sunny day in East Harlem.

Gus went to the disaster area, the pawnshop blown off its foundation. The basement was now exposed, full of smoking bricks and settling dust. He called over Angel, who hobbled in to help Gus shift some of the heavier chunks of mortar, clearing a path. Gus climbed down into the wreckage, and Angel followed. He heard a sizzling sound, but it was just severed electrical connections still live with juice. He tossed aside a few chunks of brick, searching the floor for bodies, still concerned that the old man might have been hiding there the whole time.

No corpses. He didn’t discover much of anything, really, just a lot of empty shelves. Almost as though the old man had recently cleared out. The door to the basement had been framed by the ultraviolet lamps now spitting orange sparks. Perhaps this had been a bunker of some sort, like a fallout shelter for a vampire attack—or else a kind of vault built to keep their kind out.

Gus lingered there longer than he should have—with the smoke seam already repairing itself, closing up on the sun once again—digging through the rubble for something, anything that might help him in his cause.

Concealed beneath a fallen wooden beam, Angel discovered, on its side, a small, sealed keepsake box made entirely of silver. A beautiful find. He lifted it up, showing it to the gang, and Gus in particular.

Gus took the box from him. “The old man,” he said. And smiled.

Pennsylvania Station

WHEN THE OLD Pennsylvania Station opened in 1910, it had been considered a monument to excess. An opulent temple of mass transportation, and the largest interior space in all of New York, a city inclined toward excess even a century ago.

The demolition of the original station, which began in 1963, and its replacement by the current warren of tunnels and corridors, is viewed historically as a catalyst for the modern historical preservation movement, in that it was perhaps the first—and some say still the greatest—failure of “urban renewal.”

Penn Station remained the busiest transportation hub in the United States, serving 600,000 passengers per day, four times as many as Grand Central Station. It served Amtrak, the Metropolitan Transportation Authority (MTA), and New Jersey Transit—with a Port Authority Trans-Hudson (PATH) station just one block away, accessible back then by an underground passageway that had been now closed for many years for security reasons.

The modern Penn Station used the same underground platforms as the original Penn Station. Eph had booked Zack, Nora, and Nora’s mother on the Keystone Service, straight through Philadelphia to its terminus, the state capital, Harrisburg. It was normally a four-hour trip, though significant delays were expected. Once there, Nora would survey the situation and arrange transportation to the girls’ camp.

Eph left the van at an empty cab stand a block away and walked them through the quiet streets to the station. A dark cloud hung over the city, both literally and figuratively, smoke hovering ominously as they passed empty storefronts. Display windows were broken, and yet even the looters were gone—most of them turned into looters of human blood.

How far and how fast the city had fallen.

Only once they reached the Seventh Avenue entrance at Joe Louis Plaza, underneath the Madison Square Garden sign, did Eph recognize a hint of the New York of a few weeks ago, of last month. Cops and Port Authority workers in orange vests directed the downtrodden crowd, maintaining order as they moved them inside.

The stopped escalators allowed people down onto the concourse. The unceasing foot traffic had allowed the station to remain one of the last bastions of humanity in a city of vampires—resisting colonization despite its proximity to the underground. Eph was certain that most, if not all, trains were delayed, but it was enough that they were still running. The rush of panicked people reassured him. If the trains were stopped, this would have turned into a riot.

Few of the overhead lights were working. None of the stores were open, their shelves all empty, handwritten CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE signs taped to the windows.

The groan of a train arriving on a lower platform reassured Eph as he shouldered Nora and Mrs. Martinez’s bag, Nora seeing to it that her mother did not fall. The concourse was jammed, and yet he welcomed the press of the crowd; he had missed the feeling of being an organism surrounded by a throng of humanity.

National Guard soldiers waited up ahead, looking drawn and exhausted. Still, they were scanning faces as they went past, and Eph remained a wanted man.

Add to that the fact that he had Setrakian’s silver-loaded pistol stuffed into the back of his waistband, and Eph accompanied them only as far as the great blue pillars, pointing out the Amtrak lounge gate around the bend.

Mariela Martinez looked scared and even somewhat angry. The crowd annoyed her. Nora’s mother, a former home healthcare worker, had been diagnosed two years ago with early-onset Alzheimer’s. Sometimes she thought Nora was sixteen years old, which occasionally led to trouble over who was in charge of whom. Today, however, she was quiet, overwhelmed and operating deep within herself, out of her element here and anxious about being away from home. No cross words for her departed husband; no insisting on getting dressed for a party. She wore a long raincoat over a saffron-colored housecoat, her hair hanging heavily behind her in a thick, gray braid. She had taken to Zack already, holding his hand on the ride in, which pleased Eph even as it tugged at his heart.

Eph knelt down in front of his son. The boy looked away, like he didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to say good-bye. “You help Nora with Mrs. Martinez, okay?”

Zack nodded. “Why does it have to be a girls’ camp?”

“Because Nora is a girl and she went there. It’s only going to be you three.”

“And you,” Zack said quickly. “When are you coming?”

“Very soon, I hope.”

Eph had his hands on Zack’s shoulders. Zack brought his hands up to grip Eph’s forearms. “You promise?”

“Soon as I can.”

“That’s not a promise.”

Eph squeezed his boy’s shoulders, selling the lie. “I promise.”

Zack wasn’t buying it, Eph could tell. He could feel Nora looking down at them.

Eph said, “Gimme a hug.”

“Why?” said Zack, pulling back a bit. “I’ll hug you when I see you in Pennsylvania.”

Eph flashed a smile. “One to tide me over then.”

“I don’t see why—”

Eph pulled him close, gripping him tightly while the crowd swirled past them. The boy struggled, but not really, and then Eph kissed his cheek and released him.

Eph stood and Nora pushed in front of him, gently backing Eph up two steps. Her brown eyes were fierce, right up in his. “Tell me now. What is this you are planning?”

“I’m going to say good-bye to you.”

She stood close, like a lover saying farewell, only she had her knuckle pressed right into the lowest part of his sternum and was twisting it there like a screw. “After we’re gone—what are you going to do? I want to know.”

Eph looked past her at Zack, standing with Nora’s mother, dutifully holding her hand. Eph said, “I’m going to try to stop this thing. What do you think?”

“I think it’s too late for that, and you know it. Come with us. If you’re doing this for the old man—I feel the same way about him you do. But it’s over, we both know that. Come with us. We’ll regroup there. We’ll figure out our next move. Setrakian will understand.”

Eph felt her pull on him more than the pain of her knuckle in his breastbone. “We still have a chance here,” he said. “I believe that.”

“We”—she made sure he saw that she was referring to the two of them—“still have a chance also, if we both get out of here now.”

Eph pulled the last bag off his shoulder and hung it on hers. “Weapon bag,” he said. “In case you run into any trouble.”

Angry tears wet her eyes. “You should know that, if you end up doing something stupid here, I am determined to hate you forever.”

He nodded once.

She kissed his lips, wrapping him in an embrace. Her hand found the butt of the pistol in the small of Eph’s back, and her eyes darkened, her head moving back to study his face. For a moment Eph thought she was going to yank it out and take it from him, but instead she came close again, right up to his ear, her cheek wet with tears.

She whispered, “I hate you already.”

She pulled away, not looking back at him as she gathered up Zack and her mother and ushered them toward the departures board.

Eph waited and watched Zack go, the boy looking back as they reached the corner, searching for him. Eph waved, his hand high—but the boy didn’t see him. The Glock tucked inside Eph’s belt suddenly felt heavier.

Inside the former headquarters of the Canary Project at Eleventh and 27th, the director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, Dr. Everett Barnes, was napping in an office chair inside Ephraim Goodweather’s old office. The ringing telephone penetrated his consciousness, but not enough to rouse him. It took the hand of an FBI special agent on his shoulder to do that.

Barnes sat up, shaking off sleep, feeling refreshed. “Washington?” he guessed.

The agent shook his head. “Goodweather.”

Barnes pressed the flashing button on the desk phone and picked up the receiver. “Ephraim? Where are you?”

“Penn Station. Phone booth.”

“Are you all right?”

“I just put my son on a train out of the city.”

“Yes?”

“I’m ready to come in.”

Barnes looked at the agent and nodded. “I am very relieved to hear that.”

“I’d like to see you personally.”

“Stay where you are, I am on my way.”

He hung up and the agent handed him his coat. Barnes was attired in full Navy regalia. They went out the main office and down the steps to the curb, where Dr. Barnes’s black SUV was parked. Barnes climbed into the passenger side and the agent started the ignition.

The blow came so suddenly, Barnes didn’t know what was happening. Not to him—to the FBI agent. The man slumped forward, honking the horn with his chin. He tried to raise his hands and a second blow came—from the backseat. A hand wielding a pistol. It took one more blow to knock out the agent, leaving him slumped against the door.

The assailant was out of the backseat and opening the driver’s door, pulling out the unconscious man and dumping him onto the sidewalk like a big bag of laundry.

Ephraim Goodweather leaped into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. Barnes opened his door, but Eph pulled him back inside, jamming the gun against the inside of Barnes’s thigh rather than his head. Only a doctor or perhaps a soldier knew that you might survive a head or neck wound, but one shot to the femoral artery meant certain death.

“Close it,” said Eph.

Barnes did. Eph already had the SUV in drive, and was racing out onto 27th Street.

Barnes tried to squirm away from the pistol in his lap. “Please, Ephraim. Please let’s talk—”

“Good! You start.”

“May I at least put on my seat belt?”

Eph took the corner hard and said, “No.”

Barnes saw that Ephraim had dumped something into the cup holders between them: the FBI agent’s shield. The muzzle was tight against his leg, Eph’s left hand heavy upon the steering wheel. “Please, Ephraim, be very, very careful—”

“Start talking, Everett.” Eph pressed the gun hard into Barnes’s leg. “Why the hell are you still here? Still in the city? You wanted a front-row seat, huh?”

“I don’t know what you are referring to, Ephraim. This is where the sick are.”

“The sick,” said Eph disparagingly.

“The infected.”

“Everett—you keep talking like that and this gun is going to go off.”

“You’ve been drinking.”

“And you’ve been lying. I want to know why there is no goddamned quarantine!” Eph’s rage filled the interior of the car. He veered hard right to avoid a broken-down and looted delivery van. “No competent attempt at containment,” he continued. “Why has this been allowed to keep burning? Answer me!”

Barnes was up against the door, whimpering like a boy. “It is completely out of my hands now!” he said.

“Let me guess. You are just following orders.”

“I … I accept my role, Ephraim. The time came where a choice had to be made, and I made it. This world, the one we thought we knew, Ephraim—it is at the brink.”

“You don’t say.”

Barnes’s voice grew colder. “The smart bet is with them. Never wager with your heart, Ephraim. Every major institution has been compromised, either directly or indirectly. By that, I mean either corrupted or subverted. This is occurring at the highest levels.”

Eph nodded hard. “Eldritch Palmer.”

“Does it really matter at this point?”

“To me it does.”

“When a patient is dying, Ephraim—when all hope for recovery is gone—what does a good physician do?”

“He keeps fighting.”

“You prolong it? Really? When the end is certain and near? When they are already beyond saving—do you offer palliative care and draw out the inevitable? Or do you let nature run its course?”

“Nature! Jesus, Everett.”

“I don’t know what else to call it.”

“I call it euthanasia. Of the entire human race. You standing back in your Navy uniform and watching it die on the table.”

“You apparently want to make this personal, Ephraim, when I have caused none of this. Blame the disease, not the doctor. To a certain extent, I am as appalled as you are. But I am a realist, and some things simply cannot be wished away. I did what I did because there was no other choice.”

“There is always a choice, Everett. Always. Fuck—I know that. But you … you are a coward, a traitor, and—worse—a fucking fool.”

“You will lose this fight, Ephraim. In fact, if I’m not mistaken—you already have.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Eph, already halfway across town. “You and I. We’ll see it together.”

Sotheby’s

SOTHEBY’S, THE AUCTION house founded in 1744, brokered art, diamond, and international realty sales in forty countries, with principal salesrooms in London, Hong Kong, Paris, Moscow, and New York. Sotheby’s New York occupied the length of York Avenue between 71st and 72nd Streets, one block in from FDR Drive and the East River. It was a glass-front, ten-story building, housing specialist departments, galleries, and auction spaces—some of which was normally open to the public.

Not this day, however. A private security detail wearing breathing masks were posted outside on the sidewalk and inside behind the revolving doors. The Upper East Side was attempting to maintain some semblance of civility, even as pockets of the city fell to chaos around them.

Setrakian expressed his desire to register as an approved bidder for the impending auction, and he and Fet were issued masks and allowed inside.

The building’s front foyer was open, rising all the way to the top, ten levels of railed balconies going up. Setrakian and Fet were assigned an escort, and taken up escalators to a representative’s office on the fifth floor.

The representative pulled on her paper mask as they entered, making no move to come out from behind her desk. Shaking hands was unsanitary. Setrakian reiterated his intention, and she nodded and produced a packet of forms.

“I need the name and number of your broker, and please list your securities accounts. Proof of intent to bid, in the form of an authorization for one million dollars, is the standard deposit for this level of auction.”

Setrakian glanced at Fet, twiddling the pen in his crooked fingers. “I am afraid I am between brokers at present. I do, however, possess some interesting antiquities myself. I would be happy to put them up as collateral.”

“I am very sorry.” She was already retrieving the forms from him, refiling them in her desk drawers.

“If I might,” said Setrakian, returning her pen, which she made no move to touch. “What I would really like to do is to view the catalog items before making a decision.”

“I am afraid that is a privilege for bidders only. Security is very, very tight, as you probably know, due to some of the items being offered—”

“The Occido Lumen.”

She swallowed. “Precisely, yes. There is much … much mystique surrounding the item, as you may be familiar with, and naturally, given the current state of affairs here in Manhattan … and the fact that no auction house has successfully offered the Lumen for sale in the past two centuries … well, one doesn’t have to be especially superstitious to link the two.”

“I am sure there is also a strong financial component. Why else go on with the auction at all? Evidently Sotheby’s believes that its sale commission outweighs the risks associated with bringing the Lumen to auction.”

“Well, I couldn’t possibly comment on business affairs.”

“Please.” Setrakian laid a hand on the top edge of her desk, gently, as though it were her arm. “Is it at all possible? For an old man just to look?”

Her eyes were unmoved over her mask. “I cannot.”

Setrakian looked to Fet. The city exterminator stood up and pulled down his mask. He produced his city badge. “Hate to do this, but—I need to see the building supervisor immediately. The person in charge of this property itself.”

The director of Sotheby’s North America rose from behind his desk when the building supervisor entered with Setrakian and Fet. “What is the meaning of this?”

The building supervisor said, his face mask puffing, “This gentleman says we have to evacuate the building.”

“Evacuate the … what?”

“He has the authority to shutter the building for seventy-two hours while the city inspects it.”

“Seventy-two … but what about the auction?”

“Canceled,” said Fet. He punctuated that with a shrug. “Unless.”

The director’s expression flattened behind his mask, as though he suddenly understood. “This city is crumbling around us, and you choose now, today, to come looking for a bribe?”

“It’s not a bribe I’m after,” said Fet. “The truth is, and you can probably tell just by looking at me, I’m something of an art fanatic.”

They were allowed restricted access to the Occido Lumen, their viewing occurring inside a private, glass-walled chamber within a larger viewing vault located behind two locked doors on the ninth floor. The bulletproof case was unlocked and removed, and Fet watched Setrakian prepare himself to inspect the long-sought tome, white cotton gloves covering his crooked hands.

The old book rested on an ornate viewing stand of white oak. It was 12 × 8 × 1.8 inches, 489 folios, handwritten in parchment, with twenty illuminated pages, bound in leather and faced with pure-silver plates on the front and rear covers and the spine. The pages themselves were also edged in silver.

Now it made sense to Fet. Why the book had never fallen into the possession of the Ancients. Why the Master didn’t just come and take it from them right here, right now.

The silver casing. The book was literally beyond their grasp.

Twin cameras on arched stems rising out of the table captured images of the open pages, which were shown on oversized vertical plasma screens on the wall before them. The first illuminated page in the front matter featured a detailed drawing of a figure of six appendages done in fine, glowing silver leaf. The style and the minute calligraphy surrounding it spoke of another time, another world. Fet was drawn in by the reverence Setrakian showed this book. The quality of the craftsmanship impressed him, but, when it came to the artwork itself, Fet had no clue what he was looking at. He waited for insights from the old man. All he knew was that there were clear similarities between this work and the markings he and Eph had discovered in the subway. Even the three crescent moons were represented here.

Setrakian focused his interest on two pages, one pure text, the other a rich illumination. Beyond the obvious artistry of the page, Fet could not understand what it was about the image that captivated the old man so—that wrung tears from Setrakian’s eyes.

They stayed beyond their allotted fifteen minutes, Setrakian rushing to copy out some twenty-eight symbols. Only Fet could not find the symbols in the images on the page. But he said nothing, waiting while Setrakian—obviously frustrated by the stiffness of his crooked fingers—filled two sheets of paper with these symbols.

The old man was silent as they rode the elevator back down to the foyer. He said nothing until they had exited the building and were far enough away from the armed security guards.

Setrakian said, “The pages are watermarked. Only a trained eye can see it. Mine can.”

“Watermarked? You mean, like currency?”

Setrakian nodded. “All the pages in the book. It was a common practice in some grimoires and alchemical treatises. Even in early tarot card sets. You see? There is text printed on the pages, but a second layer underneath. Watermarked directly into the paper at the time of its pressing. That is the real knowledge. The Sigil. The hidden symbol—the key …”

“Those symbols you copied …”

Setrakian patted his pocket, reassuring himself that he had taken the sketches with him.

He paused then, something catching his eye. Fet followed him across the street to the large building facing the glass front of Sotheby’s. The Mary Manning Walsh Home was a nursing home run by the Carmelite Sisters for the Archdiocese of New York.

Setrakian was drawn to the brick front to the left of the entrance awning. A graffiti design spray-painted there, in orange and black. It took Fet a moment to realize that it was yet another highly stylized, if cruder, variation on the illuminated figure in the front matter of the book locked away on the top floor of the facing building—a book no one had seen for decades.

“What the hell?” said Fet.

“It is him—his name,” said Setrakian. “His true name. He is branding the city with it. Calling it his own.”

Setrakian turned away, looking up at the black smoke blowing over the sky, obscuring the sun.

Setrakian said, “Now to find a way to get that book.”

Extract from the diary of Ephraim Goodweather

Dearest Zack,

What you must know is that I needed to do this—not out of arrogance (I am no hero, son), but out of conviction. Leaving you in that train station—the pain I feel now is the worst I have ever experienced. Know that I never chose the human race instead of you. What I am to do now is for your future—yours alone. That the rest of mankind may benefit is but a side issue. This is so that you will never, ever have to do what I just did: choose between your child and your duty.

From the moment I first held you in my arms, I knew that you were going to be the only genuine love story in my life. The one human being to whom I could give my all and expect nothing in return. Please understand that I cannot trust anyone else to attempt what I am about to do. Much of the history of the previous century was written with a gun. Written by men driven to murder by their conviction, and their demons. I have both. Insanity is real, son—it is existence now. No longer a disorder of the mind, but an external reality. Maybe I can change this.

I will be branded a criminal, I may be called mad—but my hope is that, in time, the truth will vindicate my name, and that you, Zachary, will once again hold me in your heart.

No amount of words will ever do justice to what I feel for you and the relief that you are now safe with Nora. Please think of your father not as a man who deserted you, who broke a promise to you, but as a man who wanted to ensure that you survived this assault on our species. As a man with difficult choices to make, just like the man you will one day grow to be.

Please think also of your mother—as she was. Our love for you will never die so long as you live. In you, we have given this world a great gift—and of that, I have no doubt.

Your old man,

Dad

Office of Emergency Management, Brooklyn

THE OFFICE OF Emergency Management building operated on a darkened block in Brooklyn. The four-year-old, $50 million OEM facility served as the central point of coordination for major emergencies in New York. It housed New York’s 130-agency Emergency Operations Center, containing state-of-the-art audiovisual and information technology systems and full backup generators. The headquarters had been built to replace the agency’s former facility at 7 World Trade Center, destroyed on 9/11. It was constructed to foster resource coordination between public agencies in the event of a large-scale disaster. To that end, redundant electromechanical systems ensured continuous operation during a power outage.

The twenty-four-hours-a-day building was operating exactly as it should. The problem was that many of the agencies it was meant to coordinate with—local, state, federal, and nonprofit—were either offline, understaffed, or else apparently abandoned.

The heart of the city’s emergency disaster network was still beating strong, but precious little of its informational blood was reaching the extremities—as if the city had suffered a massive stroke.

Eph feared he would miss his narrow window of opportunity. Getting back across the bridge took him much longer than he had expected: most people who were able and willing to leave Manhattan had already done so, and the road debris and abandoned cars made the crossing difficult. Someone had tied two corners of an immense yellow tarpaulin to one of the bridge’s support wires, rippling in the wind like an old maritime flag of quarantine flying off the mast of a doomed ship.

Director Barnes sat quietly, gripping the handle over the window, finally realizing that Eph was not going to tell him where they were headed.

The Long Island Expressway was substantially faster, Eph eyeing the towns as he passed them, seeing empty streets from the overpasses, quiet gas stations, empty mall parking lots.

His plan was dangerous, he knew. More desperate than organized. A psychopath’s plan, perhaps. But he was okay with this: insanity was all around him. And sometimes luck trumped preparation.

He arrived just in time to catch the beginning of Palmer’s address on the car radio. He parked near a train station, turning off the engine, turning to Barnes.

“Get out your ID now. We’re going inside the OEM together. I will have the gun under my jacket. You say anything to anybody or try to alert security, I will shoot whoever you talk to and then I will shoot you. Do you believe me?”

Barnes looked into Eph’s eyes. He nodded.

“Now we walk, and fast.”

They came up on the OEM building along 15th Street, the road lined with official vehicles on both sides. The tan-brick building exterior resembled that of a new grade school, nearly a block long but only two stories tall. A broadcast tower rose behind it, surrounded by a wire-topped fence. National Guard members stood at ten-yard intervals along the short lawn, securing the building.

Eph saw the gated parking lot entrance, and, inside, what had to be Palmer’s idling motorcade. The middle limousine appeared almost presidential, and certainly bulletproof.

He knew he must get Palmer before he got into that car.

“Walk tall,” said Eph, his hand around Barnes’s elbow, steering him along the sidewalk past the soldiers toward the entrance.

A group of protesters heckled them from across the street, holding signs about God’s wrath, proclaiming that because America had lost faith in Him, He was now abandoning it. A preacher in a shabby suit stood atop a short stepladder, reading verses out of Revelation. Those surrounding him stood with their open palms facing the OEM in a gesture of blessing, praying over the city agency. One placard featured a hand-drawn icon of a downcast Jesus Christ bleeding from a crown of thorns, sporting vampire fangs and glaring red eyes.

“Who will deliver us now?” the shabby monk cried.

Sweat ran down Eph’s chest, past the silver-loaded pistol stuck in his belt.

Eldritch Palmer sat in the Emergency Operations Center before a microphone set upon a table and a pitcher of water. He faced a video wall upon which was displayed the seal of the United States Congress.

Alone, except for his trusted aide, Mr. Fitzwilliam, Palmer wore his usual dark suit, looking a shade paler than usual, a bit more shrunken in the chair. His wrinkled hands rested on the top of the table, still, waiting.

Via satellite link, he was about to address an emergency joint session of the United States Congress. This unprecedented address, with questions to follow, was also being broadcast via live Internet feed over all television and radio networks and their affiliates still in operation, and internationally across the globe.

Mr. Fitzwilliam stood just out of camera view, his hands clasped at belt level, looking outside the secure room into the larger facility. Most of the 130 workstations were occupied, and yet no work was being done. All eyes were turned to the hanging monitors.

After brief opening remarks, facing the half-full Capitol chamber, Palmer read from a prepared statement scrolling in large print on a teleprompter behind the camera.

“I want to address this public health emergency in terms of where myself and my Stoneheart Foundation are well-positioned to intervene, to respond, to reassure. What I can present to you today is a three-fold action plan for the United States of America, and the world beyond.

“First, I am pledging an immediate loan of three billion dollars to the city of New York, in order to keep city services functioning and to fund a citywide quarantine.

“Second, as the president and CEO of Stoneheart Industries, I want to extend my personal guarantee as to the capacity and security of this nation’s food delivery system, both through our essential transportation holdings and our various meat-packing facilities.

“Third, I would respectively recommend that the remaining Nuclear Regulatory Commission procedures be suspended in order that the completed Locust Valley Nuclear Power Plant be allowed to come online immediately, as a direct solution to New York’s current catastrophic power-grid problems.”

As head of the Canary Project in New York, Eph had been inside the OEM a few times before. He was familiar with the entrance procedures, which were secure and yet manned by armed professionals used to dealing with other armed professionals. So while Barnes’s identification was inspected rather closely, Eph simply dropped his shield and pistol into a basket and walked briskly through the metal detector.

“Would you like an escort, Director Barnes?” asked the security guard.

Eph grabbed his things and Barnes’s arm. “We know the way.”

Palmer’s questioning fell to a panel of three Democrats and two Republicans. He faced the most scrutiny from the ranking member of the Department of Homeland Security, Representative Nicholas Frone of the Third Congressional District of New York, also a member of the House Financial Committee. Voters were said not to trust baldness or beards, and yet, on both counts, Frone had bucked the trend now for three successive terms of office.

“As to this quarantine, Mr. Palmer—I have to say, hasn’t that horse already left the barn?”

Palmer sat with his hands set upon a single piece of paper in front of him. “I enjoy your folksy sayings, Representative Frone. But as someone who grew up in the seat of privilege, you might not realize that it is indeed possible for an industrious farmer to saddle and mount another horse in order to safely rein in the one that got away. America’s working farmers would never give up on a good horse. I think neither should we.”

“Also I find it interesting that you should tie your pet project, this nuclear reactor, that you have been trying to ram through regulatory procedures, into your proposal. I’m not at all convinced this is a good time to be rushing such a plant into production. And I would like to know how exactly it will help, when the problem, as I understand it, is not energy deficiency but interruptions in delivery.”

Palmer responded, “Representative Frone, two critical power plants servicing New York State are currently offline, due to voltage overload and power-line failure caused by widespread surges in the system. This starts a chain reaction of adverse effects. It decreases the water supply, due to a lack of pressure in the lines, which will lead to contamination if it is not immediately addressed. It has impacted rail transportation up and down the northeast corridor, the safe screening of passengers for air transportation, and even road travel, with the unavailability of electric gasoline pumps. It has disrupted mobile telephone communication, which impacts statewide emergency services, such as 911 response, placing citizens directly at risk.”

Palmer continued, “Now, as to nuclear power, this plant, located in your district, is ready to come online. It has passed every preliminary regulation without flaw, and yet bureaucratic procedures demand more waiting. You have a fully capable power plant—one that you yourself campaigned against and resisted every step of the way—that could power much of the city if activated. A hundred and four such plants supply twenty percent of this country’s electricity, and yet this is the first nuclear power plant to have been commissioned in the United States since the Three Mile Island incident in 1978. The word ‘nuclear’ dredges up negative connotations, but, in fact, it is a sustainable energy source that reduces carbon emissions. It is our only honest large-scale alternative to fossil fuels.”

Representative Frone said, “Let me interrupt your commercial message here, Mr. Palmer. With all due respect, isn’t this crisis nothing more than a fire sale for the superrich such as yourself? Pure ‘Shock Doctrine,’ is it not? I, for one, am very curious to know what you plan to do with New York City once you own it.”

“As I made clear previously, this would be an interest-free, twenty-year revolving line of credit …”

Eph dumped the FBI credentials in a wastebasket and continued with Barnes through the Emergency Operations Center that was the heart of the facility. The attention of everyone present was focused on Palmer, pictured on the many monitors overhead.

Eph saw dark-suited Stoneheart men clustered around a side hall leading to a pair of glass doors. The sign with the arrow read: SECURE CONFERENCE ROOM.

A chill washed over Eph, as he realized he was almost certain to die here. Certainly if he succeeded. Indeed, his worst fear was that he might be cut down without successfully assassinating Eldritch Palmer.

Eph guessed the direction of the parking lot exit. He turned to Barnes and whispered, “Act sick.”

“What?”

“Act sick. Shouldn’t be too much of a stretch for you.”

Eph continued with him past the conference-room hall toward the rear. Another Stoneheart man stood near a pair of doors. Before him hung a glowing sign for the men’s restroom.

“Here it is, sir,” said Eph, opening the door for Barnes. Barnes entered holding his belly, clearing his throat into his wrist. Eph rolled his eyes at the Stoneheart, whose facial expression did not change at all.

Inside the restroom, they were alone. Palmer’s words carried over speakers. Eph pulled out the gun. He walked Barnes into the farthest stall and sat him on the covered toilet.

“Get comfortable,” he said.

“Ephraim,” said Barnes. “They are certain to kill you.”

“I know,” Eph said, pistol-whipping Barnes before closing the door. “That’s what I came here for.”

Representative Frone continued, “Now, there were reports in the media, before all this began, that you and your minions had been undertaking a raid on the world silver market, trying to corner it. Frankly, there have been many wild stories regarding this outbreak. Some of them—true or not—have struck a chord. Plenty of people believe it. Are you, in fact, preying on people’s fears and superstitions? Or is this, as I hope, the lesser of two evils—a simple case of greed?”

Palmer picked up the piece of paper before him. He folded it once lengthwise, then once again across, and carefully slid the page into his inside breast pocket. He did so slowly, his eyes never leaving the camera connecting him to Washington, DC.

“Representative Frone, I believe that this is exactly the kind of pettiness and moral gridlock that has led us to this dark time. It is a matter of record that I have donated the maximum amount allowable by law to your opponent in each of your previous campaigns, and this is how you take—”

Frone yelled over him, “That’s an outrageous charge!”

“Gentlemen,” said Palmer, “you see before you an old man. A frail man, with very little time left on this earth. A man who wants to give back to the nation that has given him so very much in his life. Now I find myself in a unique position to do just that. Within the boundaries of the law—never above it. No one is above the law. Which is why I wanted to make a full accounting before you today. Please allow a patriot’s final act to be a noble one. That is all. Thank you.”

Mr. Fitzwilliam pulled out his chair, and Palmer got to his feet amid the hubbub and gavel-banging from the chamber on the video wall before him.

Eph stood by the door, listening. Movement outside, but not enough hubbub yet. He was tempted to open the door just a bit, but it opened inward, and he would certainly have been seen.

He tugged on the pistol’s handle, keeping it loose and ready in his waistband.

A man walked past, saying, as though into a radio, “Get the car.”

That was Eph’s cue. He took a deep breath and reached for the door handle, walking out of the restroom and into murder.

Two Stonehearts in dark suits were moving to the far end of the hall, the doors leading outside. Eph turned the other way, seeing two more rounding the corner, advance men, eyeing him immediately.

Eph’s timing had been less than perfect. He stepped to the side, as though deferring to the men, trying to appear uninterested.

Eph saw the small front wheels first. A wheelchair was being rolled around the corner. Two polished shoes were set on the fold-down footrests.

It was Eldritch Palmer, looking exceedingly small and frail. His flour-white hands were folded in his sunken lap, his eyes looking straight ahead, not at Eph.

One of the advance men veered off toward Eph, as though to block his view of the passing billionaire. Palmer was fewer than five yards away. Eph could not wait any longer.

His heart racing, Eph pulled the gun from his waistband. Everything happened in slow motion and all at once.

Eph raised the gun and darted to the left, in order to clear the Stoneheart man in his way. His hand trembled, but his arm was straight, his aim true.

He aimed for the largest target—the chest of the seated man—and squeezed the trigger. But the lead Stoneheart man threw himself at Eph—sacrificing himself more automatically than any Secret Service agent had ever leaped in front of a U.S. president.

The round struck the man in the chest, thudding off the body armor beneath his suit. Eph reacted just in time, shoving the man to the side before he could be tackled.

Eph fired again, but off-balance, the silver bullet ricocheting off Palmer’s wheelchair armrest.

Eph fired again, but the Stonehearts threw themselves in front of Palmer. The third round went into the wall. An especially large man with a military crew cut—the man pushing Palmer’s chair—started to run, wheeling his benefactor forward so that the Stoneheart men were catapulted onto Eph, and he went down.

He twisted as he fell, his gun arm facing the exit doorway. One more shot. He raised it to fire at the back of the chair, around the large bodyguard—but a shoe stomped down on his forearm, the round firing into the carpet, the weapon leaping from Eph’s grip.

Eph was at the bottom of a growing pile, bodies rushing in from the main room now. Shouts, screams. Hands clawing at Eph, pulling at his limbs. He twisted his head just enough to see, through the arms and legs of his attackers, the wheelchair being pushed out through the double doors, into blazing daylight.

Eph howled in agony. His only chance gone forever. The moment slipping away.

The old man had survived unharmed.

Now the world was nearly his.

The Black Forest Solutions Facility

THE MASTER, STANDING at full height inside the utter blackness of a large chamber deep beneath the meatpacking plant, was electrically alert with meditative focus. It had become more deliberative as its sun-scorched flesh continued to flake off its once-human host body, exposing raw, red dermis beneath.

The Master’s head rotated a few degrees on its great, broad neck, turning slightly toward the entrance, giving Bolivar its attention. No need for Bolivar to report what the Master already knew, what the Master had already—through Bolivar—seen: the arrival of the human hunters at the pawnshop, evidently in hopes of contacting old Setrakian, and the disastrous battle that ensued.

Behind Bolivar, feelers skittered about on all four limbs, like blind crabs. They “saw” something that unsettled them, as Bolivar was learning to infer from their behavior.

Someone was coming. The feelers’ disquiet was offset by the Master’s distinct lack of concern about the interloper.

The Master said: The Ancient Ones have employed mercenaries for day hunting. A further sign of their desperation. And the old professor?

Bolivar said: He slipped away in advance of our attack. Inside his domicile, the feelers sensed that he is still alive.

Hiding. Plotting. Scheming.

With the same desperation as the Ancients.

Humans only become dangerous when they have nothing to lose.

The whir of a motorized wheelchair, and the sound of its nubby tires rolling over the dirt floor, announced that the visitor was Eldritch Palmer. His bodyguard nurse trailed him, holding blue glow sticks to illuminate the passage for their human vision.

Feelers skittered away at the wheelchair’s advance, crawling halfway up the wall, remaining outside the glow radius of the chemical luminescence, hissing.

“More creatures,” said Palmer under his breath, unable to hide his distaste upon seeing the blind vampire children and their black-eyed stares. The billionaire was furious. “Why this hole?”

It pleases me.

Palmer saw, for the first time, by the light of the soft blue glow, the Master’s flesh peeling. Chunks of it littered the ground at his feet like shorn hair beneath a barber’s chair. Palmer was troubled by the sight of the raw flesh revealed beneath the Master’s cracked exterior, and got to talking quickly, in order that the Master not read his mind like a soothsayer divining through a crystal ball.

“Look here. I have waited and I have done everything you’ve asked and I have received nothing in return. Now an attempt has been made on my life! I want my reward now! My patience has reached its end. You will give me what I am promised, or I will bankroll you no longer—do you understand? This is the end of it!”

The Master’s skin crinkled as its ceiling-scraping head leaned forward. The monster was indeed intimidating, but Palmer would not back down.

“My premature death, should it come, would render this entire plan moot. You will have no more leverage upon my will—nor claim upon my resources.”

Eichhorst, the perverse Nazi commandant, summoned to the chamber by the Master, entered behind Palmer into the haze of blue light. You would do well to hold your human tongue in the presence of Der Meister.

The Master, with a wave of his great hand, silenced Eichhorst. His red eyes appeared purple in the blue light, fixing wide on Palmer. So it is done. I will grant your wish for immortality. In one day’s time.

Palmer stammered, taken aback. First, because of his surprise at the Master’s sudden capitulation—after all these years of effort. And then, in recognition of the great leap Palmer was poised to take. To dive into the abyss that is death, and surface on the other side …

The businessman inside of him wanted more of a guarantee. But the schemer inside of him held his tongue.

You do not place provisions on a monster such as the Master. You bid for its favor, and then accept its largesse with gratitude.

One more mortal day. Palmer thought he might even enjoy it.

All plans are fully in motion. My Brood is marching across the mainland. We have exposure in every critical destination, our circle widening in cities and provinces around the globe.

Palmer swallowed his anticipation, saying, “And even as the circle grows, it simultaneously tightens.” His old hands described the scenario, fingers interlocking, palms squeezing together in a pantomime of strangling.

Indeed. One last task that remains before the start of The Devouring.

Eichhorst, looking like half a man beside the giant Master, said: The book.

“Of course,” said Palmer. “It will be yours. But, I must ask you … if you already know the contents …”

It is not critical that I be in possession of the book. It is critical that others are not.

“So—why not just blow up the auction house? Explode the entire block?”

Crude solutions have been attempted in the past, and have failed. This book has had too many lives. I must be absolutely certain of its fate. So that I may watch it burn.

The Master then straightened to its full height, becoming distracted in such a way that only the Master could.

It was seeing something. The Master was physically in the cave with them, but psychically it was seeing through another’s eyes—one of the Brood.

Into Palmer’s head, the Master uttered two words:

The boy.

Palmer waited for an explanation, which never came. The Master had returned to the present, the now. He had returned to them with a new certainty, as if he had glimpsed the future.

Tomorrow the world burns and the boy and the book will be mine.

Fet’s Blog

I HAVE KILLED.

I have slain.

With the hands typing this now.

I have stabbed, sliced, beat, crushed, dismembered, beheaded.

I have worn their white blood on my clothes and my boots.

I have destroyed. And I have rejoiced at the destruction.

You may say, as an exterminator by trade, I’ve been training for this all my life.

I understand the argument. I just can’t support it.

Because it is one thing to have a rat race up your arm in blind fear.

Yet quite another to face a fellow human form and cut it down.

They look like people. They are very much like you and me.

I am no longer an exterminator. I am a vampire hunter.

And here is the other thing.

Something I will only say here, because I don’t dare tell anyone else.

Because I know what they will think.

I know what they will feel.

I know what they will see when they look into my eyes.

But—all this killing?

I kind of like it.

And I’m good at it.

I might even be great at it.

The city is falling and probably the world. Apocalypse is a big word, a heavy word, when you realize you are actually facing it.

I can’t be the only one. There must be others out there like me. People who have lived their whole lives feeling half-complete. Who never truly fit anywhere in the world. Who never understood why they were here, or what they were meant for. Who never answered the call, because they never heard it. Because nothing ever spoke to them.

Until now.

Penn Station

NORA LOOKED AWAY for what seemed like only a moment. As she stared at the big board, waiting for their track number to be announced, her gaze deepened and, utterly exhausted, she zoned out.

For the first time in days, she thought of nothing. No vampires, no fears, no plans. She relaxed her focus, and her mind dipped into sleep mode while her eyes remained open.

When she blinked back to awareness, it was like waking up from a dream about falling. A shudder, a startle. A small gasp.

She turned and saw Zack next to her, listening to his iPod.

But her mother was gone.

Nora looked around, didn’t see her. She tugged down Zack’s earbuds, asking him, and he joined her in looking.

“Wait here,” said Nora, pointing to their bags. “Do not move!”

She pushed her way through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd waiting before the departures board. She looked for a seam in the crowd, some path her slow-moving mother might have left, but saw nothing.

“Mama!”

Raised voices made Nora turn. She pushed toward them, coming out of the dense crowd near the side of the concourse, by the gate of a closed deli.

There was her mother, haranguing a bewildered-looking family of South Asians.

“Esme!” yelled Nora’s mother, invoking the name of her late sister, Nora’s late aunt. “Take care of the kettle, Esme! It’s boiling, I can hear it!”

Nora reached her finally, taking her arm, stammering an apology to the non-English-speaking parents and their two young daughters. “Mama, come.”

“There you are, Esme,” she said. “What’s that burning?”

“Come, Mama.” Tears wet Nora’s eyes.

“You’re burning down my house!”

Nora clasped her mother’s arm and pulled her back through the crowd, ignoring the grunts and insults. Zack was on tiptoes, looking for them. Nora said nothing to him, not wanting to break down in front of the boy. But this was too much. Everybody has a breaking point. Nora was fast approaching hers.

How proud her mother had been of her daughter, first a chemistry major at Fordham, then medical school with a specialty in biochem at Johns Hopkins. Nora saw now that her mother must have assumed she had it made. A rich doctor for a daughter. But Nora’s interest had been public health, not internal medicine or pediatrics. Looking back now, she thought that growing up in the shadow of Three Mile Island had shaped her life more than she had realized. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention paid government grade, a far cry from the healthy income potential of many of her peers. But she was young—there was time to serve now and earn later.

Then her mother got lost one day on the way to the grocery store. Having trouble tying her shoes, turning on the oven and walking away. Now conversing with the dead. The Alzheimer’s diagnosis prompted Nora to give up her own apartment, in order to care for her declining mother. She had been putting off finding a suitable long-term care facility for her, mainly because she still did not know how she could afford it.

Zack noticed Nora’s distress but left her alone, sensing that she did not want to discuss it. He disappeared back beneath his earbuds.

Then suddenly, hours after it was scheduled, the track number for their train finally flipped over on the big board, announcing the train’s approach. A mad rush ensued. Shoving and yelling, stiff-arming, name-calling. Nora gathered up their bags and hooked her mother’s arm and hollered at Zack to move.

It got uglier still when the Amtrak official at the top of the narrow escalator leading down to the track said the train wasn’t ready yet. Nora found herself near the rear of the angry crowd—so far back, she wasn’t sure they would make it onto the train, even with paid tickets.

And so, Nora did something she had promised herself she would never do: she used her CDC badge to push her way through to the front of the line. She did so knowing that it was not for her own selfish benefit but for her mother and Zack. Still, she heard the name-calling and felt the daggers in every passenger’s eyes as the crowd slowly parted, begrudgingly allowing them through.

And then it seemed it was all for nothing. Once they finally opened the escalator and allowed passengers down to the underground track, Nora found herself facing empty rails. The train was again delayed, and no one would tell them why, or give an estimate as to how long.

Nora arranged for her mother to sit on their bags at their prime position at the yellow line. She and Zack split the last of a bag of Hostess doughnuts, Nora allowing each of them only sips of water from the half-full gym bottle she had packed.

The afternoon had slipped away from them. They would be departing—fingers crossed—after sunset, and that made Nora nervous. She had planned and expected to be well out of the city and on their way west by nightfall. She kept leaning out over the edge of the platform, eyeing the tunnels, her weapon bag tight against her side.

The rush of tunnel air came like a sigh of relief. The light announced the train’s approach, and everyone stood. Nora’s mother was nearly elbowed over the edge by some guy wearing an enormously bulky backpack. The train glided in, everyone jockeying for position—as a pair of doors miraculously stopped right in front of Nora. Finally something was going their way.

The doors parted and the rush of the crowd carried them inside. She claimed twin seats for her mother and Zack, shoving their possessions into the overhead rack, save for Zack’s backpack—he held it on his lap—and Nora’s weapon bag. Nora stood before them, their knees touching hers, hands gripping the railing overhead.

The rest piled inside. Once aboard, and knowing now that the final stage of their exodus was about to begin, the relieved passengers exhibited a bit more civility. Nora watched a man give up his seat to a woman with a child. Strangers helped others hauling bags. There was an immediate sense of community among the fortunate.

Nora herself felt a sudden sense of well-being. She was at least on the verge of breathing easy. “You good?” she asked Zack.

“Never better,” he said, with a slight roll of his eyes, untangling his iPod wires and fitting the buds into his ears.

As she had feared, many passengers—some of them ticketed, some unticketed—did not make the train. After some trouble closing all the doors, those left behind began banging on the windows, while others went pleading to attendants who looked like they would rather be on the train themselves. Those that had been turned away looked like war-torn refugees, and Nora closed her eyes and said a brief prayer for them—and then another one for herself, for forgiveness, for putting her loved ones ahead of these strangers.

The silver train started to move west, toward the tunnels under the Hudson River, and the packed car broke out into applause. Nora watched the lights of the station slide away and disappear, and then they were rising through the underworld, toward the surface—like swimmers surfacing for much-needed breath.

She felt good inside the train, cutting through the darkness like a sword through a vampire. She looked down at her mother’s lined face, watching the woman’s eyes dip and flutter. Two minutes of rocking put her immediately to sleep.

They emerged from the station into the fallen night, running briefly aboveground before the tunnels underneath the Hudson River. As rain spit at the train’s windows, Nora gasped at what she saw. Glimpses of anarchy: cars in flames, distant blazes, people fighting under strings of black rain. People running through the streets—were they being chased? Hunted? Were they even people at all? Maybe they were the ones doing the hunting.

She checked Zack, finding him focused on his iPod display. Nora saw, in his concentration, the father in the son. Nora loved Eph, and believed she could love Zack—even though she still knew so little about him. Eph and his boy were similar in so many ways, beyond appearance. She and Zack would have plenty of time to get to know each other once they reached the isolated camp.

She looked back out at the night, the darkness, and the power outages broken here and there by headlights, occasional bursts of generator-powered illumination. Light equaled hope. The land on either side began to give way, the city starting to retreat. Nora pressed against the window to chart their progress, to gauge how long it would be until they were through the next tunnel and clear of New York.

That was when she saw, standing on the top corner of a low wall, a figure outlined against a spray of upturned light. Something about this apparition made Nora quiver, a premonition of evil. She could not take her eyes off the figure as the train approached … and the figure began to raise its arm.

It was pointing at the train. Not just at the train, it seemed—but directly at Nora.

The train slowed as it passed, or maybe that was only how it seemed to Nora, her sense of time and motion bent by terror.

Smiling, backlit in the rain, hair sleek and dirty, mouth horribly distended and red eyes ablaze—Kelly Goodweather stared at Nora Martinez.

Their eyes locked as the train rolled past. Kelly’s finger followed Nora.

Nora pressed her forehead against the glass, sickened by the sight of the vampire, and yet knowing what Kelly was about to do.

Kelly jumped at the last moment, leaping with preternatural animal grace, disappearing from Nora’s sight as she latched on to the train.

The Flatlands

SETRAKIAN WORKED QUICKLY, hearing Fet’s van arrive at the back of the shop. He flipped madly through the pages of the old volume on the table, this one the third volume of the French edition of Collection des anciens alchimistes grecs, published by Berthelot and Ruelle in Paris in 1888, his eyes going back and forth between its engraved pages and the sheets of symbols he had copied from the Lumen. He studied one symbol in particular. He finally located the engraving, his hands and eyes stopping for a moment.

A six-winged angel, wearing a crown of thorns, with a face both blind and mouth-less—but with multiple mouths festooning each of its wings. At its feet was a familiar symbol—a crescent moon—and a single word.

“Argentum,” read Setrakian. He gripped the yellowing page reverently—and then tore the engraving from its old binding, jamming it inside the pages of his notebook, just as Fet opened the door.

Fet was back before sundown. He was certain he had not been found or traced by the vampire brood, which would lead the Master straight back to Setrakian.

The old man was working over a table near the radio, closing up one of his old books. He had tuned in a talk show, playing low, one of the few voices still on the airwaves. Fet felt a true affinity for Setrakian. Part of it was the bond that grows between soldiers in times of battle, the brotherhood of the trench—in this case, the trench being New York City. Then there was the great respect Fet felt for this weakened old man who simply would not stop fighting. Fet liked to think there were similarities between himself and the professor, in their dedication to a vocation, and mastery of knowledge about their foes—the obvious difference being one of scope, in that Fet fought pests and nuisance animals, while Setrakian had committed himself, at a young age, to eradicating an inhuman race of parasitic beings.

In one sense, Fet thought of himself and Eph as the professor’s surrogate sons. Brothers in arms, yet as opposite as could be. One was a healer, the other an exterminator. One a university-trained family man of high status, the other a blue-collar, self-educated loner. One lived in Manhattan, the other Brooklyn.

And yet the one who had originally been at the forefront of the outbreak, the medical scientist, had seen his influence fall away in the dark days since the source of the virus had become known. While his opposite number, the city employee with a little sideline shop in Flatlands—and the killer instinct—now served at the old man’s side.

There was one other reason Fet felt close to Setrakian. Something Fet could not bring up to him, nor something he was entirely clear on himself. Fet’s parents had immigrated to this country from the Ukraine (not Russia, as they told people, and as Fet still claimed), not only in search of the opportunities all immigrants seek but also to escape their past. Fet’s father’s father—and this was nothing he had ever been told, because no one in his family spoke of it directly, especially his sour father—had been a Soviet prisoner of war, who was conscripted into service at one of the extermination camps during World War II. Whether it was Treblinka or Sobibor or elsewhere, Fet did not know. It was nothing he ever desired to explore. His grandfather’s role in the Shoah was revealed two decades after the war ended, and he was jailed. In his defense, he claimed that he had been victimized at the hands of the Nazis, forced into the lowly role of camp guard. Ukrainians of German extraction had been installed in positions of authority, while the rest toiled at the whim of the sadistic camp commanders. Yet prosecutors submitted evidence of personal enrichment in the postwar years, such as the source of Fet’s grandfather’s wealth in starting his dressmaking company, which he was unable to explain. But it was a blurred photograph of him wearing a black uniform, standing against a fence of barbed wire with a carbine in his gloved hands—lips curled in an expression claimed by some to be a nasty smirk, by others a grimace—that ultimately did him in. Fet’s father never spoke of it while he was alive. What little Fet knew, he had learned from his mother.

Shame can indeed be visited upon future generations, and Fet carried this with him now like a terrible burden, a hot dose of shame always in the pit of his stomach. Realistically, a man can bear no responsibility for the actions of his grandfather, and yet …

And yet one carries the sins of his forebears as one carries their features in his face. One bears their blood, and their honor or their blight.

Fet had never suffered from this affiliation as he did now—except perhaps in dreams. One sequence recurred, disrupting his sleep again and again. In it, Fet has returned to his family’s home village, a place he had never visited in real life. Every door and window is shut to him, and he walks the streets alone, yet watched. And then suddenly, from one end of the street, a roaring burst of angry orange light flies toward him on the cadence of galloping hooves.

A stallion—its coat, mane, and tail aflame—is charging at him. The horse is fully consumed, and Fet, always at the very last second, dives out of its path, turning and watching the animal tear off across the countryside, trailing dark smoke in its wake.

“How is it out there?”

Fet set down his satchel. “Quiet. Menacing.” He shrugged off his jacket, pulling a jar of peanut butter and some Ritz crackers from the pockets. He had stopped off at his apartment. He offered some to Setrakian. “Any word?”

“Nothing,” said Setrakian, inspecting the cracker box as though he might turn down the snack. “But Ephraim is long overdue.”

“The bridges. Clogged.”

“Mmm.” Setrakian pulled out the wax wrapper, sniffing at the contents before trying a cracker. “Did you get the maps?”

Fet patted his pocket. He had journeyed to a DPW depot in Gravesend in order to procure sewer maps for Manhattan, specifically the Upper East Side. “I got them, all right. Question is—will we get to use them?”

“We will. I am certain.”

Fet smiled. The old man’s faith never failed to warm him. “Can you tell me what you saw in that book?”

Setrakian set down the box of crackers and lit up a pipe. “I saw … everything. I saw hope, yes. But then … I saw the end of us. Of everything.”

He slid out a reproduction of the crescent moon drawing seen both in the subway, via Fet’s pink phone video, and in the pages of the Lumen. The old man had copied it three times.

“You see? This symbol—like the vampire itself, how it was once seen—is an archetype. Common to all mankind, East and West—but within it, a different permutation, see? Latent, but revealed in time, like any prophecy. Observe.”

He took the three pieces of paper and, utilizing a makeshift light table, laid them out, superimposing one atop another.

“Any legend, any creature, any symbol we ever stumble on, already exists in a vast cosmic reservoir where archetypes wait. Shapes looming outside our Platonic cave. We naturally believe ourselves clever and wise, so advanced, and those who came before us so naïve and simple … when all we truly do is echo the order of the universe, as it guides us …”

The three moons rotated in the paper, and joined together.

“These are not three moons. No. They are occultations. Three solar eclipses, each occurring at the exact latitude and longitude, marking an even, enormous span of years—signaling an event, now complete. Revealing the sacred geometry of omen.”

Fet saw with amazement that the three shapes together formed a rudimentary biohazard sign: . “But this symbol … I know it from my work. It was just designed in the sixties, I think …”

“All symbols are eternal. They exist even before we dream of them …”

“So how did …”

“Oh, we know,” said Setrakian. “We always know. We don’t discover, we don’t learn. We just remember things that we have forgotten …” He pointed to the symbol. “A warning. Dormant in our mind, reawakened now—as the end of time approaches.”

Fet regarded the work table Setrakian had taken over. He was experimenting with photography equipment, explaining something about “testing a metallurgical silver emulsion technique” that Fet did not understand. But the old man seemed to know what he was doing. “Silver,” said Setrakian. “Argentum, to the ancient alchemists and represented by this symbol …” Again, Setrakian presented Fet with the image of the crescent moon.

“And this, in turn …” said Setrakian, producing the engraving of the archangel. “Sariel. In certain Enochian manuscripts he is named Arazyal, Asaradel. Names all too similar to Azrael or Ozryel …”

Placing the engraving side to side with the biohazard sign and the alchemical symbol of the crescent moon gave the images a shocking through-line. A convergence, a direction; a goal.

Setrakian felt a surge of energy and excitement. His mind was hunting.

“Ozryel is the angel of death,” said Setrakian. “Muslims call him ‘he of the four faces, the many eyes, and the many mouths. He of the seventy thousand feet and four thousand wings.’ And he has as many eyes and as many tongues as there are men on earth. But you see, that only speaks of how he can multiply, how he can spread …”

Fet’s thoughts swam. The part that most concerned him was safely extracting the blood worm from Setrakian’s jar-sealed vampire heart. The old man had lined the table with battery-powered UV lamps in order to contain the worm. Everything appeared ready, and the jar was close at hand, the fist-size organ throbbing—and yet, now that the time had come, Setrakian was reluctant to butcher the sinister heart.

Setrakian leaned in close to the specimen jar, and a tentacled outgrowth shot out, the mouth-like sucker at its tip adhering to the glass. These blood worms were nasty suckers. Fet understood that the old man had been feeding it drops of his blood for decades now, nursing this ugly thing, and, in doing so, had formed some eerie attachment to it. That was natural enough. But Setrakian’s hesitation here contained an emotional component beyond pure melancholy.

This was more like true sorrow. More like despair.

Fet realized something then. Now and then, in the middle of the night, he had seen the old man speaking to the jar, feeding the thing inside. Alone by candlelight he stared at it, whispered to it, and caressed the cold glass containing the unholy flesh. Once Fet swore he’d heard the old man singing to it. Softly, in a foreign tongue—not Armenian—a lullaby …

Setrakian had become aware of Fet looking at him. “Forgive me, professor,” said Fet. “But … whose heart is it? The original story you told us …”

Setrakian nodded, having been found out. “Yes … that I cut it out of the chest of a young widow in a village in northern Albania? You are right, that tale is not entirely true.”

Tears sparkled in the old man’s eyes. One drop fell in silence, and, when he finally spoke, he did so in a whisper—as the tale he told required it.

INTERLUDE III

SETRAKIAN’S HEART

ALONG WITH THOUSANDS OF HOLOCAUST SURVIVORS, Setrakian had arrived in Vienna in 1947, almost entirely penniless, and settled in the Soviet zone of the city. He was able to find some success buying, repairing, and reselling furniture acquired from unclaimed warehouses and estates in all four zones of the city.

One of his clients became also his mentor: Professor Ernst Zelman, one of the few surviving members of the mythical Weiner Kreis, or the Vienna Circle, a turn-of-the-century philosophical society recently dispersed by the Nazis. Zelman had returned to Vienna from exile after having lost most of his family to the Third Reich. He felt enormous empathy with the young Setrakian, and, in a Vienna full of pain and silence—at a time when speaking about “the past” and discussing Nazism was considered abhorrent—Zelman and Setrakian found great solace in each other’s company. Professor Zelman allowed Abraham to borrow freely from his abundant library, and Setrakian, being a bachelor and an insomniac, devoured the books rapidly and systematically. He first applied for studies in philosophy in 1949, and, a few years later, in a very fragmented, very permeable University of Vienna, Abraham Setrakian became associate professor of philosophy.

After he accepted financing from a group headed by Eldritch Palmer, an American industrial magnate with investments in the American zone of Vienna as well as an intense interest in the occult, Setrakian’s influence and collection of cultural artifacts expanded at a great rate throughout the early 1960s, capped by his most significant prize, the wolf’s-head walking stick of the mysteriously disappeared Jusef Sardu.

But certain developments and revelations out in the field eventually convinced Setrakian that his and Palmer’s interests were not compatible. That Palmer’s ultimate agenda was, in fact, entirely contrary to Setrakian’s intentions to hunt down and expose the vampiric cabal—which led to an ugly rift.

Setrakian knew, beyond doubt, who it was who later spread rumors of his affair with a student, resulting in his removal from the university. The rumors, alas, were entirely true, and Setrakian, freed now by the airing of this secret, swiftly married the lovely Miriam.

Miriam Sacher had survived polio as a child, and walked with arm and leg braces. To Abraham, she was simply the most exquisite little bird who could not fly. Originally a Romance languages expert, she had enrolled in several of Setrakian’s seminars and slowly gained the professor’s attention. It was anathema to date a student, so Miriam convinced her wealthy father to hire Abraham as her private tutor. To reach the Sacher family estate, Setrakian had to walk a good hour after taking two trams out of Vienna. The mansion had no electricity, so Abraham and Miriam read by the light of an oil lamp in the family library. Miriam moved around using a wood-and-wicker wheelchair that Setrakian used to push near the bookshelves as new volumes were required. As he did so, he felt the soft, clean scent of Miriam’s hair. A scent that intoxicated him and that, as a memory, greatly distracted him in the few hours they spent apart. Soon, their mutual intentions were made manifest and discretion gave way to apprehension as they hid in dark, dusty corners to find each other’s breath and saliva.

Disgraced by the university after a prolonged process to remove him from tenure, and facing opposition from Miriam’s family, Setrakian the Jew eloped with the blue-blooded Sacher girl and they married in secret in Mönchhof. Only Professor Zelman and a handful of Miriam’s friends were in attendance.

As the years went by, Miriam emerged as a partner in his expeditions, a comfort during the dark times, and a true believer in his cause. For over a decade, Setrakian was able to make a living by writing small pamphlets and working as a curator for antique houses all over Europe. Miriam made the most of their modest resources, and nights at the Setrakian house were usually uneventful. Every night, Abraham would rub Miriam’s legs with a mixture of alcohol, camphor, and herbs, patiently massaging out the painful knots that cramped muscle and sinew—hiding the fact that, while he did so, his hands hurt as much as her legs. Night after night, the professor told Miriam about ancient knowledge and myth, reciting stories full of hidden meaning and lore. He would end by humming old German lullabies to help her forget her pain and drift into sleep.

In the spring of 1967, Abraham Setrakian picked up Eichhorst’s trail in Bulgaria, and a hunger for vengeance against the Nazi rekindled the fire in his belly. Eichhorst, his commandant at Treblinka, was the man who issued Setrakian his craftsman star. He had also twice promised to execute his favorite woodworker, to do so personally. Such was a Jew’s lot in the extermination camp.

Setrakian tracked Eichhorst to the Balkans. Albania had been a communist regime since the war, and, for whatever reason, strigoi appeared to flourish in similar political and ideological climates. Setrakian had high hopes that his old camp warden—the dark god of that kingdom of industrialized death—might even lead him to the Master.

Because of her physical infirmity, Setrakian left Miriam at a village outside Shkodër, and led a pack horse fifteen kilometers to the ancient town of Drisht. Setrakian pulled the reluctant animal up the steep limestone incline, along old Ottoman paths rising to the hilltop castle.

Drisht Castle (Kalaja e Drishtit) dated to the twelfth century, erected as part of a mountaintop chain of Byzantine fortifications. The castle came under Montenegrin and then, briefly, Venetian rule, before the region fell to the Turks in 1478. Now, nearly five hundred years later, the fortress ruins contained a small Muslim village, a small mosque, and the neglected castle, its walls falling prey to nature.

Setrakian discovered the village empty, with little sign of recent activity. The views from the mountaintop out to the Dinaric Alps to the north, and the Adriatic Sea and the Strait of Otranto to the west were sweeping and majestic.

The crumbling stone castle with its centuries of stillness was a spot-on location for vampire hunting. In retrospect, that should have tipped Setrakian off that things were perhaps not as they seemed.

In the belowground chambers, he discovered the coffin. A simple and modern funerary box, a tapered hexagon constructed of all wood, apparently cypress, containing no metal parts, utilizing wooden pegs instead of nails, and leather hinging.

It was not yet nightfall, but the light in the room was not strong enough that he could rely on it to do the job. So Setrakian prepared his silver sword, making ready to dispatch his former tormentor. Weapon set, he raised the lid with his crooked-fingered hand.

The box, indeed, was empty. Emptier than empty: it was bottomless. Fixed to the floor, it functioned as a trapdoor of sorts. Setrakian strapped on a headlamp from his bag and peered down.

The dirt bottomed some fifteen feet below, then tunneled out.

Setrakian loaded himself up with tools—including an extra flashlight, a pouch of batteries, and his long silver knives (his discovery of the killing properties of ultraviolet light in the C range was yet to come—as was the advent of commercially available UV lamps), leaving behind all of his food and most of his water. He tied a rope to the wall chains and lowered himself into the coffin tunnel.

The ammonia smell of strigoi discharge was pungent, prompting him to step carefully, to avoid soiling his boots. He made his way through the passages, listening at every turn, picking signal marks into the walls when the tunnel forked, until, after some time, he found he had doubled back to his original marks.

Reconsidering, he decided to retrace his steps and return to the entrance beneath the bottomless coffin. He would climb back out, regroup, and lie in wait for the inhabitants to rise after nightfall.

But when he arrived back at the entrance, looking up, he found that the coffin lid had been shut. And his access rope was gone.

Setrakian had hunted enough strigoi that his reaction to this turn of events was not fear but anger. He turned immediately, plunging back into the tunnels with the knowledge that his survival depended upon his being predator and not prey.

He took a different route this time, and eventually encountered a family of four peasant villagers. They were strigoi, their red eyes lighting up at his presence, reflected blindly in the beam of his flashlight.

But they were all too weak to attack. The mother was the only one to rise from all fours, Setrakian noticing in her face the characteristic caving of an unnourished vampire: a darkening of the flesh, the articulation of the throat stinger mechanism through the taut skin, and a dazed, somnolent appearance.

He released them—with ease, and without mercy.

He soon encountered two other families, one stronger than the other, but neither able to mount much of a challenge. In another chamber, he found a child strigoi who had been destroyed in what appeared to be an ill-fated attempt at vampire cannibalism.

But still, no sign of Eichhorst.

Once he had cleared the ancient cave network of vampires, having discovered no other exit, he returned to the chamber beneath the closed coffin and began chipping away at the ancient stone with his dagger. He hacked out one toehold in the wall, setting to work on another a few feet higher in the opposite wall. As he worked for hours—the silver was a poor choice for the job, cracking and warping, the iron handle and grip proving more useful—he wondered about the wasting village strigoi down here. Their presence made little sense. Something was amiss, but Setrakian resisted reasoning it all the way through, pushing down his anxiety in order to focus on the job at hand.

Hours—maybe days—later, out of water and low on batteries, he balanced on the two lower toeholds to carve out the third. His hands were covered with a paste of blood mixed with dust, his tools difficult to hold. Finally, he braced his opposite foot against the sheer wall and reached the lid of the coffin.

With one desperate thrust, he shoved open the top.

He climbed out, emerging paranoid, half-crazed. The pack he had left there was gone, and with it, his extra food and water. Parched, he emerged from the castle into life-saving daylight. The sky was overcast. He had a sense of years having elapsed.

His horse had been slaughtered at the head of the path, gutted, its body cold.

The sky opened over him as he hurried back to the village. A farmer, one he had nodded to on the way up, traded for Setrakian’s broken wristwatch some water and rock-hard biscuits, and Setrakian learned, through intensive pantomiming, that he had been underground for three sunsets and three dawns.

He finally returned to the villa he had rented, but Miriam was not there. No note, no nothing—entirely unlike her. He went next door, then across the street. Finally, a man opened his door to him, just a crack.

No, he hadn’t seen his wife, the man told him in pidgin Greek.

Setrakian saw a woman cowering behind the man. He asked if something was wrong.

The man explained to him that two children had disappeared from the village the night before. A witch was suspected.

Setrakian returned to his rented villa. He sat heavily in a chair, holding his head in his bloodied, broken hands, and waited for nightfall—for the dark hour of his dear wife’s return.

She came to him out of the rain, free of the crutches and braces that had steadied her limbs all her human life. Her hair hung wet, her flesh white and slick, her clothes drenched with mud. She came to him with her head held high, in the manner of a society woman about to welcome a neophyte into her circle of esteem. At her sides stood the two village children she had turned, a boy and a girl still sick with transformation.

Miriam’s legs were straight and very dark. Blood had gathered at the lower portion of her extremities and both her hands and feet were now almost entirely black. Gone were her infirm, tentative steps: the atrophied gait which Setrakian had tried nightly to alleviate.

How completely and quickly she had changed from the love of his life into this mad, muddied, glaring creature. Now a strigoi with a taste for the children she could not bear in life.

Crying softly, Setrakian rose from his chair, half of him desiring to let it be, to go down into hell with her, to give himself over to vampirism in his despair.

But slay her he did, with much love and many tears. The children he cut down as well, with no regard for their corrupted bodies—though with Miriam, he was determined to preserve a part of her for himself.

Even if one understands that what one is doing is mad, it is indeed still madness—cutting the diseased heart out of one’s wife’s chest and preserving it, the corrupted organ beating with the craving of a blood worm, inside a pickling jar.

Life is madness, thought Setrakian, done with his butchering, looking about the room. And so is love.

The Flatlands

AFTER HAVING A last moment with his late wife’s heart, Setrakian uttered something that Fet barely heard and did not understand—it was “Forgive me, dearest”—and then went to work.

He sectioned the heart not with a silver blade, which would have been fatal to the worm, but with a knife of stainless steel—trimming the diseased organ back and back and back. The worm did not make its escape until Setrakian held the heart near one of the UV lamps set around the edge of the table. Thicker than a strand of hair, spindly and quick, the pinkish capillary worm shot out, aiming first for the broken fingers that gripped the knife handle. But Setrakian was much too prepared for that, and it slithered into the center of the table. Setrakian chopped it once with his blade, splitting the worm in two. Fet then trapped the separated ends using two large drinking glasses.

The worms regenerated themselves, exploring the inside rim of their new cages.

Setrakian then set about preparing the experiment. Fet sat back on a stool, watching the worms lash about inside the glass, driven by blood hunger. Fet remembered Setrakian’s warning to Eph, about destroying Kelly:

In the act of releasing a loved one … you taste what it is to be turned. To go against everything you are. That act changes one forever.

And Nora, about love being the true victim of this plague, the instrument of our downfall:

The undead returning for their Dear Ones. Human love corrupted into vampiric need.

Fet said, “Why didn’t they kill you in those tunnels? Since it was a trap?”

Setrakian looked up from his contraption. “Believe it or not, they were afraid of me back then. I was still in the prime of life, I was vital, I was strong. They are indeed sadists, but, you must remember, their numbers were quite small back then. Self-preservation was paramount. Unbridled expansion of their species was a taboo. And yet they had to hurt me. And so they did.”

Fet said, “They are still afraid of you.”

“Not me. Only what I represent. What I know. In truth, what can one old man do against a horde of vampires?”

Fet did not believe Setrakian’s humility, not for a moment.

The old man continued, “I think the fact that we don’t give up—this idea that the human spirit keeps going in the face of absolute adversity—puzzles them. They are arrogant. Their origin, if confirmed, will attest to that.”

“What is their origin, then?”

“Once we get the book, once I am completely certain … I will reveal it to you.”

The radio started to fade, and Fet first thought it was his bad ear. He stood and turned the crank, powering the unit, keeping it going. Human voices were largely absent from the airwaves, replaced by heavy interference and occasional high-pitched tones. But one commercial sports radio station still had broadcast power, and though apparently all of its on-air talent were gone, a lone producer remained. He had taken up the microphone, changing the format from Yankees-Mets-Giants-Jets-Rangers-Knicks talk to news updates culled off the Internet and from occasional callers.

“… the national Web site of the FBI now reports that they have Dr. Ephraim Goodweather in federal custody, following an incident in Brooklyn. He is the fugitive former New York City CDC official who released that first video—remember that? The guy in the shed, chained like a dog. Remember when that demon stuff seemed pretty hysterical and far-fetched? Those were good times. Anyway … it says he’s been arrested on … what’s this? Attempted murder? Jeez. Just when you think we might be able to get some real answers. I mean, this guy was at the center of the whole initial thing, if memory serves. Right? He was there at the plane, at Flight 753. And he was wanted for the murder of one of the other first responders, a guy who worked for him, I think the name was Jim Kent. So, clearly, there’s something going on with this guy. My opinion—I think they’re gonna Oswald him. Two bullets to the gut, and he’s silenced forever. Another piece in this giant puzzle that no one seems to be able to put together. Anybody out there has any thoughts on this, any ideas, any theories, and your phone is still working, hit me up on the sports hotline …”

Setrakian sat with his eyes closed.

Fet said, “Attempted murder?”

“Palmer,” said Setrakian.

“Palmer!” said Fet. “You mean—it’s not some bogus charge?” Fet’s shock quickly turned to appreciation. “Gunning down Palmer. Christ. Good ol’ doc. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“I am very glad you did not.”

Fet ran his fingers through the hair on the top of his head, as though waking himself up. “And then there were two, huh?” He stepped back, looking out through the half-open door to the storefront. Dusk was falling through the windows beyond. “So you knew about this?”

“I suspected.”

“You didn’t want to stop him?”

“I could see—there was no stopping. A man has to act on his own impulses sometimes. Understand—he is a medical scientist caught up in a pandemic, the source of which defies everything he thought he knew. Add to that the personal conflict involving his wife. He took the course he thought was right.”

“Bold move. Would it have meant anything? If he had succeeded?”

“Oh, I think so.” Setrakian went back to his tinkering.

Fet smiled. “I didn’t think he had it in him.”

“I’m sure he didn’t either.”

Fet thought he saw a shadow pass before the front windows then. He had been half-turned away, the image in his periphery. It had struck him as a large being.

“I think we’ve got a customer,” said Fet, hurrying to the back door.

Setrakian stood, reaching quickly for his wolf’s-head staff, twisting the top and exposing a few inches of silver.

“Stay,” said Fet. “Be ready.” He took his loaded nail gun and a sword, and slipped out the back door, fearing the arrival of the Master.

Out on the back curb, as soon as he closed the door, Fet saw the big man. Thick-browed, a hulking man in his sixties, as big as Fet. He stood with a slight crouch, favoring one leg. His open hands were out, resembling a wrestler’s stance.

Not the Master. Not even a vampire. The man’s eyes confirmed it. Even newly turned vampires move strangely, less like a human and more like an animal, or a bug.

Two others stepped from behind the DPW van. One was all silvered up with jewelry, short and wide and powerful-looking, snarling like a junkyard dog larded with bling. The other was younger, holding the tip of a long sword out toward Fet, aimed at his throat.

So they knew their silver. “I’m human,” said Fet. “You guys are looking to loot something, I got nothing here but rat poison.”

“We are looking for an old man,” came a voice behind Fet. He turned, keeping all comers in front of him. The new one was Gus, his torn shirt collar partially revealing the phrase SOY COMO SOY tattooed across his clavicle. He carried a long silver knife in his hand.

Three Mexican gangbangers and an old ex-wrestler with hands the size of thick steaks. “It’s getting dark, boys,” said Fet. “You should be moving right along.”

Creem, the silver-knuckled one, said, “Now what?”

Gus said to Fet, “The pawnbroker. Where is he?”

Fet held pat. These punks packed slaying weapons, but he didn’t know them, and what he didn’t know he didn’t like. “Don’t know who you’re talking about.”

Gus wasn’t buying. “I guess we go door to door, then, motherfucker.”

Fet said, “You do, you’re gonna have to go through me.” He pointed with his nail gun. “And just so you know—this baby right here is nasty. The nail just fastens to the bone. Homes right in on it. Vampire or not, damage will be done. I’ll hear you squeal when you try to pry a couple of silvery inches out of your fucking eye socket, cholo.”

“Vasiliy,” said Setrakian, exiting out the back door, staff in hand.

Gus saw him, saw the old man’s hands. All busted up, just as he remembered. The pawnbroker looked even older now, smaller. It had been years since they’d met a few weeks ago. He straightened, uncertain if the old man would recognize him.

Setrakian looked him over. “From the jail.”

Fet said, “Jail?”

Setrakian reached out and patted Gus’s arm familiarly. “You listened. You learned. And you survived.”

“A guevo. I survived. And you—you got out.”

“I had a stroke of good fortune,” said Setrakian. He looked at the others. “But what of your friend? The sick one. You did what you had to do?”

Gus winced, remembering. “Si. I did what I had to do. And I’ve been fucking doing it ever since.”

Angel dug into a knapsack on his shoulder, and Fet readied his nail gun. “Easy, big bear,” he said.

Angel pulled out the silver case recovered from the pawnshop. Gus went and took it from him, opening it, removing the card inside, and handing it to the pawnbroker.

It contained Fet’s address.

Setrakian noticed that the case was dented and blackened, one corner warped from heat.

Gus told him, “They sent a crew for you. Used smoke cover to attack in daytime. They were all over your shop when we got there.” Gus nodded to the others. “We had to blow up your place to get out of there with our blood still red.”

Setrakian showed only a flicker of regret, passing quickly. “So—you have joined the fight.”

“Who, me?” said Gus, brandishing his silver blade. “I am the fight. Been flushing ’em out these past few days—way too many to count.”

Setrakian looked more closely at Gus’s weapon, showing concern. “Where, may I ask, did you get such well-made arms?”

“From the fucking source,” said Gus. “They came for me when I was still in handcuffs, running from the law. Pulled me right off the street.”

Setrakian’s expression turned dark. “Who are ‘they?’”

“Them. The old ones.”

Setrakian said, “The Ancients.”

“Holy Jesus,” said Fet.

Setrakian motioned to him to be patient. “Please,” he said to Gus. “Explain.”

Gus did so, recounting the Ancients’ offer, that they were holding his mother, and how he had recruited the Sapphires out of Jersey City to work at his side as day hunters.

“Mercenaries,” said Setrakian.

Gus took that as a compliment. “We’re mopping the floor with milk blood. A tight hit squad, good vampire killers. Vampire shit-kickers, more like it.”

Angel nodded. He liked this kid.

“The Ancients,” Gus said. “They feel that this is all a concerted attack. Breaking their breeding rules, risking exposure. Shock and Awe, I guess …”

Fet coughed out a laugh. “You guess? You’re joking. No? You fucking dropout assassins have no idea what’s going down here. You don’t even know whose side you’re really on.”

“Hold, please.” Setrakian silenced Fet with a hand, thinking. “Do they know that you have come to me?”

“No,” said Gus.

“They will soon. And they will not be pleased.” Setrakian put up his hands, reassuring the confused Gus. “Fret not. It is all a big mess, a bad situation for anyone with red blood in their veins. I am very glad you sought me out again.”

Fet had learned to like the brightness that came into the old man’s eyes when he was getting an idea. It helped Fet relax a little.

Setrakian said to Gus, “I think perhaps there is something you can do for me.”

Gus shot a cutting look at Fet, as though saying, Take that. “Name it,” he said to Setrakian. “I owe you plenty.”

“You will take my friend and me to the Ancients.”

Brooklyn-Queens FBI Resident Agency

EPH SAT ALONE in the debriefing room, his elbows on a scratched table, calmly rubbing at his hands. The room smelled of old coffee, though there was none present. The ceiling-lamp light fell on the one-way mirror, illuminating a single human handprint, the ghostly remnant of a recent interrogation.

Strange knowing you are being watched, even studied. It affected what you do, down to your very posture, the way you licked your lips, how you looked at or didn’t look at yourself in the mirror, behind which lurked your captors. If lab rats knew their behavior was being scrutinized, then every maze-and-cheese experiment would take on an extra dimension.

Eph looked forward to their questions, perhaps more than the FBI was looking forward to his answers. He hoped that their inquiries would give him a sense of the investigation at hand, and, in doing so, let him know to what extent the vampire invasion was currently understood by law enforcement and the powers that be.

He had once read that falling asleep while awaiting questioning is a leading indicator of a suspect’s culpability. The reason was something about how the lack of a physical outlet for one’s anxiety exhausted the guilty mind—that, coupled with an unconscious need to hide or escape.

Eph was plenty tired, and sore, but more than that, he felt relief. He was done. Under arrest, in federal custody. No more fight, no more struggle. He was of little use to Setrakian and Fet anyway. With Zack and Nora now safely out of the hot zone, speeding south to Harrisburg, it seemed to him that sitting here in the penalty box was preferable to warming the bench.

Two agents entered without introduction. They handcuffed his wrists, Eph thinking that strange. They cuffed them not behind his back but in front of him, then pulled him out of the chair and walked him from the room.

They led him past the mostly empty bullpen to a key-access elevator. No one said anything on the ride up. The door opened on an unadorned access hallway, which they followed to a short flight of stairs, leading to a door to the roof.

A helicopter was parked there, its rotors already speeding up, chopping into the night air. Too noisy to ask questions, so Eph crouch-walked with the other two into the belly of the bird, and sat while they seat-belted him in.

The chopper lifted off, rising over Kew Gardens and greater Brooklyn. Eph saw the blocks burning, the helicopter weaving between great plumes of thick, black smoke. All this devastation raging below him. Surreal didn’t begin to describe it.

He realized they were crossing the East River, and then really wondered where they were taking him. He saw the police and fire lights spinning on the Brooklyn Bridge, but no moving cars, no people. Lower Manhattan came up fast around them, the helicopter dipping lower, the tallest buildings limiting his view.

Eph knew that the FBI headquarters were in Federal Plaza, a few blocks north of City Hall. But no, they remained close to the Financial District.

The chopper climbed again, zeroing in on the only lit rooftop for blocks around: a red ring of safety lights demarking a helipad. The bird touched down gently, and the agents unbuckled Eph’s seat belt. They got him up out of his seat without getting up themselves, essentially kicking him to the rooftop.

He remained in a standing crouch, air whipping at his clothes as the bird lifted off again, turning in the air and whirring away, back toward Brooklyn. Leaving him alone—and still handcuffed.

Eph smelled burning and ocean salt, the troposphere over Manhattan clogged with smoke. He remembered how the dust trail of the World Trade Center—white-gray, that—rose and flattened once it reached a certain elevation, then spread out over the skyline in a cloud of despair.

This cloud was black, blocking out the stars, making a dark night even darker.

He turned in a circle, bewildered. He walked beyond the ring of red landing lights, and, around one of the giant air-conditioning units, saw an open door, faint light emanating from within. He walked to it, stopping there with his cuffed hands outstretched, debating whether or not to go inside, then realizing that he had no choice. It was either sprout wings or see this thing through.

Faint red light inside came from an EXIT sign. A long staircase led down to another propped-open door. Through it was a carpeted hallway with expensive accent lighting. A man dressed in a dark suit stood halfway down, hands folded at his waist. Eph stopped, ready to run.

The man said nothing. He did nothing. Eph could see that he was human, not vampire.

Next to him, built into the wall, was a logo depicting a black orb bisected by a steel-blue line. The corporate symbol for the Stoneheart Group. Eph realized, for the first time, that it resembled the occulted sun winking its eye closed.

His adrenaline kicked in, his body preparing to fight. But the Stoneheart man turned and walked away to the end of the hall, to a door, which he opened and held.

Eph walked toward him, warily, sliding past the man and through the door. The man did not follow, instead closing the door with him remaining on the other side.

Art adorned the walls of the vast room, supersized canvases depicting nightmarish imagery and violent abstraction. Music played faintly, seeming to find his ears in the same measured volume as he moved throughout the room.

Around a corner, at the edge of the building walled in glass, looking north at the suffering island of Manhattan, was a table set for one.

A stream of low light spilled down onto the white linen, making it glow. A butler, or a waiter—a servant of some kind—arrived when Eph did, pulling out the only chair for him. Eph looked at the man—he was old, a domestic for life—the servant watching him without meeting his eye, standing with every expectation that his guest should take the seat offered him.

And so Eph did. The chair was pushed in beneath the table, a napkin opened and laid across his right thigh, and then the servant walked away.

Eph looked at the great windows. The reflection made it appear he was seated outside, at a table hovering some seventy-eight stories over Manhattan, while the city roiled in paroxysms of violence beneath him.

A slight whirring noise undercut the pleasant symphony. A motorized wheelchair appeared out of the gloom, and Eldritch Palmer, his frail hand operating the steering stick, rolled across the polished floor to the opposite side of the table.

Eph began to get to his feet—but then Mr. Fitzwilliam, Palmer’s bodyguard-cum-nurse, appeared in the shadows. The guy was bulging out of his suit, his orange hair cut high and tight, like a small, contained fire atop his boulder of a head.

Eph relented, sitting back down.

Palmer pulled in so that the front of his chair arms lined up with the tabletop. Once he was set, he looked across at Eph. Palmer’s head resembled a triangle: broad-crowned with S-shaped veins evident at both temples, narrowing to a chin that trembled with age.

“You are a terrible shot, Dr. Goodweather,” said Palmer. “Killing me might have impeded our progress somewhat, but only temporarily. However, you caused irreversible liver damage to one of my bodyguards. Not very hero-like, I must say.”

Eph said nothing, still stunned by this sudden change of venue from the FBI in Brooklyn to Palmer’s Wall Street penthouse.

Palmer said, “Setrakian sent you to kill me, did he not?”

Eph said, “He did not. In fact, in his own way, I think he tried to talk me out of it. I went on my own.”

Palmer frowned, disappointed. “I must admit, I wish he was here, rather than you. Someone who could relate to what I have done, at least. The scope of my achievement. Someone who would understand the magnitude of my deeds, even as he condemned them.” Palmer signaled to Mr. Fitzwilliam. “Setrakian is not the man you think he is,” said Palmer.

“No?” said Eph. “Who do I think he is?”

Mr. Fitzwilliam approached, pulling a large piece of medical equipment on casters, a machine with whose function Eph was not familiar.

Palmer said, “You see him as the kindly old man, the white wizard. The humble genius.”

Eph said nothing as Mr. Fitzwilliam pulled up Palmer’s shirt, revealing twin valves implanted in his thin side, the man’s flesh hashed with scars. Mr. Fitzwilliam connected two tubes from the machine to the valves, taping them sealed, then switched on the machine. A feeder of some kind.

Palmer said, “In fact, he is a blunderer. A butcher, a psychopath, and a disgraced scholar. A failure in every respect.”

Palmer’s words made Eph smile. “If he was such a failure, you wouldn’t be talking about him now, wishing I were him.”

Palmer blinked sleepily. He raised his hand again and a distant door opened, a figure emerging. Eph braced himself, wondering what Palmer had in store for him—if this scallywag had a taste for revenge—but it was only the servant again, this time carrying a small tray on his fingertips.

He swept in front of Eph and set a cocktail down before him, rocks of ice floating in amber fluid.

Palmer said, “I am told you are a man who enjoys a stiff drink.”

Eph looked at the drink, then back at Palmer. “What is this?”

“A Manhattan,” said Palmer. “It seemed appropriate.”

“Not the damn drink. Why am I here?”

“You are my guest for dinner. A last meal. Not yours—mine.” He nodded to the machine feeding him.

The servant returned with a plate covered with a stainless-steel dome. He set it in front of Eph and removed the cover. Glazed black cod, baby potatoes, Oriental vegetable medley—all warm and steaming.

Eph didn’t move, looking down at it.

“Come now, Dr. Goodweather. You haven’t seen food like this in days. And don’t worry about it having been tampered with, poisoned or drugged. If I wanted you dead, Mr. Fitzwilliam here would see to it promptly and then enjoy your meal himself.”

Eph had actually been looking at the utensils set out for him. He grasped the sterling-silver knife, holding it up so that it caught the light.

“Silver, yes,” said Palmer. “No vampires here tonight.”

Eph took up his fork and, with his eyes on Palmer, and his handcuffs clinking, cut into the fish. Palmer watched as he brought a morsel to his mouth, chewing it, juices exploding on his dry tongue, his belly rumbling with anticipation.

“It has been decades since I ingested food orally,” said Palmer. “I grew accustomed to not eating while recuperating from various surgical procedures. Really, you can lose your taste for food surprisingly easily.”

He watched Eph chew and swallow.

“After a time, the simple act of eating comes to appear quite animalistic. Grotesque, in fact. No different than a cat consuming a dead bird. The mouth-throat-stomach digestive tract is such a crude path to nourishment. So primitive.”

Eph said, “We’re all just animals to you, is that it?”

“‘Customers’ is the accepted term. But certainly. We, the overclass, have taken those basic human drives and advanced our own selves through their exploitation. We have monetized human consumption, manipulated morals and laws to direct the masses by fear or hatred, and, in doing so, have managed to create a system of wealth and remuneration that has concentrated the vast majority of the world’s wealth in the hands of a select few. Over the course of two thousand years, I believe this system worked pretty well. But all good things must end. You saw, with the recent market crash, how we have been building to this impossible end. Money built upon money built upon money. Two choices remain. Either utter collapse, which appeals to no one, or the richest push the pedal to the floor and take it all. And here we are now.”

Eph said, “You brought the Master here. You arranged for him to be on that airplane.”

“Indeed. But, doctor, I have been so consumed with the orchestration of this endeavor for lo these past ten years that to recount it all for you now would truly be a waste of my last hours. If you don’t mind.”

“You are selling out the human race so you can live forever—as a vampire?”

Palmer put his hands together in a gesture of prayer, but only to rub his palms and generate some warmth. “Are you aware that this very island was once home to as many different species as Yellowstone National Park?”

“No, I wasn’t. So we humans had it coming, is that your point?”

Palmer laughed softly. “No, no. No, that is not it. Far too moralistic. Any dominant species would have ravaged the land with equal or grander enthusiasm. My point is that the land doesn’t care. The sky doesn’t care. The planet doesn’t care. The entire system is structured around a long-winded decay and an eventual rebirth. Why are you so precious about humanity? You can already feel it slipping away from you now. You’re falling apart. Is the sensation really all that bad?”

Eph remembered—with a spike of shame now—his apathy in the FBI debriefing room after his arrest. He looked with disgust at the cocktail Palmer expected him to drink.

Palmer continued, “The smart move would have been to cut a deal.”

Eph said, “I had nothing to offer.”

Palmer considered this. “Is that why you still resist?”

“Partly. Why should people like you have all the fun?”

Palmer’s hands returned to his armrests with the certainty of revelation. “It’s the myths, isn’t it? Movies and books and fables. It has become ingrained. The entertainment we sold, that was meant to placate you. To keep you down but still dreaming. Keep you wanting. Hoping. Coveting. Anything to direct your attention away from your sense of the animal, toward the fiction of a greater existence—a higher purpose.” He smiled again. “Something beyond the cycle of birth, reproduction, death.”

Eph pointed at Palmer with his fork. “But isn’t that what you’re doing now? You think you are about to go beyond death. You believe in the same fictions.”

“Me? A victim of the same great myth?” Palmer considered this angle, then discounted it. “I have made a new fate. I am forsaking death for deliverance. My point is—this humanity your heart bleeds for is already subservient, and fully programmed for subjugation.”

Eph looked up. “Subjugation? What do you mean by that?”

Palmer shook his head. “I am not about to detail everything for you. Not because you might do something heroic with this information—you cannot. It is too late. The die is already cast.”

Eph’s mind reeled. He remembered Palmer’s speech from earlier in the day, his testimony. “Why do you want a quarantine now? Sealing off cities? What is the point? Unless … are you trying to herd us together?”

Palmer did not answer.

Eph went on, “They can’t turn everybody, because then there would be no blood meals. You need a reliable food source.” It hit him then, what Palmer had said. “Food delivery. The meatpacking plants. Are you …? No …”

Palmer folded his old hands in his lap.

Eph pressed him. “And then—what about the nuclear power plants? Why do you need them to come on line?”

Palmer answered by saying again, “The die is already cast.”

Eph set down his fork, wiping the knife blade with his napkin before setting it down as well. These revelations had killed his body’s junkie-like urge for protein.

“You’re not insane,” said Eph, actively trying to read him now. “You’re not even evil. You are desperate, and certainly megalomaniacal. Absolutely perverse. Is all this spun out of a rich man’s fear of death? You trying to buy your way out of it? Actually choosing the alternative? But—for what? What have you not already done that you lust after? What will be left for you to lust for?”

For the briefest moment, Palmer’s eyes showed a hint of fragility, perhaps even fear. In that instant he was revealed to be just what he was: a fragile, sick old man.

“You don’t understand, Dr. Goodweather. I have been sick all my life. All my life. I had no childhood. No adolescence. I have been fighting against my own rot for as long as I can remember. Fear death? I walk with it every day. What I want now is to transcend it. To silence it. For what has being human ever done for me? Every pleasure I have ever experienced has been tainted by the whisper of decay and disease.”

“But—to be a vampire? A … a creature? A bloodsucking thing?”

“Well … arrangements have been made. I will be exalted somewhat. Even at the next stage, there has to be a class system, you know. And I have been promised a seat at the very top.”

“Promised by a vampire. A virus. What about his will? He is going to invade yours as he has all the others—possess it, make yours an extension of his own. What good is that? Merely trading one whisper for another …”

“I have dealt with worse, believe me. But it is kind of you to show such concern for my well-being.” Palmer looked to the great windows, beyond their reflection to the dying city below. “People will prefer any fate to this. They will welcome our alternative. You’ll see. They will accept any system, any order, that promises them the illusion of security.” He looked back. “But you haven’t touched your drink.”

Eph said, “Maybe I’m not so preprogrammed. Maybe people are more unpredictable than you think.”

“I don’t think so. Every model has its individual anomalies. A renowned doctor and scientist becomes an assassin. Amusing. What most people lack is vision—a vision of the truth. The ability to act with deadly certainty. No, as a group—a herd, that is your word—they are easily led, and wonderfully predictable. Capable of selling, turning, killing those that they profess to love in exchange for peace of mind or a scrap of food.” Palmer shrugged, disappointed that Eph was evidently through eating and the meal was over. “You will be going back to the FBI now.”

“Those agents are in on it? How big is this conspiracy?”

“‘Those agents’?” Palmer shook his head. “As with any bureaucratic institution—say, for instance, the CDC—once you seize control of the top, the rest of the organization simply follows orders. The Ancients have operated that way for years. The Master is no exception. Don’t you see that this is why governments were established in the first place? So, no, there is no conspiracy, Dr. Goodweather. This is the very same structure that has existed since the beginning of recorded time.”

Mr. Fitzwilliam unplugged Palmer from his feeding machine. Eph saw that Palmer was already half a vampire; that the jump from intravenous nourishment to a blood meal was not a great one. “Why did you have me here?”

“Not to gloat. I believe that has been made clear. Nor to unburden my soul.” Palmer chuckled before returning to seriousness. “This is my last night as a man. Dinner with my would-be assassin struck me as a meaningful part of the program. Tomorrow, Dr. Goodweather, I will exist in a place beyond death’s reach. And your kind will exist—”

“My kind?” said Eph, interrupting.

“Your kind will exist in a manner beyond all hope. I have delivered to you a new Messiah, and the reckoning is at hand. The mythmakers were right, save for their characterization of the second coming of a Messiah. He will indeed raise the dead. He will preside over the final judgment. God promises eternal life. The Master delivers it. And he will establish his kingdom on earth.”

“And what does that make you? The kingmaker? It sounds to me like you are one more drone doing his bidding.”

Palmer pursed his dry lips in a condescending manner. “I see. Another clumsy attempt to instill doubt in me. Dr. Barnes warned me against your stubbornness. But I suppose you have to try again and again—”

“I’m not trying anything. If you can’t see that he’s been stringing you along, then you deserve to get it in the neck.”

Palmer held his expression steady. What worked behind it—that was another matter. “Tomorrow,” he said, “is the day.”

“And why would he deign to share power with another?” said Eph. He sat up, his hands dropping below the table. He was winging it here, but it felt right. “Think about it. What sort of contract is holding him to this arrangement? What’d you two do, shake hands? You’re not blood brothers—not yet. Best-case scenario, by this time tomorrow you’ll be just another bloodsucker in the hive. Take it from an epidemiologist. Viruses don’t make deals.”

“He would be nowhere without me.”

“Without your money. Without your mundane influence, yes. All of which”—Eph nodded at the anarchy below them—“exist no more.”

Mr. Fitzwilliam stepped forward then, moving to Eph’s side. “The helicopter has returned.”

“And so it is good evening, Dr. Goodweather,” said Palmer, wheeling back from the table. “And good-bye.”

“He’s been out there turning folks for free, left and right. So ask yourself this. If you’re so damn important, Palmer—why make you wait in line?”

Palmer was rolling slowly away. Mr. Fitzwilliam hoisted Eph roughly to his feet. Eph was lucky: the silver knife he had hidden, tucked inside his waistband, only grazed his upper thigh.

“What’s in it for you?” Eph asked Mr. Fitzwilliam. “You’re too healthy to be dreaming of eternal life as a bloodsucker.”

Mr. Fitzwilliam said nothing. The weapon remained tight against Eph’s hip as he was led away, back up to the roof.

RAINFALL

THUD-BUMP!

Nora shivered at the first impact. Everyone felt it, but few realized what it was. She didn’t know much herself about the North River Tunnels that connected Manhattan and New Jersey. She guessed that, under normal circumstances—which, let’s face it, didn’t exist anymore—it was maybe a two-to-three-minute trip total, traveling deep below the Hudson River. A one-way trip, no stopping. The only way in or out through the surface entrance and exit. They probably hadn’t even hit the halfway point, the deepest part, yet.

Bam-BAMM-bam-bam-bam.

Another hit, and the sound and vibration of grinding beneath the train’s chassis. The noise traveling from the front, bumping beneath her feet all the way to the back of the train, and gone. Her father, driving her uncle’s Cadillac many years ago, once ran over a big badger driving through the Adirondacks; this noise was almost the same, only bigger.

This was no badger.

Nor, she suspected, was it human.

Dread enveloped her. The thumping roused her mother, and Nora instinctively grabbed her frail hand. In response, she got a vague smile and a vacant stare.

Better that way, thought Nora, with an extra chill. Better not to deal with her questions, her suspicions, her fears. Nora had plenty of her own.

Zack remained under the influence of his earbuds, eyes closed, head bobbing gently over the backpack on his lap—grooving or maybe dozing. Either way, he was unaware of the bumps and the sense of concern growing in their train car. Though not for long …

Bump-CRUNCH.

A gasp went up. Impacts more frequent now, the noises louder. Nora prayed they would get through the tunnel in time. The one thing she had always hated about trains and subways: you can never see out the front windows. You don’t see what the driver sees. All you get is a blur. You never see what’s coming.

More hits. She thought she could distinguish the cracking of bones and—another!—an inhuman squeal, not unlike a pig.

The conductor evidently had had enough. The emergency brakes engaged with a metallic screech, grating like steel fingernails against the chalkboard of Nora’s fear.

Standing passengers grabbed seatbacks and overhead racks. The bumping slowed and became agonizingly more pronounced, the weight of the train crushing bodies beneath them. Zack’s head came up and his eyes opened and he looked at Nora.

The train went into a skid, its wheels screaming—then a great shudder and the interior compartment shook with a violence that threw people to the ground.

The train shrieked to a stop, the car tilted to the right.

They had jumped the track.

Derailed.

Lights inside the train flickered and died. A groan went up, with notes of panic.

Then emergency lights came on, but pale.

Nora pulled Zack to his feet. Time to get moving. She pulled her mother with her, starting toward the front of the car before everyone else on the train had recovered. She wanted to get a look at the tunnel by the train’s headlight. But she saw immediately that way was impassable. Too many people, too much thrown luggage.

Nora tugged on the strap of the weapon bag across her chest and pushed them the other way, toward the exit between cars. She was playing nice, waiting for fellow passengers to get their bags, when she heard the screaming start in the first car.

Every head turned.

Nora said, “Come on!” She pulled on them both, shoving her way through bodies toward the exits. Let the other people look; she had two lives to protect, never mind her own.

At the end of the car, waiting for some guy to pry open the automatic doors, Nora glanced back behind her.

Over the heads of the confused passengers, she saw frenzied movement in the next car … dark figures moving quickly … and then a burst of arterial blood spraying against the glass door separating compartments.

Gus and his crew had been outfitted by the hunters with armor-plated Hummers, black with chrome accents. Most of the chrome was gone now, due to the fact that, in order to get across bridges and up city streets, you had to do some contact driving.

Gus was heading the wrong way across 59th Street, his headlamps the only lights on the road. Fet sat up front, because of his size. The weapon bag was at his feet. Angel and the others were in another vehicle.

The radio was on, the sports talk host having racked some music in order to give his voice or maybe his bladder a break. Fet realized, as Gus cut hard up onto the sidewalk in order to avoid a knot of abandoned vehicles, that the song was Elton John’s “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me.”

He snapped off the radio, saying, “That’s not funny.”

They pulled up fast, at the foot of a building overlooking Central Park, exactly the sort of place where Fet always imagined a vampire would reside. Seen from the sidewalk below, it was outlined against the smoky sky like a gothic tower.

Fet entered the front door with Setrakian at his side, both men carrying their swords. Angel trailed them, Gus whistling a tune next to him.

The lobby of rich brown wallpaper was dimly lit and empty. Gus had a key that operated the passenger elevator, a small cage of green iron, its lift cables visible, Victorian styling inside and out.

The top-floor hallway was under construction, or at least left to appear that way. Gus laid his weapons down atop a table-like length of scaffolding. “Everybody disarm here,” he said.

Fet looked at Setrakian. Setrakian made no move to relinquish his staff, so Fet kept a tight hold on his sword.

“Fine, have it your way,” said Gus.

Angel remained behind as Gus led them inside the only door, up three steps into a dark anteroom. There was the usual light tincture of ammonia and earth, and a sensation of heat not artificially manufactured. Gus parted a heavy curtain, revealing a wide room with three windows overlooking the park.

Silhouetted before each window were three beings, hairless, unclothed, standing as still as the building itself, arranged like statues standing guard over the canyon of Central Park.

Fet raised his silver sword, the blade angling upward like the needle of a gauge measuring the presence of evil. All at once, he felt his hand struck, the sword handle springing loose from his grip. His other arm, the one gripping the weapon bag, jumped at the shoulder, suddenly lighter.

The bag handles had been cut. He turned his head in time to see his blade enter the side wall, piercing it deeply, quivering, the bag of weapons dangling from it.

He then felt a knife at the side of his throat. Not a silver blade, but instead the point of a long iron spike.

A face, next to him—so pale, it glowed. Its eyes bore the deep red of vampiric possession, its mouth curled into a toothless scowl. Its swollen throat pulsed, not with blood flow but anticipation.

“Hey …” said Fet, his voice disappearing into nothingness.

He was done for. The speed with which these ones moved was incredible. So much faster than the animals outside.

But the three beings at the windows—they had not moved.

Setrakian.

The voice, appearing within his mind, was accompanied by a numbing sensation that had the effect of clouding his thoughts.

Fet tried to look over at the old professor. He still held his staff, the interior blade sheathed. Another hunter stood at his side, holding a similar spike to his temple.

Gus walked past them. He said, “They’re with me.”

They are silver-armed. A hunter’s voice—not as debilitating as the other.

Setrakian said, “I come not to destroy you. Not this time.”

You would never get so close.

“But I have been close in the past, and you know it. Let us not rehash old battles. I wish to set all that aside for the time being. I have placed myself at your mercy for a reason. I want to deal.”

To deal? What could you possibly have to offer?

“The book. And the Master.”

Fet felt the vampire goon ease off his neck just a few millimeters, the point of the spike still in contact with his flesh but no longer poking at his throat.

The beings at the windows never moved, the commanding voice in his head unwavering.

And what is it you want in return?

Setrakian said, “The world.”

Nora spotted the dark figures siphoning passengers in the aft car. She kicked at the back of the knee of the man in front of her, pulling her mother and Zack past him, shouldering aside a woman in a business suit and sneakers in order to exit the derailed train.

Somehow, she got her mother down the long step without dropping her. Nora looked forward to where the front car had left the track, angled tight against the tunnel wall, and realized she had to go the other way.

She had departed the claustrophobia of the stuck train for the claustrophobia of an under-river tunnel.

Nora unzipped the side compartment on her travel duffel and pulled out her Luma lamp. She powered it on, the battery humming to life, the UVC bulb crackling indigo, burning hot.

The tracks lit up before her. Vampire discharge was everywhere, fluorescent guano, covering the floor and sprayed on the walls. Evidently, they had been crossing this way to the mainland for days, and by the thousands. It was the perfect environment for them: dark, dirty, and concealed from surface eyes.

Others disembarked behind them, a few using mobile phone screens to light their way. “Oh, my God!” one shrieked.

Nora turned and saw, by the light of the passengers’ phones, the train wheels goopy with white vampire blood. Gobs of pale skin and the black gristle of crushed bones hung from the undercarriage. Nora wondered if they were run down accidentally—or had they thrown themselves in the path of the charging train?

Thrown themselves seemed most likely. And if so—then what for?

Nora thought she knew. With the image of Kelly still bright in her mind, Nora threw one arm around Zack, taking her mother by the hand and running for the rear of the train.

New Jersey was a long walk away, and they were not alone here.

They heard screaming aboard the train now. Passengers being mauled by pale creatures marauding through the cars. Nora tried to keep Zack from looking up and seeing the faces pressed against the windows, regurgitating saliva and blood.

Nora got to the end of the train, rounding it—stepping over crushed vampire corpses on the tracks, using her UV light to kill any lurking blood worms—and starting up the other side, where there was a clear path toward the front car.

Tunnels carry and distort noises. Nora wasn’t sure what she was hearing, but its presence put an extra scare into her. She exhorted the people following them to stop a moment and be quiet and still.

She heard a noise like scuttling, only many times repeated and magnified through the tunnel. Coming behind them, in the same direction the train had been traveling. A horde of footsteps.

The light from the cell phone screens and Nora’s UV lamp had very little range. Something was coming at them out of the dark void, and Nora corralled Zack and her mother and started running the other way.

The hunter pulled back from Fet’s side, his spike still poised at Fet’s neck. Setrakian had started to tell the Ancients about Eldritch Palmer’s association with the Master.

We know already. He came to us some time ago, petitioning us for immortality.

“And you refused him. So he went across the street.”

He did not meet our criteria. Eternity is a beautiful gift, entrance into an immortal aristocracy. We are rigorously selective.

The voice reverberating inside Fet’s head sounded like a scolding parent’s multiplied a thousandfold. He looked at the hunter next to him and wondered: some long-dead European king? Alexander the Great? Howard Hughes?

No—not these hunters. Fet guessed he was an elite soldier in his former life. Plucked off a battlefield, perhaps during a special-ops mission. Drafted by the ultimate selective service. But who knew which army? What era? Vietnam? Normandy? Thermopylae?

Setrakian said—confirming for himself lifelong theories as he stated these facts—“The Ancients are connected to the human world at its uppermost levels. They assume the initiate’s wealth, which helps them insulate themselves and assert their influence across the globe.”

Were it a simple business transaction, his wealth is substantial enough. But we require more than riches. What we seek is power, access, and obedience. He lacked the last.

“Palmer grew angry when the gift was refused him. So he sought out the rogue Master, the young one—”

You seek to know all, Setrakian. Greedy until the end. Let us agree that you are half-correct in everything. Palmer may have sought out the Seventh, yes. But be assured—it was the Seventh who found him.

“Do you know what it is he wants?”

We do know.

“You must know then that you are in trouble. The Master is creating minions by the thousands, too many for your hunters to cut down. His strain is spreading. These are beings you cannot control, not through power or influence.”

You spoke of the Silver Codex.

The power of their voices made Fet squint.

Setrakian stepped forward. “What I want from you is unlimited financial support. I require it immediately.”

The auction. Don’t you think we have considered this before?

“But bidding on it yourselves, employing a human representative, risked exposure. Impossible to guarantee the motives. Better to scuttle each potential sale throughout the years. But that will not be possible this time. I am certain that the timing of this widespread attack, the occultation of the Earth, and the reappearance of the book are no coincidence. It is all aligned. Do you deny this cosmic symmetry?”

We do not. But then again, the outcome will follow the design no matter what we do.

“Doing nothing seems to me like a flawed plan.”

And what would you want in return?

“A brief glimpse at its contents. Handcrafted in silver, this book is the one human creation you cannot possess. I have seen the Silver Codex, as you refer to it. It holds many revelations, I can guarantee you that. You would be wise to see what mankind knows of your origin.”

Half-truths and speculation.

“Is it? Can you take that chance? Mal’akh Elohim?”

A pause. Fet felt his head relax a moment. He could have sworn he saw the Ancient purse its lips in disgust.

Unlikely alliances are often the most productive.

“Let me be quite clear here. I offer you no alliance. This is nothing more than a wartime truce. The enemy of my enemy is in this instance neither my friend nor yours. I promise nothing other than a viewing of the book, and through it, a chance to defeat the rogue Master before he destroys you. But once this agreement is consummated, I promise you only that the fight will continue. I will come after you again. And you after me …”

Once you view the book, Setrakian, we cannot allow you to live. You must know that. This holds for any human.

Fet swallowed and said, “I’m not much of a reader anyway …”

Setrakian said, “I accept. And now that we understand each other, there is one other thing I need. Not from you, but from your man here. From Gus.”

Gus stepped in front of the old man and Fet. “Just so long as it involves killing.”

There was no ribbon-cutting ceremony. No giant pair of prop scissors, no dignitaries or politicians. No fanfare at all.

The Locust Valley Nuclear Power Plant went online at 5:23 A.M. Resident Nuclear Regulatory Commission inspectors oversaw the procedures from the control room of the $17 billion facility.

Locust Valley was a nuclear fission facility, operating twin thermal, light-water-moderated Generation III reactors. All site and safety reviews had been completed before the Uranium-235 bundles and the control rods were introduced into the water inside the pressurized core.

The principle of controlled fission is likened to a nuclear bomb exploding at a slow, steady rate, rather than a millisecond. The heat produced generates electricity, which is then harnessed and delivered in a manner similar to that of conventional coal-burning power plants.

Palmer understood the concept of fission only in the sense that it was similar to cell division in biology. The energy was produced in the splitting: that was the value and the magic of nuclear fuel.

Outside, the twin cooling towers gave off steam like giant beakers of concrete.

Palmer marveled. Here was the final piece of the puzzle. The last tumbler falling into place.

This was the moment of the bolt sliding free, just before the great vault door is opened.

As he watched steam clouds drift off into the ominous sky like ghosts rising from great boiling cauldrons, he remembered Chernobyl. The black village of Pripyat, where he had first encountered the Master. The reactor accident was, like the concentration camps in World War II, a lesson for the Master. The human race had shown the Master the way. They had provided the very tools for their own demise.

All of it underwritten by Eldritch Palmer.

He’s been out there turning folks for free.

Ah, Dr. Goodweather. But the first shall be last, and the last shall be first. That was how it was supposed to work, according to the Bible.

But this wasn’t the Bible. This was America.

The first should be first.

At once, Palmer knew how his business partners felt after dealing with him. Like they’d been punched in the gut with the same hand they just shook.

You think you’re working with somebody, until you realize: you’re working for them.

Why make you wait in line?

Indeed.

Zack pulled away from Nora’s hand when his iPod fell to the tunnel floor. It was stupid, it was a reflex, but his mom had bought it for him, even paying for tunes she didn’t care for very much, and sometimes hated. When he held the magical little device in his hand and lost himself in the music, he was losing himself in her as well.

“Zachary!”

Weird for Nora to use his full name, but it worked, straightening him up fast. She looked frantic, holding on to her mother near the front of the train. Zack felt something extra for Nora now, something they had in common, seeing her mother so sick: both of their mothers were lost to them, and yet still partly there.

Zack grabbed the music player and shoved it into his jeans pocket, leaving his tangled earphones behind. The derailed train rocked faintly with howling violence and Nora tried to block it from his view. But he knew. He had seen the windows running red. He had seen the faces. He was half in shock, moving through a terrible dream.

Nora had stopped, staring in horror at something behind him.

Out of the tunnel darkness came small figures moving at great speed. With inhuman agility, these recent human children, none of them older than their early teens, sprang toward them along the tracks.

They were led by a phalanx of blind vampire children, eyes black and burned out. The blind ones moved more strangely, the sighted children overtaking them once they reached the train, emitting horrible little squeals of inhuman joy.

They immediately set upon the passengers fleeing the carnage on the train. Others raced up the tunnel walls and swarmed over the roof of the train like baby spiders crawling out of an egg sac.

And among them—one adult figure moved with evil purpose. A feminine form, shadowed by the dim tunnel light, seemingly directing the onslaught. A possessed mother leading an army of demon children.

A hand gripped the hood of his jacket—it was Nora—yanking Zack away. He stumbled, turning to run with her, taking Nora’s mother’s arm under his shoulder and half-dragging the old woman from the train wreck flooding over with mad vampire children.

Nora’s indigo light barely illuminated their path along the tracks, brightening the kaleidoscope of colorful and sickly psychedelic vampire excrement. No other passengers followed them.

“Look!” Zack said.

His young eyes spotted a pair of steps leading to a door in the left-hand wall. Nora steered them that way, running up to try the handle. It was stuck, or locked, so she stepped back and kicked at it with the heel of her shoe again and again until the handle came down and the door popped open.

Through the other side was an identical platform and two steps leading down into another tunnel. More train tracks, this the southern tube of the tunnel, heading eastbound from New Jersey to Manhattan.

Nora slammed the door, shutting it as hard as she could, then hustled them down onto the tracks.

“Hurry,” she said. “Keep moving. We can’t fight them all.”

They pushed farther into the dark tunnel. Zack helped Nora, supporting her mother, but it was clear they could not walk like this forever.

They never heard anything behind them—never heard the door bang open—and still they moved as though the vampires were right on their heels. Every second felt like borrowed time.

Nora’s mother had lost both her shoes, her nylons torn, her feet cut and bleeding. She said over and over, her voice rising, “I need to rest. I want to go home.”

Finally, it was too much. Nora slowed, Zack slowing with her. Nora clamped her hand over her mother’s mouth, needing to silence her.

Zack saw Nora’s face by the purple light of her lamp. He read the stricken expression on her face as she struggled to carry and silence her mother at the same time.

He realized then that she had to make a terrible decision.

Her mother was trying to peel Nora’s hand off her mouth. Nora shrugged down her duffel bag. “Open this,” she told him. “I want you to take a knife.”

“I already have one.” Zack dug into his pocket, pulling out the brown bone handle, unfolding the four-inch silver blade.

“Where did you get that?”

“Professor Setrakian gave it to me.”

“Good. Zack. Please listen. Do you trust me?”

Such a strange question. “Yes,” he said.

“Listen to me. I need you to hide. To get down and crawl underneath this overhang.” The track sides were buttressed about two feet from the ground, the angle beneath them cloaked in shadow. “Lie down under there and hold that knife close to your chest. Stay in the shadow. I know it’s dangerous. I won’t be … I won’t be long, I promise. Anyone comes by and stops near you, anyone who isn’t me—anyone—you cut them with that. Do you understand?”

“I …” He had seen the faces of the passengers on the train, pressed against the windows. “I understand.”

“The throat, the neck—anywhere you can. Keep cutting and stabbing until they fall. Then run ahead and hide again. Understand?”

He nodded, tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Promise me.”

Zack nodded again.

“I will be right back. If I am gone too long, you will know it. And then I want you to start running.” She pointed toward New Jersey. “That way. All the way. Stopping for nothing. Not even me. All right?”

“What are you going to do?”

But Zack knew. He was certain he knew. And so was Nora.

Nora’s mother was biting her hand, forcing Nora to remove it from her mouth. She gripped him in a half-hug, mashing his face into her side. He felt her kiss the crown of his head. Then her mother resumed yelling, and Nora had to cover her mouth again. “Be brave,” she told him. “Go.”

Zack got down onto his back and wriggled in underneath the overhang, not even thinking about the usual things like rats or mice. He gripped the bone handle tightly, holding the knife to his chest like a crucifix, and listened as Nora struggled to lead her mother away.

Fet sat in the idling DPW van, waiting. He wore a reflector vest over his usual coveralls, and a hard hat. He was going over the sewer map by the dashboard light.

The old man’s makeshift silver chemical weapons were in back, buffeted with rolled towels to prevent them from sliding around. He was worried about this plan. Too many moving parts. He checked the rear door of his shop, waiting for the old man to appear.

Inside, Setrakian adjusted the collar on his cleanest shirt, his gnarled fingers tightening the loops of his bow tie. He pulled out one of his small, silver-backed mirrors in order to check the fit. He was dressed in his best suit.

He put down the mirror and did one last check. His pills! He found the tin and shook the contents gently for luck, cursing himself for almost forgetting it, sliding it inside his jacket pocket. There. Done.

On his way to the door, he looked one last time at the specimen jar that held the remains of his wife’s vivisected heart. He had irradiated it with black light, finally killing the blood worm once and for all. The organ, so long in the grip of the parasitic virus, was now blackening with decay.

Setrakian looked upon it as one’s gaze falls upon a beloved’s gravestone. He meant it to be the last thing he saw of this place. For he was certain he was never coming back.

Eph sat alone on a long, wooden bench against the wall of the squad room.

The FBI agent’s name was Lesh, and his chair and desk were set about three feet beyond Eph’s reach. Eph’s left wrist was manacled to a low steel rail running along the wall just above the bench, like the safety rails in handicapped bathrooms. Eph had to slouch a bit as he sat, keeping his right leg straight out in order to accommodate the knife still hidden in his waistband. No one had frisked him upon his return from Palmer’s.

Agent Lesh had a facial tic, an occasional winking of his left eye that made his cheek dance but did not impair his speech. Pictures of school-age children stood in inexpensive frames upon his cubicle desk.

“So,” said the agent. “This thing. I don’t get it. Is it a virus, or is it a parasite?”

“It’s both,” said Eph, trying to be reasonable, still hoping to somehow talk his way free. “The virus is delivered by a parasite, in the form of a blood worm. This parasite is exchanged upon infection, through the throat stinger.”

Agent Lesh winked involuntarily and scribbled this down on his pad.

So the FBI was starting to figure things out finally—only much too late. Good cops like Agent Lesh operated at the broad bottom end of the pyramid, having no idea that things had long since been decided by those at the very top.

Eph said, “Where are those other two agents?”

“Who’s this?”

“The ones who took me into the city on the helicopter.”

Agent Lesh stood, getting a better view over the squad-room cubicles. A few dedicated agents remained at work. “Hey, anybody here take Dr. Goodweather up on a bird into the city?”

Grunts and denials. Eph realized he hadn’t seen the two men since his return. “I’d say they’re gone for good.”

“Can’t be,” said Agent Lesh. “Our orders are to stand by here until further notice.”

That didn’t sound good at all. Eph looked again at the pictures on Lesh’s desk. “You get your family out of the city?”

“We don’t live in the city. Too expensive. I drive in from Jersey every day. But yeah, they’re out. School got canceled, so my wife took them up to a friend’s on Kinnelon Lake.”

Not far enough, thought Eph. “Mine are out, too,” he said. He leaned forward, as far as his handcuffs—and the table knife against his hip—would allow. “Look, Agent Lesh,” said Eph, trying to take him into his confidence. “All this that’s happening … I know it seems like chaos, like absolute disorder? It’s not. Okay? It is not. This is a carefully planned, coordinated attack. And today … today it is all coming to a head. I still don’t know exactly how, or what. But it is today. And we—you and me both—need to get out of here.”

Agent Lesh winked twice. “You’re under arrest, doctor. You shot at a man in broad daylight with dozens of witnesses around you, and you would be on your way to a federal arraignment if things weren’t so crazy right now and most government offices weren’t closed. So you’re not going anywhere, and because of you, neither am I. Now—what can you tell me about these?”

Agent Lesh showed him some printouts. Photographs of markings etched on buildings featuring the six-legged, bug-like graffiti rendering.

“Boston,” Agent Lesh said. He shuffled them from the front of the pile to the back. “This one from Pittsburgh. Outside Cleveland. Atlanta. Portland, Oregon, three thousand miles away.”

Eph said, “I don’t know for sure, but I think it’s some sort of code. They don’t communicate through speech. They need a system of language. They’re marking territory, marking progress … something like that.”

“And this bug design?”

“I know. It’s almost like … have you heard of automatic writing? The subconscious mind? See, they are all connected on a psychic level. I don’t understand it—only that it exists. And like any great intelligence, I think there’s a subconscious segment, with this stuff spilling out … almost artistically. Expressing itself. You’re seeing the same basic designs scrawled on buildings all across the country. It’s probably halfway around the world by now.”

Agent Lesh dropped the images back onto his desk. He grabbed the back of his neck, massaging it. “And silver, you say? Ultraviolet light? The sun?”

“Check the gun I had. It’s here somewhere, right? Check the bullets. Pure silver. Not because Palmer is a vampire. He’s not—not yet. But it was given to me …”

“Yeah? Go on? By whom? I’d like to know how it is you know all these things—”

The lights went out. The heat vents went silent, and everyone in the squad room groaned.

“Not again,” said Agent Lesh, getting to his feet.

Emergency lights flickered on, the EXIT signs over the doors and every fifth or sixth ceiling panel light all coming on at half- or a quarter-power.

“Beautiful,” said Agent Lesh, pulling a flashlight down off a hook on the top of his cubicle partition.

Then the fire alarm went off, whooping through overhead speakers.

“Ah!” shouted Agent Lesh. “Better and better!”

Eph heard a scream from somewhere in the building.

“Hey,” yelled Eph. He tugged on the handcuff bar. “Uncuff me. They’re coming for us.”

“Huh?” Agent Lesh remained where he was, listening for more screams. “Coming for us?”

A crash, and a noise like a door breaking.

“For me!” said Eph. “My gun. You have to get it!”

Agent Lesh focused on listening. He went ahead and unsnapped his own holster.

“No! That won’t work! The silver in my gun! Don’t you understand? Go get it—!”

Gunshots. Just one floor beneath them.

“Shit!” Agent Lesh started away, drawing his sidearm.

Eph swore and turned his attention to the bar and his handcuffs. He yanked on the rail with both hands—no give whatsoever. He slid the handcuff down first to one end, then the other, hoping to exploit some weak spot, but the bolts were thick, the bar set deeply into the wall. He kicked at it, but couldn’t get through.

Eph heard a scream—closer now—and more gunshots. He tried to stand, only able to get three-quarters of the way erect. He tried to pull the wall down.

Shots in the room now. The cubicle walls blocked his view. All he had to go on was the flashes of flame from the agents’ weapons—and the agents’ screaming.

Eph dug into his pants for the silver table knife. It felt a lot smaller in his hand here than it had inside Palmer’s penthouse. He jammed the dull edge in behind the bench at an angle and pulled back on it, hard and fast. The tip snapped off, producing a short but sharp blade like a jailhouse shiv.

A thing came vaulting onto the top of the cubicle wall. It crouched there, balanced on all four limbs. It appeared small in the dim lighting of the squad room, turning its head in a weird, searching manner, scanning without sight, sniffing without a sense of smell.

Its face turned toward Eph, and he knew it was locked in.

It came off the top of the partition walls with feline agility, and Eph saw that the child vampire’s eyes were blackened like the hot end of a burned-out lightbulb. Its face was turned slightly away from him, its unseeing eyes not trained on his body—and yet somehow it saw him, of that he was certain.

Its physicality was terrifying to Eph, like facing a jaguar in a cage—and being chained to the cage. Eph stood sideways, in the vain hope of protecting his throat, his silver blade out toward the feeler, who sensed the weapon. Eph moved laterally as the handcuff rail would allow, the creature tracking him to the left, and then back toward the right, its head snakelike upon its swollen neck.

Then it struck, its stinger whipping out, shorter than an adult vampire’s, Eph just reacting in time to swipe at it with his blade. Whether he cut it or not, he had made impact, fending off the approach, the feeler skittering backward like a kicked dog.

“GET OUTTA HERE!” yelled Eph, trying to command it as he would an animal, but the feeler only looked at him with its unseeing eyes. When two more vampires—regular monsters, red human blood staining their shirtfronts—turned the corner around the partitions, Eph understood that the feeler had summoned backup.

Eph waved his little silver knife, making like a madman. Trying to scare them more than they were scaring him.

It didn’t work.

The creatures split up, pouncing from both sides, Eph slashing at one’s arm, then the other’s. The silver hurt them, enough to open their limbs and let some whiteness flow.

Then one gripped his knife arm. The other got him by his opposite shoulder, holding his head by the hair.

They didn’t take him right away. They were waiting for the feeler. Eph struggled as much as he could, but he was overmatched and chained to the wall. The fever heat of these atrocities, and the stench of their deadness, nauseated him. He tried to throw his knife, flipping the blade at one of them, but it simply slipped from his grip.

The feeler came up on him slowly, a predator savoring its kill. Eph fought to keep his chin down, but the hand in his hair hauled his head back, exposing his throat to the small creature.

Eph howled in defiance in his last moment—when the back part of the feeler’s head exploded into a white mist. Its body dropped straight down, twitching, and Eph felt the vampires on either side of him release their grip.

Eph shoved one away, kicking the other off the bench.

Humans rounded the corner then, a couple of Latinos armed to the teeth with tools to fuck up a vampire’s night. One vamp got the silver skewer as he tried to scramble up and over the partitions, away from a UVC lamp. The other made a stand, trying to fight—receiving a kick to the knee that dropped him, followed by a silver bolt into his skull.

Then came a third guy, a hulking Mexican man, probably in his sixties but, old as he appeared, the behemoth was incredibly effective at dispatching vampires left and right.

Eph pulled his legs up onto the bench in order to avoid the spray of white blood on the floor, the worms looking for a new body to host them.

The leader stepped forward, a Mexican kid, leather-gloved, bright-eyed, a bandolier of silver bolts crisscrossing his chest. His black boots, Eph saw, were fronted with toe-plates of white-spattered silver.

“You Dr. Goodweather?” he said.

Eph nodded.

“My name is Augustin Elizalde,” the kid said. “The pawnbroker sent us to get you.”

Alongside Fet, Setrakian entered the lobby of Sotheby’s headquarters at 77th Street and York, asking to be shown to the registration room. He presented a bank check, drawn on a Swiss account, which, after a landline telephone call, cleared instantly.

“Welcome to Sotheby’s, Mr. Setrakian.”

He was assigned paddle #23 and an attendant showed him to the elevator to the tenth floor. They stopped him outside the door to the auction floor, asking that he check his coat and his wolf-handled staff. Setrakian did so reluctantly, accepting a plastic ticket in return and slipping it inside the watch pocket of his vest. Fet was admitted inside the auction gallery, but only those with paddles were allowed into the seated bidding area. Fet remained behind, standing in back with a view of the entire room, thinking it was perhaps better this way.

The auction was held under intense security. Setrakian took a seat in the fourth row. Not too close, not far away either. He sat on the aisle with his numbered paddle resting on his leg. The stage in front of him was lit, a white-gloved steward pouring water into a glass for the auctioneer, then disappearing into a concealed service entrance. The viewing area was stage left, a brass easel awaiting the first few catalog items. An overhead video screen showed the Sotheby’s name.

The first ten or fifteen rows were nearly full, with intermittent empty chairs in back. And yet some of the participants were clearly seat-fillers, employees hired to fill out the bidding audience, their eyes lacking the steely attentiveness of a true buyer. Both sides of the room between the row ends and the moveable walls—set far back for maximum occupancy—were packed, as was the rear. Many of the spectators wore masks and gloves.

An auction is as much theater as marketplace, and the entire affair had a distinctly fin-de-siècle feel: a final burst of flamboyant spending, a last-gasp display of capitalism in the face of overwhelming economic doom. Most of the attendees were gathered simply for the show. Like well-dressed mourners at a funeral service.

Excitement mounted as the auctioneer appeared. Anticipation rippled throughout the room while he ran through his opening remarks and the ground rules for bidders. And then he gaveled the auction underway.

The first few items were minor baroque paintings, hors d’oeuvres to whet the bidders’ appetites for the main course.

Why did Setrakian feel so tense? So out of sorts, so paranoid suddenly? The deep pockets of the Ancients were today his deep pockets. It was inevitable that the long-sought book would soon be in his hands.

He felt strangely exposed, sitting where he was. He felt … observed, not passively, but by knowing eyes. Penetrating and familiar.

He located the source of his paranoia behind a pair of smoke-tinted glasses, three rows behind him on the opposite aisle. The eyes belonged to a figure dressed in a suit of dark fabric, wearing black leather gloves.

Thomas Eichhorst.

His face appeared smoothed and stretched, his body overall looking too well-preserved. It was flesh-colored makeup and a wig, certainly … yet there was something else besides. Could it have been surgery? Had some mad doctor been retained to keep his appearance close to that of a human, in order that he might walk and mix with the living? Even though they were hidden behind the Nazi’s glasses, Setrakian felt a chill knowing that Eichhorst’s eyes had connected with his.

Abraham had been merely a teen when he entered the camp—and so it was with young eyes that he looked upon the former commandant of Treblinka now. He experienced that same spike of fear, combined with an unreasonable panic. This evil being—while he was still a mere human—had dictated life and death inside that death factory. Sixty-four years ago … and now the dread came back to Setrakian as though it had been yesterday. This monster, this beast—now multiplied a hundredfold.

Acid burned the old man’s throat, nearly choking him.

Eichhorst nodded to Setrakian, ever so gently. Ever so cordially. He appeared to smile—but indeed, it was not a smile, just a way of opening his mouth enough to give Setrakian a glimpse of the tip of his stinger inside, flickering at his rouged lips.

Setrakian turned back to face the dais. He hid the trembling of his crooked hands, an old man ashamed at his boyhood fright.

Eichhorst had come for the book. He would battle for it in the place of the Master, bankrolled by Eldritch Palmer.

Setrakian went into his pocket for his pillbox. His arthritic fingers worked clumsily and doubly hard, as he did not wish Eichhorst to see and enjoy his distress.

He slipped the nitroglycerin pill discreetly beneath his tongue and waited for the pill to take effect. He pledged to himself that, even if it took his very last breath, he would beat this Nazi.

Your heart is erratic, Jew.

Setrakian did not react outwardly to the voice invading his head. He worked hard to ignore this most unwelcome guest.

In his vision, the auctioneer and the stage disappeared, as did all of Manhattan and the continent of North America. Setrakian saw for the moment only the wire fences of the camp. He saw the dirt muddied with blood and the emaciated faces of his fellow craftsmen.

He saw Eichhorst sitting atop his favorite steed. The horse was the only living thing inside the camp to which he showed any hint of affection, by way of carrots and apples—enjoying feeding the beast right in front of starving prisoners. Eichhorst liked to dig his heels into the horse’s sides, making him whinny and rear up. Eichhorst also enjoyed practicing his marksmanship with a Ruger while sitting atop the riled horse. At each assembly, a worker was executed at random. Three times it was a man standing directly next to Setrakian.

I noticed your bodyguard when you entered.

Did he mean Fet? Setrakian turned and saw Fet among the onlookers standing in back, near a pair of well-tailored bodyguards flanking the exit. In his exterminator’s coveralls, he appeared completely out of place.

Fetorski, is it not? Pureblood Ukrainian is an exceedingly rare vintage. Bitter, salty, but with a strong finish. You should know, I am a connoisseur of human blood, Jew. My nose never lies. I recognized his bouquet when you entered. As well as the line of his jaw. You don’t remember?

The beast’s words unnerved Setrakian. Because he hated their source, and because they had, to Setrakian’s ear, the ring of truth.

In the camp of his mind’s eye, he saw a large man wearing the black uniform of the Ukrainian guards, dutifully gripping the bridle of Eichhorst’s mount with gloves of black leather, handing the commandant his Ruger.

It cannot be a mistake that you should be here with the descendant of one of your tormentors?

Setrakian closed his eyes on Eichhorst’s taunts. He cleared his mind, returning his focus to the task at hand. He thought, in a mind-voice as loud as he could make it, in the hope that the vampire would hear him: You will be even more surprised to learn who else I am partnered with this day.

Nora dug out the night-vision monocular and hung it over the Mets ball cap on her head. Closing one eye turned the North River Tunnel green. “Rat vision,” Fet liked to call it, but was she ever grateful for this invention at that moment.

The tunnel area was clear ahead of her, into the intermediate distance. But she could find no exit. No hiding place. Nothing.

She was alone now with her mother, having put enough space between them and Zack. Nora tried not to look at her, even with the scope. Her mother was breathing hard, barely able to keep pace. Nora had her by her arm, practically carrying her over the stones between the tracks, feeling the vampires at their back.

Nora realized she was looking for the right place to do this. The best place. This thing she was contemplating was a horror. The voices in her head—no one else’s but her own—offered countervailing arguments:

You can’t do this.

You cannot hope to save both your mother and Zack. You have to choose.

How can you choose a boy over your mother?

Choose one or lose both.

She had a good life.

Bullshit. We all have good lives, exactly until the moment they end.

She gave you life.

But if you don’t do this now, you are giving her over to vampires. Cursing her for all eternity.

Alzheimer’s has no cure either. She is getting progressively worse. She has already changed from the woman who was your mother. How is that different from vampirism?

She poses no threat to others.

Only to yourself—and Zack.

You will have to destroy her anyway when she returns for you, her Dear One.

You told Eph he needed to destroy Kelly.

Her dementia is such that she won’t even know.

But you will know.

Bottom line: will you also do yourself in before you are turned?

Yes.

But that is your choice.

And it is never an either/or. Never clear-cut. It happens too fast; they are upon you, and you are gone. You must act in advance of the turning. You have to anticipate it.

And yet there are no guarantees.

You cannot release someone before they are turned. You can only tell yourself that this is what you hope you did. And wonder forever if you were right.

It is still murder.

Will you also turn the knife on Zack if the end is imminent?

Maybe. Yes.

You would hesitate.

Zack has a better chance of surviving an attack.

So you would trade the old for the new.

Maybe. Yes.

Nora’s mother said to her, “When in the hell is your lousy father going to get here?”

Nora came back to the moment. She felt too sick to cry. It was indeed a cruel world.

A howl echoed through the long tunnel, chilling Nora.

She went around behind her mother’s back. She could not look her in the face. She tightened her grip on her knife, raising it in order to bring it down into the back of the old woman’s neck.

But all of this was nothing.

She didn’t have it in her heart, and she knew this.

Love is our downfall.

Vampires had no guilt. That was their great advantage. They never hesitated.

And, as though to prove this point, Nora looked up to find herself being stalked along each side of the tunnel. Two vampires had crept up on her while she was distracted, their eyes glowing white-green in her monocular.

They did not know that she could see them. They did not understand night-vision technology. They assumed that she was like all the rest of the passengers—lost in the darkness, wandering blind.

“You sit here, Mama,” said Nora, nudging her knees out, lowering her to the tracks. Otherwise, she would go wandering off. “Papa’s on his way.”

Nora turned and walked toward the two vampires, moving directly between them without looking at either one. Peripherally, they left the stone walls in their loose-jointed way.

Nora took a deep breath before the kill.

These vampires became the recipients of her homicidal angst. She lunged first at the one on the left, slashing it faster than the creature could leap. The vampire’s bitter cry rang in her ears as she whipped around and faced the other, who was eyeing her sitting mother. The creature turned back toward Nora from its crouch, its mouth open for the stinger strike.

A splash of white filled her scope like the rage flaring in her head. She slaughtered her would-be attacker, chest heaving, eyes stinging with tears.

She looked back the way she came. Had these two passed Zack to get to her? Neither one appeared flush from a meal, though the night vision couldn’t give her an accurate read of their pallor.

Nora grabbed her lamp and turned it on the corpses, frying the blood worms before they had a chance to wriggle over the rocks toward her mother. She irradiated her own knife as well, then switched off the lamp, returning to help her mother to her feet.

“Is your father here?” she said.

“Soon, Mama,” said Nora, hurrying her back toward Zack, tears running down her cheeks. “Soon.”

Setrakian didn’t bother getting in on the bidding for the Occido Lumen until the price crossed the $10 million threshold. The rapid pace of the bidding was fueled not only by the extraordinary rarity of the item but also by the circumstances of the auction—this sense that the city was going to come crumbling down at any moment, that the world was changing forever.

At $15 million, the bidding increments rose to $300,000.

At $20 million, $500,000.

Setrakian did not have to turn around to know whom he was bidding against. Others, attracted by the “cursed” nature of the book, jumped in early but fell away once the pace reached an eight-figure frenzy.

The auctioneer called for a brief break in the action at $25 million, reaching for his water glass—but really only stoking the drama. He took a moment to remind those present of the highest auction price ever paid for a book: $30.8 million for da Vinci’s Codex Leicester in 1994.

Setrakian now felt the eyes of the room upon him. He kept his attention focused on the Lumen, the heavy, silver-covered book brilliantly displayed under glass. It lay open, its facing pages projected upon two large video screens. One was filled with handwritten text, the other showcasing an image of a silver-colored human figure with broad white wings, standing in witness of a distant city being destroyed by a storm of yellow and red flame.

The bidding resumed, rising quickly. Setrakian fell back into a rhythm of raising and lowering his paddle.

The next genuine audience gasp came as they crossed the $30 million threshold.

The auctioneer pointed across the aisle from Setrakian for $30.5 million. Setrakian countered up at $31 million. It was the most expensive book purchase in history now—but what did such landmarks matter to Setrakian? To mankind?

The auctioneer called for $31.5 million, and got it.

Setrakian countered with $32 million before even being prompted.

The auctioneer looked back to Eichhorst, but then, before he had a chance to request the next bid, an attendant appeared, interrupting him. The auctioneer, showing just the right amount of pique, stepped away from the podium to confer with her.

He stiffened at the news, ducked his head, then nodded.

Setrakian wondered what was happening.

The steward then came around off the dais, and began walking up the aisle toward him. Setrakian watched her approach in confusion—then watched as she passed him, going three more rows back, stopping before Eichhorst.

She knelt in the aisle, whispering something to him.

“You may speak to me right here,” said Eichhorst—his lips moving in a pantomime of human speech.

The steward spoke further, attempting to preserve the bidder’s privacy as best she could.

“That is ridiculous. There is some mistake.”

The steward apologized, but remained firm.

“Impossible.” Eichhorst rose to his feet. “You will suspend the auction while I rectify this situation.”

The steward glanced quickly back at the auctioneer, and then up at the Sotheby’s officials watching from behind balcony glass high along the walls, like guests observing a surgery.

The steward turned to Eichhorst and said, “I am afraid, sir, that is just not possible.”

“I must insist.”

“Sir …”

Eichhorst turned to the auctioneer, pointing at him with his paddle. “You will hold your gavel until I am allowed to make contact with my benefactor.”

The auctioneer returned to his microphone. “The rules of auction are quite clear on this point, sir. I am afraid that without a viable line of credit—”

“I indeed do have a viable line of credit.”

“Sir, our information is that it has just been rescinded. I am very sorry. You will have to take up the matter with your bank—”

“My bank! On the contrary, we will complete the bidding here and now, and then I will straighten out this irregularity!”

“I am sorry, sir. The house rules are the same as they have been for decades, and cannot be altered, not for anyone.” The auctioneer looked out over the audience, resuming the bidding. “I have $32 million.”

Eichhorst raised his paddle. “$35 million!”

“Sir, I am sorry. The bid is $32 million. Do I hear $32.5?”

Setrakian sat with his paddle on his leg, ready.

“$32.5?”

Nothing.

“$32 million, going once.”

“$40 million!” said Eichhorst, standing in the aisle now.

“$32 million, going twice.”

“I object! This auction must be canceled. I must be allowed more time—”

“$32 million. Lot 1007 is sold to bidder #23. Congratulations.”

The gavel came down to ratify the sale; the room burst into applause. Hands reached toward Setrakian in congratulations, but the old man got to his feet as quickly as possible and walked to the front of the room, where he was met by another steward.

“I would like to take possession of the book immediately,” he informed her.

“But, sir, we have some paperwork—”

“You may clear the payment, including the house’s commission, but I am taking possession of the book, and I am doing so now.”

Gus’s battered Hummer wove and bashed its way back across the Queensboro Bridge. As they returned to Manhattan, Eph spotted dozens of military vehicles staged at 59th Street and Second Avenue, in front of the entrance to the Roosevelt Island Tramway. The larger, canopied trucks read FORT DRUM in black stencil, and two white buses, as well as some Jeeps, read USMA WEST POINT.

“Shutting down the bridge?” said Gus, his gloved hands tight upon the steering wheel.

“Maybe enforcing the quarantine,” said Eph.

“You think they are with us or against us?”

Eph saw personnel in combat fatigues pulling a tarp down off a large, truck-mounted machine gun—and he felt his heart lift a little. “I’m going to say with us.”

“I hope so,” said Gus, swinging hard toward uptown. “Because if not, this is gonna get even more fucking interesting.”

They arrived at 72nd and York just as the street battle was getting underway. Vamps came streaming out of the brick-tower nursing home across the street from Sotheby’s—the aged residents imbued with new motility and strigoi strength.

Gus killed the engine and popped the trunk. Eph, Angel, and the two Sapphires jumped out and started grabbing silver.

“I guess he won it after all,” said Gus, ripping open a carton, handing Eph two vases of painted glass with narrow necks, gasoline sloshing inside.

“Won what?” said Eph.

Gus wicked a rag into each and then flicked open a silver-plated Zippo, igniting them. He took one vase from Eph and walked out into the street away from the Hummer. “Put your shoulder into it, homes,” said Gus. “On three. One. Two. Yahh!”

They catapulted the economy-sized Molotov cocktails over the heads of the marauding vampires. The vases shattered, igniting immediately, liquid flame opening up and spreading instantly like twin pools of hell. Two Carmelite sisters went up first, their brown-and-white habits taking to the flame like sheets of newspaper. Then went the multitude of vampires in bathrobes and housecoats, squealing. The Sapphires came on next, skewering the engulfed creatures, finishing them off—only to see more come charging down 71st Street, like maniac firefighters answering a psychic five-alarm call.

A couple of burning vampires charged on, flames trailing, and only stopped a foot or so away from Gus after being riddled with silver bullets.

“Where the hell are they already?” yelled Gus, looking to Sotheby’s entrance. The tall, thin sidewalk trees out front burned like hellish sentries outside the auction house.

Eph saw building guards rushing to lock the revolving doors inside the glass lobby. “Come on!” he yelled, and they fought their way past the burning trees. Gus wasted some silver bolts on the doors, puncturing and weakening the glass before Angel charged through.

Setrakian leaned heavily on his oversize walking stick in the elevator going down. The auction had drained him, and yet there was so much more to do. Fet stood at his side, his weapon pack on his back, the $32 million book in bubble wrap under his arm.

To Setrakian’s right, one of the auction house’s security guards waited with hands clasped over his belt buckle.

Chamber music played over the panel speaker. A string quartet, Dvorák.

“Congratulations, sir,” said the security guard, to break the silence.

“Yes,” said Setrakian. He noticed the white wire in the man’s brown ear. “Does your radio work in this elevator, by any chance?”

“No, sir, it does not.”

The elevator stopped abruptly, all three men grabbing for the wall to steady themselves. The car started down again at once, then again stopped. The number on the overhead display read 4.

The guard pressed the DOWN button, then the 4 button, thumbing each one numerous times.

While the guard was so engaged, Fet drew a sword from his pack and faced the elevator door. Setrakian twisted the grip of his walking stick, exposing the silver shaft of his hidden blade.

The first bang against the door shook the guard, making him jump back.

The second blow produced a serving bowl – size dent.

The guard reached out his hand to feel the convexity. He began to say, “What the—”

The door slid open, and pale hands reached inside, pulling him out.

Fet barreled out after him with the book clutched under his arm, lowering his shoulder and driving forward like a running back taking the pigskin through an entire defensive line. He plowed the vampires straight back against the wall, Setrakian exiting behind him, his silver sword flashing, killing a path toward the main floor.

Fet slashed and chopped, fighting at close quarters with the creatures, feeling their inhuman warmth, their acidic white blood spurting onto his coat. He reached for the security guard with the fingers of his sword hand, but found he could do nothing for him, the guard disappearing to the floor beneath a huddle of hungry vampires.

With wide, sweeping slices, Setrakian cleared the way to the front railing overlooking the interior four-story drop. Outside, he saw bodies burning in the street, trees on fire, a melee at the building entrance. Inside, looking straight down, he saw the gangbanger Gus alongside his older Mexican friend. It was the limping ex-wrestler who looked up, pointing out Setrakian.

“Here!” Setrakian called back to Fet. Fet extricated himself from the pile-up, checking his clothes for blood worms as he came running. Setrakian pointed out the wrestler.

“You sure?” said Fet.

Setrakian nodded, and Fet, with a great scowl, held the Occido Lumen out over the railing, giving the wrestler a moment to limp over beneath him. Gus slashed a demon in the wrestler’s way, and Setrakian saw someone else—yes, it was Ephraim—warding others away with a lamp of ultraviolet light.

Fet released the precious book, watching it slowly turn as it fell.

Four stories below them, Angel caught it in his arms like a baby thrown from a burning building.

Fet turned, now able to fight two-handedly, sliding a dagger from the bottom of his pack and leading Setrakian to the escalators. The motorized staircases ran crisscross, side-by-side. Vampires on their way up—summoned to battle by the will of the Master—jumped tracks where the stairways crossed. Fet dispatched them with the tread of his boot and the tip of his sword, sending them sprawling down the moving stairs.

On the bottom flight, Setrakian looked back up through the gap. He saw Eichhorst high above on one of the upper floors, looking down.

The others had done most of the work for them in the lobby. Released vampire corpses lay twisted on the floor, faces and clawed hands frozen in a tableau of white-splattered agony. More vampire drones were pounding on the glass entrance, with still others on the way.

Gus led them back out through the smashed doors onto the sidewalk. Vampires came swarming from 71st and 72nd to the west, and York Avenue north and south. They came up out of the streets, rising through displaced manholes in the intersections. Fighting them off was like trying to bail out of a sinking ship, two vampires arriving for every one destroyed.

A pair of black Hummers rounded the corner hard, headlights angry, front grilles bumping down vampires, rugged tires squashing their bodies. A team of hunters stepped out, hooded and armed with crossbows, and immediately made their presence known. Vampire killing vampire, the drones getting mowed down by the elite guard.

Setrakian knew they had arrived either to escort him and the book directly to the Ancients, or to take possession of the Silver Codex outright. Neither option suited him. He remained close to the wrestler, who carried the book under his arm; his lumbering pace suited Setrakian’s slow legs. Upon learning the wrestler’s moniker, “The Silver Angel,” Setrakian had to smile.

Fet led the way to the corner of 72nd and York. The manhole he wanted had already been popped open, and he grabbed Creem and sent him down first, to clear the hole of vampires. He let Angel and Setrakian down next, the wrestler barely fitting inside the hole. Then Eph, without any questions, climbing right down the iron ladder rungs. Gus and the rest of the Sapphires hung back in order to allow the vampires to close in on them, then went down themselves, Fet disappearing below just as the ring of mayhem collapsed on him.

“Other way!” he yelled down to them. “Other way!”

They had started west along the sewer tunnel, toward the heart of the island underground, but Fet dropped down and led them east, underneath one long block that dead-ended over FDR Drive. The trough of the tunnel carried a measly trickle of water; lack of human activity in surface Manhattan meant fewer showers, fewer flushes.

“All the way to the end!” said Fet, his voice booming inside the stone tube.

Eph came up alongside Setrakian. The old man was slowing, the nub of his walking stick splashing in the water stream. “Can you make it?” said Eph.

“Have to,” said Setrakian.

“I saw Palmer. Today is the day. The last day.”

Setrakian said, “I know it.”

Eph patted Angel’s arm, the one that held the bubble-wrapped book. “Here.” Eph took the bundle from him, and the hobbling Mexican giant took Setrakian’s arm, helping the old man along.

Eph looked at the wrestler as they rushed, filled with questions he knew not how to ask.

“Here they come!” said Fet.

Eph looked back. Mere shapes in the dark tunnel, to his eyes, coming at them like a dark rush of drowning water.

Two of the Sapphires turned back to fight. “No!” cried Fet. “Don’t bother! Just get through here!”

Fet slowed between two long wooden cases strapped to pipes along the tunnel walls. They looked like speaker bars, set vertically, angled in toward the tunnel. To each, he had rigged a simple switch wire, both of which he gathered in his hands now.

“Down the side!” he yelled to the others behind him. “Through the panel.”

But none of them turned the corner. The sight of the onrushing vampires and Fet standing alone in the tunnel holding the triggers to Setrakian’s contraption was too compelling.

Out of the darkness came the first faces, red-eyed, mouths open. Tumbling over one another in an all-out race to be the first to attack the humans, strigoi surged toward them without any regard for their fellow vampires or themselves. A stampede of sickness and depravity, the fury of the overturned hive.

Fet waited, and waited, and waited, until they were nearly upon him. His voice rose in a yell that started in his throat, but by the end seemed to come straight from his mind, a howl of human perseverance into the gale force of a hurricane.

Their hands reached out, the tide of vampires about to overwhelm him—as he flicked both switches.

The effect was something like the ignition of a giant camera flashbulb. The twin devices went off simultaneously in a single explosion of silver. An expulsion of chemical matter that eviscerated the vampires in a wave of devastation. Those in the rear went as quickly as those at the vanguard, because there was no shadow to hide in, the silver particulate burning through them like radiation, smashing their viral DNA.

The silver tinge lingered in the moments after the great purge, like a shiny snowfall, Fet’s howl fading into the emptied tunnel as the shredded matter that was the once-human vampires settled to the tunnel floor.

Gone. As though he had teleported them somewhere else. Like taking a picture, only once the flash faded, no one was there.

No one complete, at least.

Fet released the triggers and turned back at Setrakian.

Setrakian said, “Indeed.”

They followed another ladder, leading down to a walkway with a railing. At the end was a door that opened onto an under-sidewalk grate, the surface visible above them. Fet climbed up the boxes he had set as steps, and popped the loosened grate free with his shoulder.

They emerged at the 73rd Street ramp entrance onto FDR Drive. A few strays blundered into them as they rushed across the six-lane parkway over the dividing concrete barriers, moving around abandoned cars toward the East River.

Eph looked back, seeing vampires dropping down off the high balcony that was the courtyard at the end of 72nd Street. They came swarming out of 73rd along the parkway. Eph worried that they were backing themselves up against the river, with blood-hungry revenants closing on all sides.

But on the other side of a low iron fence was a landing, a municipal dock of sorts, though it was too dark for Eph to see what it was for. Fet went over first, moving with surly confidence, and so Eph followed with all the others.

Fet ran to the end of the landing, and Eph saw it now: a tugboat, large tires tied all the way around its sides, acting as fenders. They climbed onto the main deck, Fet running up into the wheelhouse. The engine started with a cough and a roar, and Eph untied the aft end. The boat lurched at first, Fet pushing it too hard, then launched away from the island.

Out on the West Channel, floating a few dozen yards off the edge of Manhattan, Eph watched the horde of vampires clamor to the edge of FDR Drive. They bunched there, trailing the boat along its slow southern path, unable to venture out over moving water.

The river was a safe zone. A no-vamp’s-land.

Beyond the plunderers, Eph looked up at the looming buildings of the darkened city. Behind him, above Roosevelt Island, in the middle of the East River, were pockets of daylight—not pure sunlight, for it was evidently an overcast day, but clarity—between the smoke-veiled landmasses of Manhattan and Queens.

They approached the Queensboro Bridge, gliding underneath the high cantilever span. A bright flash streaked across the Manhattan skyline, turning Eph’s head. Then another went up, like a modest firework. Then a third.

Illumination flares, in orange and white.

A vehicle came tearing up FDR Drive toward the throng of vampires following the boat. It was a Jeep, soldiers in camouflage standing out of the back, firing automatic weapons into the crowd.

“The Army!” said Eph. He felt something he hadn’t felt in some time: hope. He looked around for Setrakian, and, not seeing him, headed into the main cabin.

Nora finally found a door, leading not to any sort of exit from the tunnel but into a deep storage closet. There was no lock—the planners never anticipated pedestrians one hundred feet below the Hudson—and inside she found safety equipment, such as replacement bulbs for signal lights, orange flags and vests, and an old cardboard box of flares. Flashlights also, but the batteries were all corroded.

She evened out a pile of sandbags in the corner to fashion a seat for her mother, then grabbed a handful of flares, throwing them into her bag.

“Mama. Please, please, be quiet. Stay here. I am coming back. I am.”

Nora’s mother sat on the cold throne of sandbags with a curious look about the closet. “Where did you put the cookies?”

“All gone, Mama. You sleep now. Rest.”

“Here? In the pantry?”

“Please. It’s a surprise—for Papa.” Nora was backing out through the door. “Don’t move until he comes for you.”

She closed the door quickly, scanning the tunnel for vampires with her scope, then dumping two sandbags in front of the door to hold it shut. She then went racing back toward Zack, simultaneously leading her own scent away from her mother.

She had taken the coward’s way out, she supposed—stuffing her poor mother inside a closet—but at least this way there was hope.

She continued back along the eastbound side of the tunnel, looking for the place where Zack had hidden. Things looked different through the soupy green light of the monocular. Her marker had been a stripe of white paint along the low side of the tunnel—but she could not locate it now. She thought again of those two vampires who had come up on her, and was leaping with anxiety.

“Zack!” A yelled whisper. Foolhardy, but concern trumped reason. She had to be near where she had left him. “Zack—it’s Nora! Where are …?”

What she saw before her chased the voice from her throat. Illuminated in her monocular, illustrated on the broad side of the tunnel, was a vast graffiti mural rendered with exceptional technique. It depicted a great, faceless humanlike creature with two arms, two legs, and two magnificent wings.

She realized intuitively that this was the final iteration of the six-petal tags they had been finding all around town. The earlier flowers, or bugs: those were icons, analogs, abstractions. Cartoons of this fearsome being.

The image of this broad-winged creature, and the manner in which it was rendered—at once both naturalistic and extraordinarily evocative—terrified her in a way she could not begin to understand. How eerie was this ambitious work of street art appearing in this dark tunnel so deep beneath the surface of the earth. A brilliant tattoo of extraordinary beauty and menace written upon this bowel of civilization.

An image, she realized at once, intended to be viewed only by vampiric eyes.

A sibilation spun Nora around. In her nightscope, she saw Kelly Goodweather, her face twisted into an expression of want that nearly resembled pain. Her mouth was an open slit, the tip of her stinger flicking like a lizard’s tongue, her parted lips bared in a hiss.

Her torn clothes were still soaked from the surface rain, hanging heavily from her thin body, her hair flattened, smears of dirt streaking her flesh. Her eyes, which appeared screaming white in the greenness of Nora’s scope, were wide with want.

Nora fumbled out her UVC lamp. She needed to put some hot space between herself and her lover’s undead ex-wife—but Kelly came at her with incredible speed, smacking the lamp from her hand before Nora could turn on the switch.

The Luma lamp smashed against the wall and fell to the ground.

Only Nora’s silver blade kept Kelly off her, the vampire leaping up and backward onto the low tunnel shelf. She then hurdled over Nora to the other side, Nora tracking her with her long knife. Kelly feigned an attack, then again bounded overhead. This time Nora swiped at her as she passed, dizzied from having to view the agile creature through her scope.

Kelly landed on the other side of the tunnel, a slash of white appearing on the side of her neck. A surface wound only, but enough to get Kelly’s attention. The vampire viewed its own white blood on its long hand, then flicked it at Nora, her face turning wicked and fierce.

Nora backed off, reaching into her bag for one of the flares. She heard limbs scrabbling over track stones, and did not need to take her eyes off Kelly to see them.

Three little vampire children, two boys and a girl, summoned by Kelly to assist in taking Nora down.

“Okay,” said Nora, twisting the plastic cap off the flare. “You want to do it this way?” She scratched the top of the cap against the red stick and the flare ignited, red flame searing into the darkness. Nora tipped back her scope, able to see with her own eyes now, the flame illuminating their section of the tunnel from ceiling to floor in a nimbus of angry red.

The children loped backward, repelled by the bright light. Nora waved the flare at Kelly, who lowered her chin but did not retreat.

One of the boys came at Nora from the side, emitting a shrill squeal, and Nora stepped into the child with her knife—burying the silver blade deep into its chest, right to the hilt. The child sagged and staggered back—Nora pulling back the blade fast—weakened and dazed. The child spread its lips, attempting a last-ditch sting—and Nora jammed the hot end of the flare into its mouth.

The creature bucked wildly, Nora hacking at it with her knife, screaming all the while.

The child vampire fell, and Nora pulled out the flare, still lit. She whipped around, anticipating Kelly’s rear attack.

But Kelly was gone. Nowhere to be found.

Nora brandished the flare, the two remaining vampire children crouching near their fallen playmate. She made sure that Kelly wasn’t on the ceiling or underneath the ledge.

Uncertainty was worse. The children split up, circling around her on either side, and Nora backed up to the wall beneath the giant mural, ready to do battle, determined not to be ambushed.

Eldritch Palmer watched the illumination flares streaking over rooftops uptown. Puny fireworks. Match-strikes in a world of darkness. The helicopter approached him from the north, slowing above. He awaited his visitors on the seventy-eighth floor of the Stoneheart Building.

Eichhorst was first. A vampire wearing a tweed suit was like a pit bull wearing a knit sweater. He held the door open, the Master ducking as it entered, striding, cloaked, across the floor.

Palmer watched all this through the reflection in the windows.

Explain.

The voice sepulchral, edged with fury.

Palmer, having summoned the strength to stand, turned on his weak legs. “I cut off your funding. I closed the line of credit. Simple.”

Eichhorst stood to the side, watching with his gloved hands crossed. The Master looked down at Palmer, its raw-red skin inflamed, its eyes crimson and penetrating.

Palmer went on, “It was a demonstration. Of how critical my participation is to your success. It became evident to me that you needed to be reminded of my worth.”

They won the book.

This from Eichhorst, whose contempt for Palmer had always been certain, and returned in kind. But Palmer addressed the Master.

“What does it matter at this late moment? Turn me and I will be only too happy to finish off Professor Setrakian myself.”

You understand so little. But then, you have never viewed me as anything other than a means to an end. Your end.

“And shouldn’t I say the same of you! You, who has withheld your gift from me for so many years. I have given you everything and withheld nothing. Until this moment!”

This book is no mere trophy. It is a chalice of information. It is the last, lingering hope of the pig humans. The final gasp of your race. This, you cannot conceive. Your human perspective is so small.

“Then allow me to see.” Palmer stepped toward him, standing only halfway up the Master’s cloaked chest. “It is time. Deliver to me what is rightfully mine, and everything you need shall be yours.”

The Master said nothing into Palmer’s head. He did not move.

But Palmer was fearless. “We have a deal.”

Did you stop anything else? Have you disrupted any of the other plans we set in motion?

“None. Everything stands. Now—do we have a deal?”

We do.

The suddenness with which the Master leaned down to him shocked Palmer, made his fragile heart jump. Its face, up close, the blood worms coasting the veins and capillaries just beneath the florid beetroot that was its skin. Palmer’s brain released long-forgotten hormones, the moment of conversion upon him. Mentally, he had long ago packed his bags, and yet there was still a burst of trepidation at the first step of the ultimate one-way voyage. He had no quarrel with the improvements the turning would have upon his body; he wondered only what it would do to his long-held consolation and fiercest weapon, his mind.

The Master’s hand pressed onto Palmer’s bony shoulder like a vulture’s talons onto a twig. Its other hand gripped the crown of Palmer’s head, turning it to one side, fully extending the old man’s neck and throat.

Palmer looked at the ceiling, his eyes losing focus. He heard choir voices in his head. He had never been held by anyone—anything—in their arms like this in his life. He allowed himself to go limp.

He was ready. His breath came in short, excited bursts as the hardened nail of the Master’s long, thick middle finger pricked at the flesh sagging over his stretched neck.

The Master saw the sick man’s pulse beating through his neck, the man’s heart throbbing in anticipation, and the Master felt the call deep within its stinger. He wanted blood.

But it ignored its nature and, with one firm crack, it ripped Eldritch Palmer’s head from his torso. It released the head and gripped the spurting body and tore Palmer in half, the body splitting apart easily where the bones of the hips narrowed to the waist. It tossed the bloody pieces of meat to the far wall, where they struck the framed masterworks of human abstract art and fell to the floor.

The Master turned fast, sensing another blood source ticking on the premises. Palmer’s manservant, Mr. Fitzwilliam, stood in the doorway. A broad-shouldered human wearing a suit tailored to accommodate weapons of self-defense.

Palmer had wanted this man’s body for his turning. He coveted his bodyguard’s strength, his physical stature, desiring the man’s form for all eternity.

Mr. Fitzwilliam was one of a package with Palmer.

The Master looked into his mind, and showed him this, before flying at him in a blur. Mr. Fitzwilliam first saw the Master all the way across the room, red blood dripping from his enormous hands—and then the Master was bent over him, a stinging, draining sensation like a rod of fire in his throat.

The pain faded after a time. So did Mr. Fitzwilliam’s view of the ceiling.

The Master let the man fall where he had drunk him.

Animals.

Eichhorst remained across the wide room, patient as a lawyer.

The Master said:

Let us commence the Night Eternal.

The tugboat drifted down the East River without lights, toward the United Nations. Fet guided the boat along the besieged island, staying only a few hundred yards off the coast. He was no boat captain, but the throttle was easy enough to operate, and, as he had learned in docking the tug at 72nd Street, the thick tire fenders were quite forgiving.

Behind him, at the navigation table, Setrakian sat before the Occido Lumen. A single strong lamp made the silver-leaf illustrations glow off the page. Setrakian was absorbed in the work, studying it in a near-trance. He kept a small notebook next to him. A ruled composition school notebook almost half-full with the old man’s notes.

The writing in the Lumen was densely yet beautifully hand-scribed, as many as one hundred lines to a page. His old, long-ago-broken fingers turned each corner with delicacy and speed.

He analyzed every page, backlighting them, scanning for watermarks and quickly sketching them as they were discovered. He annotated their exact position and disposition on the page, as these were vital elements in decoding the text laid on them.

Eph stood at his shoulder, alternately looking at the phantasmagoric illustrations and checking the burning island out the wheelhouse window. He noticed a radio near Fet and switched it on, keeping it low so as not to distract Setrakian. It was satellite radio, and Eph searched the news channels until he came across a voice.

A tired female voice, a broadcaster holed up in the Sirius XM headquarters, was operating off some sort of failsafe backup generator. She was working off multiple, fractured sources—Internet, phone, and e-mail—collating reports from around the country and the world, while repeatedly clarifying that she had no way of verifying this information was accurate.

She spoke candidly about vampirism as a virus spreading person-to-person. She detailed a crumbling domestic infrastructure: accidents, some catastrophic, disabling, or otherwise cutting off traffic along key bridges in Connecticut, Florida, Ohio, Washington state, and California. Power outages further isolated certain regions, most prevalent along the coasts. Gas lines in the Midwest. The National Guard and various Army regiments had been ordered into peacekeeping duty in many major metropolitan centers, with reports of military activity in New York and Washington, DC. Fighting had broken out along the border between North and South Korea. Burning mosques in Iraq had triggered rioting, compounded by U.S. peacekeeping efforts there. A series of unexplained explosions in the catacombs beneath Paris had crippled the city. And an eerie series of reports detailed suicide clusters occurring at Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe, Iguazu Falls on the border between Brazil and Argentina, and Niagara Falls in New York.

Eph shook his head at all of this—bewildering, a nightmare, War of the Worlds come true—until he heard the report of an Amtrak derailment inside the North River Tunnel, further cutting off the island of Manhattan. The broadcaster moved on to a report of rioting in Mexico City, leaving Eph staring at the radio.

“Derailment,” he said.

The radio couldn’t answer him.

Fet said, “She didn’t say when. Maybe they got through.”

Fear spiked in Eph’s chest. He felt sick. “They didn’t,” he said. He knew it. No ESP, no psychic knowledge: he simply knew it. Their escape now struck him as being too good to be true. All his relief, his clear-headedness—gone. A dark pall fell over his mind.

“I have to go there.” He turned toward Fet, unable to see anything but the mental image of a derailment and vampire attack. “Bring us in. You have to let me off. I’m going after Zack and Nora.”

Fet did not argue, fooling with the steering controls. “Let me find someplace to crash-land.”

Eph looked for weapons. Former gang rivals Gus and Creem were eating junk food out of a convenience-store bag. Gus used his boot to slide their weapon bag toward Eph.

A change in the broadcaster’s tone returned their attention to the radio. A nuclear plant accident had been reported on the eastern coast of China. Nothing out of Chinese news agencies, but there were eyewitness accounts of a mushroom cloud visible from Taiwan, as well as seismometer readings near Guangdong indicating an Earth tremor in the neighborhood of a quake registering 6.6 on the Richter scale. The lack of reporting from Hong Kong was said to indicate the possibility of a nuclear electromagnetic pulse, which would turn electrical cables into lightning rods or antennas and have the effect of frying any connected solid-state devices.

Gus said, “Vampires nuking us now? Fuck us.” Then he translated for Angel, who was repairing a homemade splint around his knee.

“Madre de Dios,” said Angel, crossing himself.

Fet said, “Wait a minute. A nuclear plant accident? That’s a meltdown, not a bomb. Maybe a steam explosion on the site—like Chernobyl—but not a detonation. They’re designed so that those aren’t possible.”

“Designed by whom?” Setrakian said this, never looking up from the book.

Fet sputtered. “I don’t know—what do you mean?”

“Constructed by whom?”

“Stoneheart,” said Eph. “Eldritch Palmer.”

“What?” said Fet. “But—nuclear explosions? Why do that when he’s so close to winning the world?”

“There will be more,” said Setrakian. His voice came without breath, disembodied, intoned.

Fet said, “What do you mean, more?”

Setrakian said, “Four more. The Ancients were born from the light. The Fallen Light, Occido Lumen—and they can only be consumed by it …”

Gus got up and went to stand over the old man. The book was open to a two-page spread. A complex mandala in silver, black, and red. On top of it, on tracing paper, Setrakian had laid out the outline of the six-winged angel. Gus said, “It says that?”

Setrakian closed the silver book and got to his feet. “We must return to the Ancients. At once.”

Gus said, “Okay,” though he was befuddled by this sudden change in course. “To give them the book?”

“No,” said Setrakian, finding his pillbox inside his vest pocket, pulling it open with trembling fingers. “The book arrives too late for them.”

Gus squinted. “Too late?”

Setrakian struggled to pluck a nitroglycerin pill out of the box. Fet steadied the old man’s shaking hand, pinching a nitroglycerin pill and laying it into his wrinkled palm. “You do realize, professor,” said Fet, “that Palmer just opened a new nuclear plant on Long Island.”

The old man’s eyes grew distant and unfocused, as though still dazed by the concentric geometry of the mandala. Then Setrakian placed the pill beneath his tongue and closed his eyes, waiting for its effects to steady his heart.

Zack, after Nora had gone off with her mother, lay in filth beneath the short ledge running the length of the southern tube of the North River Tunnels, hugging the silver blade to his chest. She was coming right back, and he had to listen for her. Not easy over the sound of his wheezing. He realized this only now, and felt around in his pockets, finding his inhaler.

He brought it to his mouth and took two puffs, and felt immediate relief. He thought of the breath in his lungs like a guy trapped inside a net. When Zack got anxious, it was like the guy was fighting the net, pulling at it, winding himself up worse and making everything tight. The puff from Zack’s inhaler was like a blast of knockout gas, the guy weakening, going limp, the net relaxing over him.

He put away the inhaler and reaffirmed his grip on the knife. Give it a name and it’s yours forever. That is what the professor had told him. Zack feverishly raced through his thoughts in search of a name. Trying to focus on anything but the tunnel.

Cars get girl names. Guns get guy names. What do knives get?

He thought of the professor, the man’s old, broken fingers, presenting him with the weapon.

Abraham.

That was his first name.

That was the name of the knife.

“Help!”

A man’s voice. Someone running through the tunnel—coming nearer. His voice echoing.

“Help me! Anybody there?”

Zack did not move. He didn’t even turn his head, only his eyes. He heard the man stumble and fall, and that was when Zack heard the other footsteps. Someone pursuing him. The man got up again, then fell. Or else was thrown down. Zack hadn’t realized how close the man was to him. The man kicked and howled out some gibberish like a madman, crawling along one of the rails. Zack saw him then, a form in the darkness, clawing forward while kicking back at his pursuers. He was so near that Zack could feel the man’s terror. So near that Zack readied Abraham in his hand, blade pointing out.

One of them landed on the man’s back. His yowling was cut short, one of their hands reaching around and entering his open mouth, pulling at his cheek. More hands set upon him—overlarge fingers grabbing at his flesh and his clothes, and dragging him away.

Zack felt the man’s madness spread into him. He lay there shivering so hard he thought he was going to give himself away. The man got off another anguished groan, and it was enough to know that they—the children’s hands—were pulling him back the other way.

Zack had to run. He had to run off after Nora. He remembered one time playing hide-and-seek in his old neighborhood, and he had burrowed in behind some bushes, listening to the seeker’s slow count. He was found last, or almost last, once he realized that one kid was still missing, a younger boy who had joined the game late. And they looked for him a little bit, calling his name, and then lost interest, figuring he had gone back home. But Zack didn’t think so. He had seen the glimmer in the young boy’s eye when they ran off to hide, the almost-evil anticipation of the hunted wanting to outwit the hunter. Beyond the thrill of the chase: the knowledge of a really clever hiding place.

Clever to a five-year-old’s mind. And then Zack knew. He went all the way down the street to the house owned by the old man who yelled at them when kids cut through his backyard. Zack went to the refrigerator lying on its side, still at the bottom of their driveway on the day after trash day. The door had been removed, but now it lay on top of the squash-yellow appliance. Zack pulled it open, breaking the seal, and there was the boy, starting to turn blue. Somehow, with near Hulk-like hide-and-seek strength, the five-year-old had pulled the door of the fridge over him. The boy was fine, except for puking onto the lawn after Zack helped him out, and the old man coming to his door and yelling at them to beat it.

Beat it.

Zack slid out on his back, half-coated in tunnel soot, and started running. He turned on his busted iPod, the cracked screen lighting the floor in front of him in a four-foot nimbus of soft, blue light. He couldn’t hear anything, even his own footfalls, so loud was the panic in his head. He assumed he was being chased—could feel hands reaching for the back of his neck—and whether true or not, he ran as though it were.

He wanted to call out Nora’s name, but did not, knowing it would give away his position. Abraham’s blade scraped the wall of the tunnel, telling him he was veering too far to the right.

Zack saw a burning red flame up ahead. Not a torch, but an angry light, like a flare. It scared him. He was supposed to be running away from trouble, not toward it. He slowed, not wanting to go forward, unable to go back.

He thought about the boy hiding inside the refrigerator. No light, no sound, no air.

The door, dark against the dividing wall, had a sign on it Zack did not bother to read. The handle turned and he went through it, back into the original northbound tunnel. He could smell the smoke the friction of the derailed train caused, along with the noxious stench of ammonia. This was a mistake—he should wait for Nora, she would be looking for him—but on he ran.

Ahead, a figure. At first, he believed that it was Nora. This person also wore a backpack, and Nora had been carrying a bag.

But such optimism was just a trick of his preteen mind.

The hissing sound scared him initially. But Zack saw enough in the faint outer reaches of his light source to tell that this person was involved in an endeavor that did not involve violence. He watched the graceful movements of the person’s arm and realized he was spraying paint onto the tunnel wall.

Zack went another step forward. The person was not much taller than he, a sweatshirt hood over his head. There was paint spatter on his elbows and the hem of his black hoodie, his camouflage pants and Converse hi-tops. He was doing up the wall, though Zack could see only a small corner of the mural, which was silver and ruffled in appearance. Under it, the vandal was finishing his tag. PHADE, it read.

All this happened in moments—which was why it did not seem unusual to Zack that someone should have been painting in absolute darkness.

Phade lowered his arm, having finished his signature, then turned toward Zack.

Zack said, “Hey, I don’t know what you know, but you gotta get out of this …”

Phade slid back the hood covering his face—and it was not a he. Phade was a girl, or had once been a girl, no older than her teens. Phade’s face was now inert, unnaturally immobile, like a mask of dead flesh wrapping the malignant biology festering within. Its skin, by Zack’s iPod light, had the pallor of pickled flesh, like the color of a fetal pig inside a specimen jar. Zack saw a spill of red down the front of its chin, neck, and sweatshirt. The red stain was not paint.

Zack heard squealing behind him. He turned for a moment—and then whipped around, realizing he had just turned his back on a vampire. As he turned back to Phade, he put out his hand with the knife in it, not knowing that Phade had darted straight at him.

Abraham’s blade ran right into Phade’s throat. Zack pulled back his hand fast, as though having committed a tragic accident, and white fluid came burbling out of Phade’s neck. Phade’s eyes rolled wide with a surge of menace, and before Zack knew what he was doing, he had stabbed the vampire four more times in the throat. The can of spray paint sssssed against Phade’s leg before falling to the ground.

The vampire collapsed.

Zack stood there with the murder weapon in his hand, holding Abraham like something he had broken and didn’t know how to set down.

The patter of advancing vampires woke him up, unseen but bearing down on him out of the darkness. Zack dropped his iPod light, reaching down for the can of silver paint. He got it into his hand and the spray trigger under his finger just as two spiderlike vampire children came screaming out of the dark, stingers flicking in and out of their mouths. The way in which they moved was indescribably wrong, so swift, exploiting the flexibility of youth into dislocated arms and knees, moving impossibly low and tight along the floor.

Zack took aim at the stingers. He sprayed both creatures full in the face—mouth and nose and eyes—before they could get to him. They had a sort of film over their eyes already, and the paint adhered to it, shutting down their vision. They reeled back, trying to clear their eyes with their oversized—for their bodies—hands and having no luck.

This was Zack’s chance to pounce and kill—but, knowing more vampires were on the way, he instead picked up his iPod light and ran before the painted vampires perceived him through other senses.

He saw steps and a door stamped with caution signs. It was locked but not bolted, no one expecting burglars this far beneath sea level, and Zack slipped the point of Abraham’s blade inside the door crack, working it behind the latch. Inside, the thrum of transformers startled him. He saw no other door, and panicked, thinking he was stuck. But a service duct ran a foot off the floor, out of the wall to the left, before turning and angling into the machinery. Zack chanced a look beneath it and did not see a facing wall. He deliberated a moment, then set his iPod down on the floor, lit-screen up, its light reflecting off the metal bottom of the duct. He then slid it down along beneath the duct like a thin puck gliding over an air hockey table. The up-shining light slid down the floor, turning slightly, but going a long way before stopping, hitting something hard. Zack saw that the light was no longer shining off the reflecting duct.

Zack did not hesitate. He got down on his belly and started beneath the duct before crawling back out again, starting over, realizing he could go faster on his already filthy back. Out he went, headfirst along the narrow crawl space. He slid some fifty feet, the floor at times grabbing his shirt, cutting into his back. At the end, his head popped out into a void, the duct turning and rising high up alongside an embedded ladder.

Zack reclaimed his iPod, shining it up. He could see nothing. But he could hear bumps echoing along the duct: vampire children following his route, moving with preternatural ease.

Zack started up the ladder, his paint can in his hand, Abraham stuck in his belt. He went hand-over-hand up the iron rungs, the echoing duct thumps rising with him. He stopped a moment, hooking his elbow on a rung, pulling the iPod from his pocket to check behind him.

The iPod tumbled from his grip. He grabbed after it, nearly slipping from the ladder, then watched it fall.

As the glowing screen dropped, twisting, it flashed past a form rising up the ladder, illuminating another of his evil playmates.

Zack went back to climbing, faster than he thought he could. But never fast enough. He felt the ladder shaking, and stopped and turned just in time. The child vampire was at his heels when Zack hit it with the paint-can spray, stunning it, blinding it—and then kicking at it with his heel until it fell squealing from the ladder.

He kept climbing, wishing he didn’t have to keep looking back. The iPod light was tiny, the floor below a long way away. The ladder shook—harder now. More bodies climbing up the rungs. Zack heard a dog barking—muffled, an exterior noise—and knew he was near some kind of exit. This gave him a boost of energy and he hurried upward, coming to a flat, round roof.

A manhole. The smooth bottom of it, cold from touching the outside. The surface world was right above. Zack pushed with the heel of his hand. He gave it all he had.

It was no use.

He felt someone near, coming up the ladder, and blindly sprayed the paint below him. He heard a noise like moaning and he kicked downward, but the creature did not fall right away. It was hanging on, swinging. Zack kicked downward with one leg, and a hand grabbed his ankle. A hot hand with a strong grip. A vampire child hanging from him, trying to pull him down. Zack dropped the paint can, needing both hands to grip the ladder. He kicked, trying to ram the creature’s fingers into the ladder rungs, but it would not loosen its grip. Until at once—with a squeal—it did.

Zack heard the body smack the wall on the way down.

Another being came up on him before he had time to react. A vampire, he felt its heat, he smelled its earthiness. A hand grabbed his armpit, hooking him, lifting him to the manhole. With two great shoulder shoves, the creature loosened the manhole, throwing it aside. It climbed into the immediate cool of the open air, hauling Zack up with it.

He pulled at the knife at his waist, nearly slicing off his belt trying to work it free. But the vampire’s hand closed around his, squeezing hard, holding him there. Zack closed his eyes, not wanting to see the creature. But the grip held him fast and did not move. As though it were waiting.

Zack opened his eyes. He looked up slowly, dreading the sight of its malicious face.

Its eyes were burning red, its hair flat and dead around its face. Its swollen throat bucked, its stinger flicking at the insides of its cheeks. The look it gave him was a mix of vampiric desire and creature satisfaction.

Abraham slipped from Zack’s hand.

He said:

“Mom.”

They arrived at the building on Central Park via two stolen hotel courtesy cars, encountering no military interference along the way. Inside, the power was out, the elevator inoperable. Gus and the Sapphires started up the stairs, but Setrakian could not climb to the top. Fet did not offer to carry him; Setrakian was too proud for this to even be contemplated. The obstacle appeared insurmountable, and Setrakian, the silver book in his arms, seemed older than ever before.

Fet noted that the elevator was old, with folding gate doors. On a hunch, he went exploring doors near the stairway, and found an old-fashioned dumbwaiter lined with wallpaper. Without a word of protest, Setrakian handed Fet his walking stick and climbed into the half-sized car, sitting with the book on his knees. Angel worked the pulley and counterweight, hauling him up at a gradual rate of speed.

Setrakian rose up in darkness through the building inside the coffin-like conveyance, with his hands resting on the silver plating of the old tome. He was trying to catch his breath, and to settle his mind, but a roll call of sorts ran unbidden through his head: the face of each and every vampire he had ever slain. All the white blood he had spilled, all the worms he had loosed from cursed bodies. For years he had puzzled over the nature of the origin of these monsters on Earth. The Ancients, where they came from. The original act of evil that created these beings.

Fet reached the empty top floor still under construction, and found the door to the dumbwaiter. He opened it and watched a seemingly dazed Setrakian turn and test the floor with his shoe soles before standing out of it. Fet handed him his staff, and the old man blinked and looked at him with only a trace of recognition.

Up a few steps, the door to the empty top-floor apartment was ajar. Gus led the way inside. Mr. Quinlan and a couple of hunters stood beyond the entrance, and only watched them enter. No search, no accosting. Past them, the Ancients stood as before, still as statues, looking out over the falling city.

In absolute silence, Quinlan took position next to a narrow ebony door at the opposite side of the room, wide left of the Ancients. Fet then realized there were only two Ancients now. Where the third had stood, to the far right, all that remained was what appeared to be a pile of white ash in a small wooden urn.

Setrakian walked farther toward them than the hunters had allowed on his previous visit. He stopped near the middle of the room. An illumination flare streaked over Central Park, lighting the apartment and outlining the two remaining Ancients in magnesium-white.

Setrakian said, “So you know.”

There was no response.

“Other than Sardu—you were Six Ancients, three Old World, three New. Six birth sites.”

Birth is a human act. Six sites of origin.

“One of them was Bulgaria. Then China. But why didn’t you safeguard them?”

Hubris, perhaps. Or something quite like it. By the time we knew we were in danger, it was too late. The Young One deceived us. Chernobyl was a decoy—His site. For a long time he managed to stay silent, feeding on carrion. Now he has moved in first—

“Then you know you are doomed.”

And then the one on the left vaporized into a burst of fine, white light. His form became dust and fell away to the floor amid a searing noise, like a high-pitched sigh. A shock that was partially electric and partially psychic jolted the humans in the room.

Almost instantaneously, two of the hunters were similarly obliterated. They vanished into a mist finer than smoke, leaving neither ashes nor dust—only their clothes, falling in a warm heap on the floor.

With the Ancient went its sacred bloodline.

The Master was eliminating his only rivals for control of the planet. Was that it?

The irony is that this has always been our plan for the world. Allowing the livestock to erect their own pens, to create and proliferate their weapons and reasons to self-destruct. We have been altering the planet’s ecosystem through its master breed. Once the greenhouse effect was irreversible, we were going to reveal ourselves and rise to power.

Setrakian said, “You were making the world over into a vampire nest.”

Nuclear winter is a perfect environment. Longer nights, shorter days. We could exist on the surface, shielded from the sun by the contaminated atmosphere. And we were almost there. But he foresaw that. Foresaw that, once we achieved that end, he would have to share with us this planet and its rich food source. And he does not want that.

“What does he want, then?” Setrakian said.

Pain. The Young One wants all the pain he can get. As fast as he can get it. He cannot stop. This addiction … this hunger for pain lies, in fact, at the root of our very origin …

Setrakian took another step toward the last remaining Ancient. “Quickly. If you are vulnerable through the site of your creation—then so is he.”

Now you know what is in the book—You must learn to interpret it …

“The location of his origin? Is that it?”

You believed us the ultimate evil. A pox on your people. You thought we were the ultimate corrupters of your world, and yet we were the glue holding everything together. Now you will feel the lash of the true overlord.

“Not if you tell us where he is vulnerable—”

We owe you nothing. We are done.

“For revenge, then. He is obliterating you as you stand here!”

As usual, your human perspective is narrow. The battle is lost, but nothing is ever obliterated. In any event, now that he has shown his hand, you may be certain that he has fortified his earthly place of origin.

“You said Chernobyl,” said Setrakian.

Sadum. Amurah.

“What is that? I don’t understand,” said Setrakian, lifting the book. “If it’s here, I am certain. But I need time to decode it. And we don’t have time.”

We were neither born nor created. Sown from an act of barbarity. A transgression against the high order. An atrocity. And what was once sown may be reaped.

“How is he different?”

Only stronger. He is like us; we are him—but he is not us.

In less time than it took to blink, the Ancient had turned toward him. Its head and face were time-smoothed, worn of all features, with sagging red eyes, less a nose than a bump, and a downturned mouth open to toothless blackness.

One thing you must do. Gather every particle of our remains. Deposit them into a reliquary of silver and white oak. This is imperative. For us, but also for you.

“Why? Tell me.”

White oak. Be certain, Setrakian.

Setrakian said, “I will do no such thing unless I know that doing so won’t bring more harm.”

You will do it. There is no such thing now as more harm.

Setrakian saw that the Ancient was right.

Fet spoke up behind Setrakian. “We’ll collect it—and preserve it in a dustbin.”

The Ancient looked past Setrakian for a moment, at the exterminator. With sag-eyed contempt, but also something like pity.

Sadum. Amurah. And his name … our name …

And then it dawned on Setrakian. “Ozryel … The Angel of Death.” And he understood everything, and thought all the right questions.

But it was too late.

A blast of white light and a pulse of energy, and the last remaining New World Ancient vanished into a scattering of snow-like ash.

The last remaining hunters twisted as though in a moment of pain—and then evaporated right out of their clothes.

Setrakian felt a breath of ionized air ripple his clothes and fade away.

He sagged, leaning on his staff. The Ancients were no more. And yet a greater evil remained.

In the atomization of the Ancients, he glimpsed his own fate.

Fet was at his side. “What do we do?”

Setrakian found his voice. “Gather the remains.”

“You’re sure?”

Setrakian nodded. “Use the urn. The reliquary can come later.”

He turned and looked for Gus, finding the vampire killer sifting through a hunter’s clothes with the tip of his silver sword.

Gus was searching the room for Mr. Quinlan—or his remains—but the Ancients’ chief hunter was nowhere to be found.

The narrow door at the left end of the room, however, the ebony door Quinlan had retreated to after they entered, was ajar.

The Ancients’ words came back to Gus, from their first meeting:

He is our best hunter. Efficient and loyal. In many respects, unique.

Had Quinlan somehow been spared? Why hadn’t he disintegrated like the rest?

“What is it?” asked Setrakian, approaching Gus.

Gus said, “One of the hunters, Quinlan … he left no trace … Where did he go?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. You are free of them now,” said Setrakian. “Free of their control.”

Gus looked back at the old man. “Ain’t none of us free for long.”

“You will have the chance to release your mother.”

“If I find her.”

“No,” said Setrakian. “She will find you.”

Gus nodded. “So—nothing’s changed.”

“One thing. They would have made you one of their hunters if they had succeeded in pushing back the Master. You have been spared that.”

“We’re splitting,” said Creem. “If it’s all the same to you. We know the ropes now and it seems to me we can carry on with the good work. But we all have families to gather. Or maybe we don’t. Either way, we have places to secure. But if you ever need the Sapphires, Gus—you just come and find us.”

Creem shook hands with Gus. Angel stood by uncertainly. He sized up one gang leader, and then the other. He nodded at Gus. The big ex-wrestler had chosen to stay.

Gus turned to Setrakian. “I’m one of your hunters now.”

Setrakian said, “You don’t need anything more from me. But I need one more thing from you.”

“Just name it.”

“A ride. A fast one.”

“Fast is my specialty. They got more Hummers in a garage underneath this funhouse. Unless that shit evaporated too.”

Gus went off to claim a vehicle. Fet had located, inside a chest of drawers in an adjoining room, a briefcase full of cash. He dumped out the paper currency so that Angel had something to deposit the Ancients’ ashes in. He had heard the entire conversation with Gus. “I think I know where we are going.”

“No,” said Setrakian, still looking distracted, only half-there. “Just me.” He handed Fet the Occido Lumen and his notebook.

“I don’t want this,” said Fet.

“You must take it. And remember. Sadum, Amurah. Will you remember that, Vasiliy?”

“I don’t need to remember anything—I’m going with you.”

“No. The book is the thing now. It must be kept safe, and out of the Master’s claws. We can’t lose it now.”

“We can’t lose you.”

Setrakian shook that off. “I am very nearly lost as it is.”

“That’s why you need me with you.”

“Sadum. Amurah. Say it,” said Setrakian. “That’s what you can do for me. Let me hear that—let me know that you keep those words …”

“Sadum. Amurah,” said Fet obediently. “I know them.”

Setrakian nodded. “This world is going to become a terribly hard place of little hope. Protect those words—that book—like a flame. Read it. The key to it is in my notes. Their nature, their origin, their name—they were all one …”

“You know I can’t make heads or tails—”

“Then go to Ephraim, together you will. You must go to him now.” His voice broke. “You two need to stay together.”

“Two of us together doesn’t equal one of you. Give this to Gus. Let me take you, please …” Now there were tears in the eyes of the exterminator.

Setrakian’s gnarled hand gripped Fet’s forearm with fading strength. “It is your responsibility now, Vasiliy. I trust you implicitly … Be bold.”

The silver plating was cold to touch. He accepted the book finally, because the old man insisted, like a dying man pressing his diary into the hands of a reluctant heir. “What are you going to do?” asked Fet, knowing now that this was the last time he would see Setrakian. “What can you do?”

Setrakian released Fet’s arm. “One thing only, my son.”

It was that word—“son”—that touched Fet the deepest. He choked back his pain as he watched the old man move along.

The mile Eph ran into the North River Tunnel felt like ten. Guided only by Fet’s night-vision monocular, over a glowing green landscape of unchanging train tracks, Eph’s descent beneath the Hudson River was a true journey into madness. Dizzied and frantic, and gasping for breath, he began to see glowing white stains along the rail ties.

He slowed long enough to pull a Luma lamp from the pack on his back. The ultraviolet light picked up an explosion of color, the biological matter expelled by vampires. The staining was recent, the ammonia odor eye-watering. This much waste indicated a massive feeding.

Eph ran until he saw the rear car of the derailed train. No noise; all was still. Eph started around the right, seeing ahead where the engine or the first passenger car had jumped the track, angled up against the tunnel wall. He entered an open door, boarding the dark train. Through his green vision, he viewed the carnage. Bodies slumped over chairs, over other bodies, on the floor. All budding vampires, due to begin rising as soon as the next sunset. No time to release them all now. Or to go through them, face-by-face.

No. He knew Nora was smarter than that.

He jumped back out, turning the corner around the train, and saw the lurkers. Four of them, two to a side, their eyes reflecting like glass in his monocular. His Luma lamp froze them, hungry faces leering as they backed away, allowing him passage.

Eph knew better. He went between the two pairs, counting to three before reaching back and drawing his sword from his pack, and wheeling around.

He caught them coming, slashing the first two aggressors, then going after the backpedalers and cutting them down without hesitation.

Before their bodies settled on the tracks, Eph returned to the wet trail of vampire waste. It led to a passage through the left wall, into the facing, Manhattan-bound track. Eph followed the swirling colors, ignoring his disgust, rushing through the dark tunnel. He passed two hacked corpses—the bright register of their spilled blood under the black light showing them to be strigoi—then heard a ruckus ahead.

He came upon some nine or ten creatures bunched up at a door. They fanned out upon sensing him, Eph sweeping his Luma lamp in order to prevent any from slipping behind him.

The door. Zack was inside, Eph told himself.

He went homicidal, attacking before the vampires could coordinate an assault. Slashing and burning. His animal brutality surpassed theirs. His paternal need overmatched their blood hunger. This was a fight for his son’s life, and for a father pushed to the brink, killing came quick. Killing was easy.

He went to the door, clanging his white-slickened sword blade against it. “Zack! It’s me! Open up!”

The hand holding the door fast from the inside released the knob, Eph ripping open the door. There stood Nora, her wide eyes as bright as the flare burning in her hand. She stared at him a long moment, as though making sure it was him—a human him—then rushed into his arms. Behind her, sitting on a box in her housecoat with her gaze cast sadly into the corner, was Nora’s mother.

Eph closed his arms around Nora as best he could without letting the wet blade touch her. Then, realizing the rest of the storage closet was empty, he pushed back.

“Where’s Zack?” he said.

Gus blew through the open perimeter gate, the dark silhouettes of the cooling towers looming in the distance. Motion-sensitive surveillance cameras sat on high white poles like heads upon pikes, failing to track their Hummer as it passed. The road in was long and winding, and they were unmet.

Setrakian rode in the passenger seat with his hand over his heart. High fences topped with barbwire; towers spewing smokelike steam. A camp flashback rippled through him like nausea.

“Federates,” said Angel, from the backseat.

National Guard trucks were set up at the entrance to the interior security zone. Gus slowed, awaiting some signal or order that he would then have to figure out a way to disobey.

When no such order came, he rolled right up to the gate and stopped. He exited the Hummer with the engine running, checking the first truck. Empty. The second as well. Empty but for splashes of red blood on the windshield and dashboard, and a dry puddle on the front seat.

Gus went into the back of the truck, lifting the canvas. He waved over Angel, who came limping. Together they looked at the rack of small arms. Angel strung one submachine gun over each of his considerable shoulders, cradling an assault rifle in his arms. Extra ammunition went into his pockets and shirt. Gus carried two Colt submachine guns back to the Hummer.

They pushed around the trucks through to the first buildings. Getting out, Setrakian heard loud engines running and realized the plant was operating on diesel-fueled backup generators. The redundant safety systems were operating automatically, keeping the abandoned reactor from shutting down.

Inside the first buildings, they were met by turned soldiers—vampires in fatigues. With Gus in front and Angel limping behind, they moved through the revenants, shredding bodies without any finesse. The rounds staggered the vampires, but they wouldn’t stay down unless the spinal column was obliterated at the neck.

“Know where you’re going?” said Gus over his shoulder.

“I do not,” said Setrakian.

He followed the security checkpoints, pushing through doors with the most warning signs. Here there were no more soldier vampires, only plant workers turned into guards and sentinels. The more resistance Setrakian met, the closer he knew they were to the control room.

Setrakian.

The old man grabbed the wall.

The Master. Here …

How much more powerful the Master’s “voice” was inside his head than that of the Ancients. Like a hand grasping his brain stem and snapping his spine like a whip.

Angel straightened Setrakian with a meaty hand and called to Gus.

“What is it?” said Gus, fearing a heart attack.

They hadn’t heard it. The Master spoke only to Setrakian.

“He is here now,” said Setrakian. “The Master.”

Gus looked this way and that, hyperalert. “He’s here? Great. Let’s get him.”

“No. You don’t understand. You haven’t faced him yet. He is not like the Ancients. These guns are nothing to him. He will dance around bullets.”

Gus reloaded his smoking weapon and said, “I come too far with this. Nothing scares me now.”

“I know, but you can’t beat him this way. Not here, and not with weapons made for killing men.” Setrakian fixed his vest, straightening. “I know what he wants.”

“Okay. What’s that?”

“Something only I can give him.”

“That damn book?”

“No. Listen to me, Gus. Return to Manhattan. If you leave now, there is hope that you might make it in time. Join Eph and Fet if you can. You will need to be deep underground regardless.”

“This place is going to blow?” Gus looked at Angel, who was breathing hard and gripping his bad leg. “Then come back with us. Let’s go. If you can’t beat him here.”

“I can’t stop this nuclear chain reaction. But—I might be able to affect the chain reaction of vampiric infection.”

An alarm went off—piercing honks spaced about one second apart—startling Angel, who checked both ends of the hallway.

“My guess is the backup generators are failing,” said Setrakian. He grasped Gus’s shirt, talking over the horn blasts. “Do you want to be cooked alive here? Both of you—go!”

Gus remained with Angel as the old man walked on, unsheathing the sword from his walking stick. Gus looked to the other old man in his charge, the broken-down wrestler drenched in sweat, his big eyes uncertain. Waiting to be told what to do.

“We go,” said Gus. “You heard the man.”

Angel’s big arm stopped him. “Just leave him here?”

Gus shook his head hard, knowing there was no good solution. “I’m only alive still because of him. For me, whatever the pawnbroker says, goes. Now let’s get as far away from here as we can, unless you want to see your own skeleton.”

Angel was still looking after Setrakian, and had to be pulled away by Gus.

Setrakian entered the control room and saw a lone creature in an old suit standing before a series of panels, watching gauge dials roll back as systems failed. Red emergency lights flashed from every corner of the room, though the alarm was muted.

Eichhorst turned just its head, red eyes settling on its former camp prisoner. No concern in his face—it wasn’t capable of the subtleties of emotion, and barely registered the larger reactions, such as surprise.

You are just in time, it said, returning to the monitors.

Setrakian, sword at his side, circled behind the creature.

I don’t believe I extended you my congratulations on winning the book. That was a clever bit of work, going around Palmer like that.

“I expected to meet him here.”

You won’t be seeing him again. He never realized his great dream, precisely because he failed to understand that it was not his aspirations that mattered but the Master’s. You creatures and your pathetic hopes.

Setrakian said, “Why you? Why did he keep you?”

The Master learns from humans. That is a key element of his greatness. He watches and he sees. Your kind has shown him the way to your own final solution. I see only packs of animals, but he sees patterns of behavior. He listens to what you are saying when, as I suspect, you have no idea you are saying anything at all.

“You’re saying he learned from you? Learned what?” Setrakian’s grip tightened on the handle of his sword as Eichhorst turned. He looked at the former camp commandant—and suddenly he knew.

It is not easy to establish and operate a well-functioning camp. It took a special kind of human intellect to oversee the systematic destruction of a people at maximum efficiency. He drew upon my singular knowledge.

Setrakian went dry. He felt as though his flesh were crumbling off his bones.

Camps. Human stockyards. Blood farms spread out across the country, the world.

In a sense, Setrakian had always known. Always known but never wanted to believe. He had seen it in the Master’s eyes upon their first meeting in the barracks at Treblinka. Man’s own inhumanity to man had whet the monster’s appetite for havoc. We had, through our atrocities, demonstrated our own doom to the ultimate nemesis, welcoming him as though by prophesy.

The building shuddered as a bank of monitors went dark.

Setrakian cleared his throat to find his voice. “Where is your Master now?”

He is everywhere, don’t you know? Here, now. Watching you. Through me.

Setrakian readied himself, taking a step forward. His course was clear. “He must be pleased with your handiwork. But he has little use for you now. No more than I do.”

You underestimate me, Jew.

Eichhorst vaulted up onto the nearby console with little apparent effort, moving out of Setrakian’s kill range. Setrakian raised his silver blade, its tip pointing at the Nazi’s throat. Eichhorst’s arms were at his sides, elongated fingers rubbing against his palms. It feigned an attack; Setrakian countering but not giving any quarter. The old vampire leaped to another console, shoes trampling on the tender controls of this highly sensitive room. Setrakian swung around, tracking it—until he faltered.

With the hand holding the wooden sheath of his walking stick, Setrakian pressed his crooked knuckles to his chest, over his heart.

Your pulse is most irregular.

Setrakian winced and staggered. He exaggerated his distress, but not for Eichhorst’s sake. His sword arm bent, but he kept the blade high.

Eichhorst hopped down to the floor, watching Setrakian with something like nostalgia.

I no longer know the tether of the heartbeat. The lung breath. The cheap gear-work and slow tick of the human clock.

Setrakian leaned against the console. Waiting for strength to return.

And you would rather perish than continue on in a greater form?

Setrakian said, “Better to die a man than live as a monster.”

Can you fail to see that, to all the lesser beings, you are the monster? It is you who took this planet for your own. And now the worm turns.

Eichhorst’s eyes flickered a moment, their nictitating lids narrowing.

He commands me to turn you. I do not look forward to your blood. Hebraic inbreeding has fortified the bloodline into a vintage as salty and mineral-muddied as the River Jordan.

“You won’t turn me. The Master himself couldn’t turn me.”

Eichhorst moved laterally, not yet attempting to close the distance between them.

Your wife struggled but she never cried out. I thought that strange. Not even a whimper. Only a single word. “Abraham.”

Setrakian allowed himself to be goaded, wanting the vampire closer. “She saw the end. She found solace in the moment, knowing that I would someday avenge her.”

She called your name and you were not there. I wonder if you will sing out at the end.

Setrakian sank almost to one knee before lowering his blade, using the point against the floor as a kind of crutch, to keep himself from falling.

Put aside your weapon, Jew.

Setrakian lifted his sword, switching to an overhand grip of the handle in order to examine the line of the old silver blade. He looked at the wolf’s head pommel, feeling its counterbalancing weight.

Accept your fate.

“Ah,” said Setrakian, looking at Eichhorst standing just a few feet away. “But I already have.”

Setrakian put everything he had into the throw. The sword crossed the space between them and penetrated Eichhorst just below the breastplate, dead-center in his torso, between the buttons of his vest. The vampire fell back against the console with his bent arms back as though in a gesture of balance. The killing silver was in his body and he could not touch it to pull out the blade. He began to twitch as the silver’s toxic virucidal properties spread outward like a burning cancer. White blood appeared around the blade with the first of the escaping worms.

Setrakian pulled himself to his feet and stood, wavering, before Eichhorst. He did so with no sense of triumph, and little satisfaction. He made certain that the vampire’s eyes were focused on him—and, by extension, the Master’s eyes—and said, “Through him you took love away from me. Now you will have to turn me yourself.” Then he grasped the sword handle and slowly pulled it from Eichhorst’s chest.

The vampire settled back against the console, its hands still grasping at nothing. It began to slide to the right, falling stiffly, and Setrakian, in his weakened state, anticipated Eichhorst’s trajectory and set the point of his sword against the floor. The blade rested at about a forty-degree angle, the angle of the guillotine blade.

Eichhorst’s falling body pulled its neck across the edge of the blade, and the Nazi was destroyed.

Setrakian swiped both sides of his silver blade over the vampire’s coat sleeve, cleaning them, then backed away from the blood worms fleeing Eichhorst’s open neck. His chest seized up like a knot. He reached for his pillbox and, in trying to open it with his twisted hands, spilled the contents onto the control-room floor.

Gus emerged from the nuke plant ahead of Angel, into the dim, overcast last day. Between the persistent alarm blasts, he heard a deathly silence, the generators no longer working. He sensed a low-voltage snap in the air, like static electricity, but it might just have been him knowing what was to come.

Then, a familiar noise cutting into the air. A helicopter. Gus found the lights, seeing the chopper circle behind the steaming towers. He knew it wasn’t help on the way. He realized that this had to be the Master’s ride out of here, so it didn’t cook with the rest of Long Island.

Gus went into the back of the National Guard truck. He had seen the Stinger missile the first time, but stuck with the small arms. All he needed was a reason.

He brought it out and double-checked to make sure he had it facing the right way. It balanced nicely on his shoulder and was surprisingly light for an anti-aircraft weapon, maybe thirty-five pounds. He ran past the limping Angel to the side of the building. The chopper was coming in lower, making to land in a wide clearing.

The trigger was easy to find, as was the scope. He looked through it, and once the missile detected the heat of the helicopter’s exhaust, it emitted a high, whistle-like tone. Gus squeezed the trigger and the launch rocket shot the missile out of the tube. The launch engine fell away and the main solid rocket engine lit up and the Stinger flew off like a plume of smoke traveling along a string.

The helicopter never saw it coming. The missile struck it a few hundred yards above the ground and the flying machine burst upon impact, the explosion upending it and sending it pinwheeling into nearby trees.

Gus threw off the empty launcher. The fire was good. It would light his way to the water. Long Island Sound was the fastest and safest way back home.

He said as much to Angel, but he could tell, as the distant light of the flames played across the old brawler’s face, that something had changed.

“I’m staying,” said Angel.

Gus tried to explain that which he only vaguely understood himself. “This whole place is going to go up. This is nukes.”

“I can’t walk away from a fight.” Angel patted his leg to show that he meant it literally as well as figuratively. “Besides, I’ve been here before.”

“Here?”

“In my movies. I know how it ends. The evil one faces the good one, and all seems lost.”

“Angel,” said Gus, needing to go.

“The day is saved always—in the end.”

Gus had noticed the ex-wrestler acting more and more scattered. The vampire siege was wearing on his mind, his perspective. “Not here. Not against this.”

Angel pulled, from deep in his front pocket, a piece of cloth. He pulled it on over his head, rolling the silver mask down so that only his eyes and his mouth showed. “You go,” he said. “Back to the island, with the doctor. Do as the old man tell you. Me? He have no plan for me. So I stay. I fight.”

Gus smiled at the mad Mexican’s bravery. And he recognized Angel for the very first time. He understood everything—the strength, the courage of this old man. As a child, he had seen all of the wrestler’s films on TV. On weekends, they played on an endless loop. And now he was standing next to his hero. “This world is a motherfucker, isn’t it?”

Angel nodded and said, “But it’s the only one we have.”

Gus felt a surge of love for this fucked-up fellow countryman. For his matinee idol. His eyes welled up as he clapped his hands against the big man’s shoulders. He said, “Que viva el Ángel de Plata, culeros!”

Angel nodded. “Que viva!”

And with that, the Silver Angel turned back, limping, toward the doomed power plant.

Emergency lights flashed, the exterior alarm muted inside the control room. The wall panel instruments blinked, imploring human hands to take action.

Setrakian knelt on the floor across from Eichhorst’s still body. Eichhorst’s head had rolled almost to the corner. One of Setrakian’s pocket mirrors had cracked, and he was using the silver back to crush the blood worms seeking him out. With his other hand, he was trying to pick up his heart pills, but his gnarled fingers and arthritic knuckles had trouble with the pincer grip.

And then he was aware of a presence, whose sudden arrival changed the atmosphere of the already charged room. No puff of smoke, no crack of thunder. A psychic blow more breathtaking than mere stagecraft. Setrakian didn’t have to look up to know it was the Master—and yet he did look up, from the hem of its dark cloak to its imperious face.

Its flesh had peeled back to the sub-dermis, save for a few patches of sun-cooked skin. A fiery red beast with splotches of black. Its eyes roared with intensity, a bloodier hue of red. The circulating worms rippled beneath the surface like twitching nerves alive with madness.

It is done.

The Master seized the wolf’s-head handle of Setrakian’s sword before the old man could react. The creature held the silver blade for inspection the way a man might handle a glowing-hot poker.

The world is mine.

The Master, his movement no more than a blur, retrieved the wooden sheath from the floor on the other side of Setrakian. He fit the two pieces together, burying the blade inside the cavity of the original walking stick and fixing the joined staff with a sudden wrenching twist of his hands.

Then he returned the foot of the stick to the floor. The overlong walking stick was a perfect fit, of course: it had belonged to the human giant Sardu, in whose body the Master currently resided.

The nuclear fuel inside the reactor core is beginning to overheat and melt. This facility was constructed using modern safeguards, but the automatic containment procedures only delay the inevitable. The meltdown will occur, fouling and destroying this origin site of the sixth and only remaining member of my clan. The buildup of steam will result in a catastrophic reactor explosion that will release a plume of radioactive fallout.

The Master jabbed Setrakian in the ribs with the end of the walking stick, the old man hearing and feeling a crack, curling into a ball on the floor.

As my shadow falls over you, Setrakian, so does it fall over this planet. First I infected your people, now I have infected the globe. Your half-dark world was not enough. How long I have looked forward to this permanent, lasting dusk. This warm, blue-green rock shivers at my touch, becoming a cold black stone of rime and rot. The sunset of humankind is the dawn of the blood harvest.

The Master’s head then turned a few degrees, toward the door. He was not alarmed, nor even annoyed, more like curious. Setrakian turned also, a sizzle of hope rising along his back. The door opened and Angel entered limping, wearing a mask of shiny silver nylon with black stitching.

“No,” gasped Setrakian.

Angel carried an automatic weapon, and, seeing the eight-foot-tall cloaked creature towering over Setrakian, opened up on the king vampire.

The creature stood there for a moment, gazing at its patently ridiculous opponent. But as the bullets flew, the Master became, instinctively, a blur—the rounds carrying across the room into the sensitive equipment lining the walls. The Master paused on one side of the room, visible for just the briefest moment, though by the time Angel turned and fired, the vampire was moving again. The rounds ripped into a control panel, sparks shooting out of the wall.

Setrakian returned his attention to the floor, frantically picking at the tiny pills.

The Master slowed again, with the effect of materializing before Angel. The masked wrestler dropped the big gun with a clatter and lunged at the creature.

The Master noted the big human’s weak knee, but those things could be fixed. The body was aged, yet size-appropriate. Suitable, perhaps, for temporary housing.

The Master eluded Angel. The wrestler swung around, but the Master was already behind him again. While assessing Angel, the Master slapped him on the back of his neck, where the stitched hem of his mask met skin. The wrestler jerked around wildly again.

Angel was being toyed with, and he didn’t like it. He turned fast and came around with his free hand, catching the Master on the chin with an open-palm blow. The “Angel Kiss.”

The creature’s head snapped back. Angel shocked himself with his success in landing the blow. The Master lowered his eyes at the masked avenger, the speed of the worms rippling under his flesh a sign of his rage.

Inside the mask, Angel smiled excitedly.

“You would like me to reveal myself, wouldn’t you?” he said. “The mystery dies with me. My face must remain hidden.”

These words were the catchphrase from every one of the Silver Angel’s movies, dubbed into many languages all over the world—words the wrestler had been waiting for decades to say for real. But the Master was through playing.

It struck Angel full-force with the back of its enormous hand. The jaw and left cheekbone exploded inside the mask and the wrestler’s left eye went with them.

But Angel didn’t give up. Through enormous effort, he stood on his own two feet. Trembling, his knee hurting like a motherfucker, choking on his own blood … yet in his mind he raced back in time, to a younger, happier place.

He felt dizzy and warm and full of juice and remembered he was in a film stage. Of course—he was shooting a movie. The monster in front of him was nothing but some clever special effect—a day player in a suit. Then why did it hurt so much? And his mask: it smelled funny to him. Like unwashed hair and sweat. It smelled like a thing removed to the oblivion of storage. It smelled of him.

An empty bubble of blood rose in his throat and burst there in a liquid whimper. His jaw and left side pulverized, the smelly mask was now the only thing holding the old wrestler’s face together.

Angel grunted and lunged at his opponent. The Master released the stick in order to grip the big human with both hands, and, in an instant, tore him to shreds.

Setrakian stifled a cry. He was stuffing pills in under his tongue—stopping just as the Master returned his attention to him.

The Master grasped Setrakian’s shoulder and lifted the slight old man off the floor. Setrakian dangled in the air before the Master, squeezed by the vampire’s bloody hands. The Master pulled him close, Setrakian staring into its horrible face, the leech’s face swarming with ancient evil.

I believe, in a way, you always wanted this, Professor. I think you have always been curious to know the other side.

Setrakian could not respond with the pills dissolving beneath his tongue. But he did not have to answer the Master verbally. My sword sings of silver, he thought.

He felt woozy, the medicine kicking in, clouding his thoughts—shielding his true intent from the Master’s perception. We learned much from the book. We know Chernobyl was a decoy … He saw the Master’s face. How he longed to see fear in it. Your name. I know your true name. Would you like to hear it … Ozryel?

And then the Master’s mouth fell open and his stinger shot out furiously, snapping and piercing Setrakian’s neck, rupturing his vocal cords and jamming into his carotid artery. As he lost his voice, Setrakian felt no stinging pain, only the body-wide ache of the drinking. The collapse of his circulatory system and the organs it served, leading to shock.

The Master’s eyes were royal-red, staring at its prey’s face as it drank with immense satisfaction. Setrakian held the creature’s gaze, not out of defiance but watching and waiting for some indication of discomfort. He felt the vibration of the blood worms wriggling throughout his body, greedily inspecting and invading his self.

All at once, the Master bucked, as though choking. His head jerked back and his nictitating eyelids fluttered. Still, the seal remained tight, the drinking continued stubbornly until the end. The Master disengaged finally—the entire process having taken less than half a minute—its flushed red stinger retracting. The Master stared at Setrakian, reading the interest in his eyes, then stumbled backward a step. Its face contracted, the blood worms slowing, its thick neck gagging.

It dropped Setrakian to the floor and staggered away, sickened by the old man’s blood meal. A flame-like sensation in the pit of his gut.

Setrakian lay on the floor of the control room in a dim haze bleeding through the puncture wound. He finally relaxed his tongue, feeling that the last of the pills in the basket of his jaw were gone. He had ingested the blood vessel – relaxing nitroglycerin and the blood-thinning Coumadin derivative of Fet’s rat poison in massive overdose levels, and passed them along to the Master.

Fet was, indeed, correct: the creatures had no purging mechanism. Once a substance was ingested, they could not vomit it.

Burning inside, the Master moved through the doors at a blur, racing off into the screaming alarms.

The Johnson Space Center went silent halfway through the station’s dark orbit, as they passed the dark side of the Earth. She’d lost Houston.

Thalia felt the first few bumps shortly after that. It was debris, space junk plunking the station. Nothing very unusual about that—only the frequency of the impacts.

Too many. Too close together.

She floated as still as possible, trying to calm herself, trying to think. Something wasn’t right.

She made her way to the porthole and gazed out upon the Earth. Two very hot points of light were visible here on the night side of the planet. One was on the very edge, right on the ridge of dusk. Another one was nearer to the eastern side.

She had never witnessed anything like it, and nothing in her training or the many manuals she had read prepared her for this sight. The intensity of the light, its evident heat—mere pinpoints on the globe itself, and yet her trained eye knew that these were explosions of enormous magnitude.

The station was rocked by another firm impact. This was not the usual small metal hail of space debris. An emergency indicator went off, yellow lights flashing near the door. Something had perforated the solar panels. It was as though the space station were under fire. Now she would need to suit up and—

BAMMM! Something had struck the hull. She swam over to a computer and saw immediately the warning of an oxygen leak. A rapid one. The tanks had been perforated. She called out to her shipmates, heading for the airlock.

A bigger impact shook the hull. Thalia suited up as fast as she could, but the station itself had been breached. She struggled to fasten her suit helmet, racing the deadly vacuum. With her last ounce of strength, she opened the oxygen valve.

Thalia drifted into darkness, losing consciousness. Her final thought before blackout was not of her husband but of her dog. In the silence of space, she somehow heard him barking.

Soon the International Space Station joined the rest of the flotsam hurtling through space, gradually slipping from its orbit, floating inexorably toward Earth.

Setrakian’s head swam as he lay on the floor of the rumbling Locust Valley Nuclear Power Plant.

He was turning. He could feel it.

A constricting pain in his throat that was only the beginning. His chest a hive of activity. The blood worms had settled and released their payload: the virus breeding quickly inside him, overwhelming his cells. Changing him. Trying to remake him.

His body could not withstand the turning. Even without his now-weakened veins, he was too old, too weak. He was like a thin-stemmed sunflower bending under the weight of its growing head. Or a fetus growing from bad chromosomes.

The voices. He heard them. The buzz of a greater consciousness. A coordination of being. A concert of cacophony.

He felt heat. From his rising body temperature, but also from the trembling floor. The cooling system meant to prevent hot nuclear fuel from melting had failed—failed on purpose. The fuel had melted through the bottom of the reactor core. Once it reached the water table, the ground beneath the plant would erupt in a lethal release of steam.

Setrakian.

The Master’s voice in his head. Phasing in and out with his own. Setrakian had a vision then, of what looked like the rear of a truck—the National Guard trucks he had seen outside the plant’s entrance. The view from the floor, vague and monochromatic, seen through the eyes of a being with night vision enhanced beyond human ability.

Setrakian saw his walking stick—Sardu’s walking stick—rattling around just a few feet away, as though he could reach out and touch it one last time.

Pic—pic—pic …

He was seeing what the Master saw.

Setrakian, you fool.

The floor of the truck rumbled, speeding away. The view rocked back and forth as though seen by a thing writhing in pain.

You thought poisoning your blood could kill me?

Setrakian pulled himself up onto all fours, relying on the temporary strength the turning imbued him with.

Pic—pic …

I have sickened you, strigoi, Setrakian thought. Again I have weakened you.

And he knew the Master could hear him now.

You are turned.

I have finally released Sardu. And soon I will be released myself.

And he said nothing more, the nascent vampire Setrakian dragging himself closer to the endangered core.

Pressure continued to build inside the containment structure. A bubble of toxic hydrogen expanding out of control. The steel-reinforced concrete shield would only make the ultimate explosion worse.

Setrakian pulled himself arm by arm, leg by leg. His body turning inside, his mind aflutter with the sight of a thousand eyes, his head singing with the chorus of a thousand voices.

Zero hour was at hand. They were all heading underground.

Pic …

“Silence, strigoi.”

Then the nuclear fuel reached the groundwater. The earth beneath the plant erupted, and the origin place of the final Ancient was obliterated—as was Setrakian, in the same instant.

No more.

The pressure vessel cracked open and released a radioactive cloud over Long Island Sound.

Gabriel Bolivar, the former rock star and the only remaining member of the original four Regis Air survivors, waited deep beneath the meatpacking plant. It had been called upon especially by the Master, called to be ready.

Gabriel, my child.

The voices hummed, droning as one in perfect fidelity. The old man, Setrakian—his voice had been silenced forever.

Gabriel. The name of an archangel … So appropriate…

Bolivar awaited the dark father, feeling him near. Knowing of his victory on the surface. All that was left now was to wait for the new world to set and cure.

The Master entered the black dirt chamber. The Master stood before Bolivar, its head crooked at the chamber ceiling. Bolivar could feel the Master’s body distress, but its mind—its word—sang as true as ever.

In me, you will live. In my hunger and my voice and my breath—and we will live in you. Our minds will reside in yours and our blood will race together.

The Master threw off its cloak, reaching its long arm into its coffin, scooping out a handful of rich soil. He fed it into Bolivar’s unswallowing mouth.

And you will be my son and I your father and we will rule as I and us, forever.

The Master clutched Bolivar in a great embrace. Bolivar was alarmingly thin, appearing fragile and small against the Master’s colossal frame. Bolivar felt swallowed, possessed. He felt received. For the first time in life or death, Gabriel Bolivar felt at home.

The worms came spilling out of the Master, hundreds and hundreds of them, seeping out of its reddened flesh. The frenzied worms wove all around them, in and out of their flesh, fusing the two beings in a crimson embroidery.

Then, finally, the Master released the old husk of the long-ago giant, which crumbled and broke away as it hit the floor. And, as he did so, the soul of the boy-hunter also found release. It disappeared from the chorus of voices, the hymn that animated the Master.

Sardu was no more. Gabriel Bolivar was something new.

Bolivar/the Master spit the soil out. It opened its mouth and tested its stinger. The fleshy protuberance rode out with a firm snap, and recoiled.

The Master was reborn.

The body was unfamiliar somehow, the Master having been accustomed to Sardu for so long, but this transitional body was flexible and fresh. The Master would soon put it to the test.

At any rate, this human physicality was of little concern to the Master now. The giant’s body had suited the creature when it lived among the shadows. But size and durability of the host body mattered little now. Not in this new world that it had created in its own image.

The Master sensed human intrusion. A strong heart, a swift pulse. A boy.

Out of the adjoining tunnel, Kelly Goodweather arrived with her son, Zachary, firmly in her grip. The boy stood trembling, crouched over in a posture of self-protection. He saw nothing in the darkness, only sensing presences, heated bodies in the cool underground. He smelled ammonia and dank soil and something rotting.

Kelly approached with the pride of a cat depositing a mouse at its master’s threshold. The Master’s physical appearance, revealed to her night-seeing eyes in the blackness of the underground chamber, did not confound her in the least. She saw his presence within Bolivar and questioned nothing.

The Master scraped some magnesium from the wall, sprinkling it into the basket of a torch. He then chipped into the stone with his long middle nail, a spray of sparks igniting the small torch, bringing an orange glow to the chamber.

Zack saw before him a bony vampire with glowing red eyes and a slack expression. His mind had mostly shut down in panic, but there was still that small part of him that trusted his mother, that found calm so long as she was near.

Then, near the gaunt vampire, Zack saw the empty corpse lying on the floor, its sun-damaged, vinyl-smooth flesh still glistening. The creature’s pelt.

He saw also a walking stick leaning against the cave wall. The wolf’s head caught the flicker of the flame.

Professor Setrakian.

No.

Yes.

The voice was inside his head. Answering him with the power and authority Zack suspected God might speak to him someday, in answer to his prayers.

But this was not God’s voice. This was the commanding presence of the thin creature before him.

“Dad,” Zack whispered. His father had been with the professor. Tears welled up. “Dad.”

Zack’s mouth moved, but the word had no breath behind it. His lungs were locking up. He felt his pockets for his inhaler. His knees buckling, Zack slumped to the ground.

Kelly watched her suffering son impassively. The Master had been prepared to destroy Kelly. The Master was unaccustomed to defiance, and could think of no reason why Kelly had not turned the boy immediately.

Now the Master saw why. Kelly’s bond with the boy was so strong, the affection so potent, that she had instead brought him to the Master to be turned.

This was an act of devotion. An offering borne out of the human precursor—love—to vampire need, which, in fact, surpassed that need.

And the Master did indeed hunger. And the boy was a fine specimen. He would be honored to receive the Master.

But now … things appeared different in the darkness of a new night.

The Master saw more benefit in waiting.

It sensed the distress in the boy’s chest, his heart first racing, and now starting to slow. The boy lay on the ground, clutching at his throat, the Master standing over him. The Master pricked its thumb with the sharp nail of its prominent middle finger, and, taking care not to let slip any worms, allowed one single white drop to fall into the boy’s open mouth, landing upon his gasping tongue.

The boy groaned suddenly, sucking air. In his mouth, the taste of copper and hot camphor—but in a few moments, he was breathing normally again. Once, on a dare, Zack had licked the ends of a nine-volt battery. That was the jolt he had felt before his lungs opened. He looked up at the Master—this creature, this presence—with the awe of the cured.

EPILOGUE

Extract from the diary of Ephraim Goodweather

Sunday, November 28

With every city and province around the globe—already alarmed by initial reports out of New York City—now afflicted by growing waves of unexplained disappearances …

With rumors and wild tales—of the vanished returning to their homes after dark, possessed of inhuman desires—spreading at speeds more scorching than the pandemic itself …

With terms like “vampirism” and “plague” finally being uttered by those in positions of power and influence …

And with the economy, the media, and transportation systems all failing throughout the globe …

… the world had already teetered over the edge, into full-blown panic.

And then began the nuclear-plant meltdowns. One after the other.

No official sequence of events or proper time line can, nor ever will be, verified, due to the mass destruction and subsequent devastation. What follows is the accepted hypothesis, though admittedly a “best guess” based mainly upon the arrangement of the tiles before the first domino fell.

After China, the reactor failure of a Stoneheart-constructed nuclear plant in Hadera, on the western coast of Israel, led to a second core meltdown. A vapor cloud of radioactivity was released, containing large particles of radioisotopes as well as caesium and tellurium in aerosol form. Warm Mediterranean wind currents scattered the contamination northeast into Syria and Turkey and over the Black Sea into Russia, as well as east over Iraq and northern Iran.

Terrorist sabotage was suspected as the cause, with fingers pointed at Pakistan. Pakistan denied any involvement, while a meeting of the Israeli cabinet followed an emergency meeting of the Knesset, viewed as a war council. Meanwhile, Syria and Cyprus demanded international censure of Israel as well as financial reparations, and Iran declared that the vampire curse was also obviously Jewish in origin.

Pakistan’s president and prime minister, believing that the reactor meltdown was an excuse for Israel to launch an attack, led the parliament to authorize a preemptive nuclear strike of six warheads.

Israel countered with their second strike capability.

Iran bombed Israel and immediately claimed victory. India launched retaliatory fifteen-kiloton warheads against Pakistan and Iran.

North Korea, spurred on by fear of the plague as well as an extended famine, launched against South Korea and sent its troops across the thirty-eighth parallel.

China allowed itself to be drawn into the conflict, in an attempt to distract the international community from its own catastrophic nuclear reactor failure.

The nuclear explosions triggered earthquakes and volcanic eruptions. Tons and tons of ash were injected into the stratosphere, along with sulfuric acid and massive amounts of greenhouse gas carbon dioxide.

Cities burned and oil fields ignited, consuming many million barrels of oil daily, fires that could not be extinguished by man. These continuous chimneys lofted dark, blanketing smoke into the ash-saturated stratosphere, cycling over the planet, absorbing sunlight at levels reaching 80 to 90 percent.

This cooling soot grew like a cowl over the Earth.

It impacted every human settlement, bringing further chaos and the certainty of the Rapture. Cities degenerated into toxic prisons, highways became gridlocked junkyards. The Canadian and Mexican borders were closed and illegal U.S. citizens crossing the Rio Grande were met with decisive firepower. Though even these boundaries were not to last.

Above Manhattan, the massive radioactive cloud lingered, the sky turning crimson until the atmospheric soot blotted out the sun. The dusk was artificial, in that clocks said it was still daytime—and yet it was all too real.

At the shore, the ocean turned silvery-black, reflecting the sky above.

Later came a rain of ashes. The fallout wiped away nothing, only making things blacker.

Soon the alarms faded and hordes of vampires emerged from their cellars … to claim their new world.

North River Tunnel

FET FOUND NORA sitting on the tracks in the bowels of the tunnel beneath the Hudson River. Nora’s mother’s head was in her lap, Nora stroking her gray hair while the sick woman slept.

“Nora,” said Fet, sitting next to her, “come—let me help you, and your mother …”

“Mariela,” said Nora. “Her name is Mariela.” And then she broke down finally, crying, her body shuddering with deep, primal sobs as she buried her face in Fet’s shoulder.

Eph soon returned from the eastbound tube, where he had been looking for Zack. Nora turned to him, spent, empty, almost rising but for her sleeping mother, hope and pain expressed on her face.

Eph pulled off the night-vision monocular and shook his head. Nothing.

Fet felt the tension between Eph and Nora. Each of them emotionally ravaged, and beyond words. Fet knew that Eph did not blame Nora, that there was no doubt Nora had done everything she could for Zack under the circumstances. But he also sensed that, in losing Zack, Nora had lost Eph too.

Fet retold the events leading up to Setrakian leaving with Gus for Locust Valley. “He told me to stay behind—to come here.” Fet looked at Eph. “To find you.”

Eph pulled a glass flask from his pocket, one he had found in the wheelhouse aboard the tugboat. He took a hard hit from it, then looked around the tunnel with an expression of angry disgust. “So here we are,” he said.

Fet felt Nora bristle next to him. Then a distant roar began filling the tunnel. Fet couldn’t track it at first, the sound distorted by the unceasing tone in his bad ear.

An engine, a motor, coming toward them—the noise a rumble of terror inside the long, stone tube.

Light approached. A train was impossible—wasn’t it?

Two lights. Headlights. An automobile.

Fet pulled his sword, ready for anything. The big vehicle came to a stop, its thick tires shredded from the tracks, the black Hummer rattling along on its rims.

The front grill was white with vamp blood.

Gus climbed out. A blue bandanna was tied around his head. Fet hurried to the opposite door, looking for a passenger.

The Hummer was otherwise empty.

Gus saw whom Fet was looking for and shook his head.

“Tell me,” said Fet.

Gus did. He told about leaving Setrakian at the nuclear power plant.

“You left him?” said Fet.

Gus’s smile showed a flash of anger. “He demanded it. Same as he did of you.”

Fet caught himself. He saw that the kid was right.

“He’s gone?” said Nora.

“I don’t see any other way,” said Gus. “He was prepared to fight to the end. Angel stayed, that crazy fucker. No way the Master got away from those two without feeling some pain. If only radiation.”

“Meltdown,” said Nora.

Gus nodded. “I heard the blast and the sirens. Bad cloud headed this way. The old man said to get down here to you.”

Fet said, “He sent us all here. To protect us from the fallout.”

Fet looked around. Burrowed underground. He was used to having the upper hand in this scenario: the exterminator, gassing vermin in their holes. He looked around, thinking about what rats, the ultimate survivors, would do when faced with this situation—and he saw the derailed train in the distance, its bloodstained windows reflecting Gus’s headlights.

“We’ll clear out the train cars,” he said. “We can sleep in there, in shifts, lock the doors. There’s a café car we can raid for now. Water. Toilets.”

“For a few days, maybe,” said Nora.

“For as long as we can make it last,” said Fet. He felt a surge of emotion—pride, resolve, gratitude, grief—striking him like a fist. The old man was gone; the old man lived on. “Long enough to let the worst of the radioactivity disperse up top.”

“And then what?” Nora was beyond burned-out. She was done with this. With all of this. And yet there was no ending. Nowhere else to go, but on, and on, into this new hell on earth. “Setrakian is gone—dead, or possibly worse. There’s a holocaust above us. They’ve won. The strigoi have prevailed. It’s over. All over.”

No one said anything. The air in the long tunnel hung still and silent.

Fet pulled his bag down off his shoulder. He opened it and rummaged through with dirty hands, then pulled out the silver-bound book.

“Maybe,” he said. “Or—maybe not.”

Eph grabbed one of Gus’s strong flashlights and went off on his own again, following every trail of vampire waste to its end.

None of them brought him to Zack. Still, he went on, calling out his son’s name, his voice echoing emptily through the tunnel, returning back to him like a taunt. He emptied the flask, and then hurled the thick glass at the tunnel wall, where the sound of its shattering was like a profanity.

Then he found Zack’s inhaler.

Lying beside the track in an otherwise unremarkable stretch of tunnel. The prescription sticker was still affixed: Zachary Goodweather, Kelton Street, Woodside, New York. Suddenly, every one of those words spoke to him of things lost: name, street, neighborhood.

They had lost it all. These things meant nothing anymore.

Eph gripped the inhaler as he stood in the dark burrow beneath the earth. Gripped it so hard that the plastic casing started to crack.

He stopped then. Preserve this, he thought. He held it to his heart and switched off his flashlight. He stood still, vibrating with rage in the pure dark.

The world had lost the sun. Eph had lost his son.

Eph began to prepare himself for the worst.

He would return to the others. He would clear out the derailed train, and watch with them, and wait.

But while the others waited for the air to clear above, Eph would be waiting for something else.

He would be waiting for his Zack to return to him as a vampire.

He had learned from his mistake. He could not show any forbearance, as he had with Kelly.

It would be a privilege and a gift to release his only son.

But the worst thing that Eph had imagined—Zack’s return as a vampire seeking his father’s soul—turned out not to be the worst thing at all.

No.

The worst thing was—Zack never came.

The worst thing was the gradual realization that Eph’s vigilance would have no end. That his pain would find no release.

The Night Eternal had begun.

Acknowledgements

The authors wish to acknowledge the assistance of Dr. Ilona Zsolnay of the Babylonian Section in the University Museum at the University of Pennsylvania.

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers
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Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
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Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2010
1

Copyright © Guillermo Del Toro and Chuck Hogan 2010

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Cover photograph © Frank Herholdt / Getty Images (figure); Shutterstock (all other images)

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A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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THE NIGHT ETERNAL

BOOK III
OF
The Strain Trilogy

GUILLERMO DEL TORO and CHUCK HOGAN

Dedication

To my parents.
Now I know how hard a job you had . . .
—GDT

For Charlotte, eternally.
—CH

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

RAIN OF ASHES

Extract from the Diary of Ephraim Goodweather

Kelton Street, Woodside, Queens

INTERLUDE I - MR. QUINLAN’S STORY

Camp Liberty

Extract from the Diary of Ephraim Goodweather

Beneath Columbia University

INTERLUDE II - OCCIDO LUMEN: THE MASTER’S TALE

Low Memorial Library, Columbia University

JACOB AND THE ANGEL

Saint Paul’s Chapel, Columbia University

INTERLUDE III - OCCIDO LUMEN: SADUM AND AMURAH

Columbia University

Extract from the Diary of Ephraim Goodweather

Columbia University

AWAKENING TO FIRE

Columbia University

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Copyright

RAIN
OF
ASHES

Extract from the Diary of Ephraim Goodweather

On the second day of darkness they rounded them up. The best and the brightest: all those in power, the wealthy, the influential.

Lawmakers and CEOs, tycoons and intellectuals, rebels and figures of great popular esteem. None were turned; all were slain, destroyed. Their execution was swift, public, and brutal.

Save for a few experts from each discipline, all leaders were eliminated. Out they marched, the damned, from the River House, the Dakota, the Beresford, and their ilk. They were all apprehended and herded into major metropolitan gathering places worldwide, such as the National Mall in Washington, DC, Nanjing Road in Shanghai, Moscow’s Red Square, Cape Town Stadium, and Central Park in New York City. There, in a horrific pageant of carnage, they were disposed of.

It was said that over one thousand strigoi rampaged down Lexington and raided every building surrounding Gramercy Park. Offerings of money or favor fell on deaf ears. Soft, manicured hands implored and begged. Their bodies twitched—hanging from lampposts all along Madison Avenue. In Times Square, twenty-foot-high funeral pyres burned tanned, pampered flesh. Smelling much like barbecue, the elite of Manhattan illuminated the empty streets, closed shops—EVERYTHING
MUST
GO—and silent LED megascreens.

The Master had apparently calculated the right number, the exact balance, of vampires needed to establish dominance without overburdening the blood supply; its approach was methodological and indeed mathematical. The elderly and infirm were also collected and eliminated. It was a purge and a putsch. Roughly one-third of the human population was exterminated over that seventy-two-hour period, which had since become known as, collectively, “Night Zero.”

The hordes took control of the streets. Riot police, SWAT, the U.S. Army—the tide of monsters overtook them all. Those who submitted, those who surrendered themselves, remained as guards and keepers.

The Master’s plan was a resounding success. In brutally Darwinian fashion, the Master had selected the survivors for compliance and malleability. Its growing strength was nothing short of terrifying. With the Ancients destroyed, its control over the horde—and through them, the world—had broadened and become ever more sophisticated. The strigoi no longer roamed the streets like raving zombies, raiding and feeding at will. Their movements were coordinated. Like bees in a hive or ants in a hill, they apparently each had clearly defined roles and responsibilities. They were the Master’s eyes on the street.

In the beginning daylight was entirely gone. A few seconds of faint sunlight could be glimpsed when the sun was at its zenith, but other than that, the darkness was unremitting. Now, two years later, the sun filtered through the poisoned atmosphere for only two hours each day, but the pale light it gave was nothing like the sunlight that had once warmed Earth.

The strigoi were everywhere, like spiders or ants, making sure that those left alive were truly fitting back into a routine . . .

And yet the most shocking thing of all was . . . how little life had truly changed. The Master capitalized on the societal chaos of the first few months. Deprivation—of food, clean water, sanitation, law enforcement—terrorized the populace, so much so that, once basic infrastructure was restored, once a program of food rations was implemented and the rebuilt electrical grid chased off the darkness of the long nights, they responded with gratitude and obedience. Cattle need the recompense of order and routine—the unambiguous structure of power—to surrender.

In fewer than two weeks, most systems were restored. Water, power . . . cable television was reintroduced, broadcasting all reruns now, without commercials. Sports, news, everything a repeat. Nothing new was produced. And . . . people liked it.

Rapid transit was a priority in the new world, because personal automobiles were extremely rare. Cars were potential bombs and as such had no place in the new police state. Cars were impounded and crushed. All vehicles on the street belonged to public services: police, fire department, sanitation—they were all operational, manned by complying humans.

Airplanes had suffered the same fate. The only active fleet was controlled by Stoneheart, the multinational corporation whose grip on food distribution, power, and military industries the Master had exploited in its takeover of the planet, and it consisted of roughly 7 percent of the planes that once crossed the world’s skies.

Silver was outlawed and became trade currency, highly desirable and exchangeable for coupons or food points. The right amount of it could even buy you, or a loved one, a way out of the farms.

The farms were the only entirely different thing in this new world. That and the fact that there was no more educational system. No more schooling, no more reading, no more thinking.

The pens and slaughterhouses were manned twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Trained wardens and cattle drivers supplied the strigoi with the nutrients needed. The new class system was quickly established. A system of biological castes: the strigoi favored B positive. Any blood type would do, but B positive either provided extra benefits—like different grades of milk—or held its taste and quality better outside the body and was better for packaging and storing. Non-B’s were the workers, the farmers, the true grunts. B positives were the Kobe—the prime cut of beef. They were pampered, given benefits and nutrients. They even got double the exposure at the UV camps, to make sure their vitamin D took root. Their daily routine, their hormonal balance, and ultimately their reproduction were systematically regulated to keep up with the demand.

And so it was. People went to work, watched TV, ate their meals, and went to bed. But in the dark and in the silence they wept and stirred, knowing all too well that those they knew, those next to them—even the ones sharing the very bed they were lying on—could suddenly be gone, devoured by the concrete structure of the closest farm. And they bit their lips and cried, for there was no choice but to submit. There was always someone else (parents, siblings, children) who depended on them. Always someone else who gave them the license to be afraid, the blessing of cowardice.

Who would have dreamed that we would be looking back with great nostalgia at the tumultuous nineties and early noughts. The times of turmoil and political pettiness and financial fraud that preceded the collapse of the world order . . . it was a golden era by comparison. All that we were became lost—all social form and order in the way our fathers and forefathers understood it. We became a flock. We became cattle.

Those of us who are still alive but have not joined the system . . . we have become the anomaly . . . We are the vermin. Scavengers. Hunted.

With no way to fight back . . .

Kelton Street, Woodside, Queens

A SCREAM
PEALED in the distance, and Dr. Ephraim Goodweather startled awake. He thrashed on the sofa, flipping onto his back and sitting up, and—in one fluid, violent motion—gripped the worn leather sword handle jutting out of the pack on the floor at his side and slashed the air with a blade of singing silver.

His battle cry, hoarse and garbled, a fugitive from his nightmares, stopped short. His blade quivered, unmet.

He was alone.

Kelly’s house. Her sofa. Familiar things.

His ex-wife’s living room. The scream was a far-off siren, converted into a human shriek by his sleeping mind.

He had been dreaming again. Of fire and shapes—indefinable but vaguely humanoid—made of blinding light. A flashpoint. He was in the dream and these shapes wrestled with him right before the light consumed it all. He always awoke agitated and exhausted, as if he had physically grappled with an opponent. The dream came out of nowhere. He could be having the most domestic kind of reverie—a picnic, a traffic jam, a day at the office—and then the light would grow and consume it all, and the silvery figures emerged.

He blindly groped for his weapon bag—a modified baseball gear bag, looted many months before off the high rack of a ransacked Modell’s on Flatbush Avenue.

He was in Queens. Okay. Okay. Everything coming back to him now—accompanied by the first pangs of a jaw-clenching hangover. He had blacked out again. Another dangerous binge. He returned the sword to his weapons bag, then rolled back, holding his head in his hands like a cracked crystal sphere he had delicately picked up off the floor. His hair felt wiry and strange, his head throbbing.

Hell on earth. Right. Land of the damned.

Reality was an ornery bitch. He had awoken to a nightmare. He was still alive—and still human—which wasn’t much, but it was the best he could expect.

Just another day in hell.

The last thing he remembered from sleep, the fragment of the dream that clung to his consciousness like sticky afterbirth, was an image of Zack bathed in searing silver light. It was out of his shape that the flashpoint had occurred this time.

“Dad—” Zack said, and his eyes locked with Eph’s—and then the light consumed it all.

The remembrance of it raised chills. Why couldn’t he find some respite from this hell in his dreams? Wasn’t that the way it was supposed to work? To balance out a horrible existence with dreams of flight and escape? What he wouldn’t have given for a reverie of pure sentimentality, a spoonful of sugar for his mind.

Eph and Kelly fresh out of college, ambling hand-in-hand through a flea market, looking for cheap furniture and knickknacks for their first apartment . . .

Zack as a toddler, stomping fat-footed around the house, a little boss in diapers . . .

Eph and Kelly and Zack at the dinner table, sitting with hands folded before full plates, waiting for Z to plow through his obsessively thorough saying of grace . . .

Instead, Eph’s dreams were like badly recorded snuff films. Familiar faces from his past—enemies, acquaintances, and friends alike—being stalked and taken while he watched, unable to reach them, to help them, or even to turn away.

He sat up, steadying himself and rising, one hand on the back of the sofa. He left the living area and walked to the window overlooking the backyard. LaGuardia Airport was not far away. The sight of an airplane, the distant sound of a jet engine, was cause for wonder now. No lights circled the sky. He remembered September 11, 2001, and how the emptiness of the sky had seemed so surreal back then, and what a strange relief it was when the planes returned a week later. Now there was no relief. No getting back to normal.

Eph wondered what time it was. Sometime o’clock in the morning, he figured, judging by his own failing circadian rhythm. It was summer—at least according to the old calendar—and so the sun should have been high and hot in the sky.

Instead, darkness prevailed. The natural order of night and day had been shattered, presumably forever. The sun was obliterated by a murky veil of ash floating in the sky. The new atmosphere was comprised of the detritus of nuclear explosions and volcanic eruptions distributed around the globe, a ball of blue-green candy wrapped inside a crust of poisonous chocolate. It had cured into a thick, insulating cowl, sealing in darkness and cold and sealing out the sun.

Perennial nightfall. The planet turned into a pale, rotting netherworld of rime and torment.

The perfect ecology for vampires.

According to the last live news reports, long since censored but traded like porn on Internet boards, these post-cataclysm conditions were much the same around the world. Eyewitness accounts of the darkening sky, of black rain, of ominous clouds knitting together and never breaking apart. Given the planet’s rotation and wind patterns, the poles—the frozen north and south—were theoretically the only locations on Earth still receiving regular seasonal sunlight . . . though nobody knew this for certain.

The residual radiation hazard from the nuclear explosions and the plant meltdowns had been intense at first, catastrophically so at the various ground zeros. Eph and the others had spent nearly two months belowground, in a train tunnel beneath the Hudson River, and so were spared the short-term fallout. Extreme meteorological conditions and atmospheric winds spread the damage over large areas, which may have aided in dispersing the radioactivity; the fallout was expelled by the hard rainstorms created by the violent changes to the ecosystem, further diffusing the radiation. Fallout decays exponentially, and in the short term, areas without direct-impact exposure became safe for travel and decontamination within approximately six weeks.

The long-term effects were yet to come. Questions as to human fertility, genetic mutations, and increased carcinogenesis would not be answered for some time. But these very real concerns were overshadowed by the current situation: two years following the nuclear disasters and the vampiric takeover of the world, all fears were immediate.

The pealing siren went quiet. These warning systems, meant to repel human intruders and attract assistance, still went off from time to time—though much less frequently than in the early months, when the alarms wailed constantly, persistently, like the agonal screams of a dying race. Another vestige of civilization fading away.

In the absence of the alarm, Eph listened for intruders. Through windows, rising from dank cellars, descending from dusty attics—vampires entered through any opening, and nowhere was safe. Even the few hours of sunlight each day—a dim, dusky light, haven taken on a sickly amber hue—still offered many hazards. Daylight was human curfew time. The best time for Eph and the others to move—safe from direct confrontation by strigoi—was also one of the most dangerous, due to surveillance and the prying eyes of human sympathizers looking to improve their lot.

Eph leaned his forehead against the window. The coolness of the glass was a pleasant sensation against his warm skin and the throbbing inside his skull.

Knowing was the worst part. Awareness of insanity does not make one any less insane. Awareness of drowning does not make one any less of a drowning person—it only adds the burden of panic. Fear of the future, and the memory of a better, brighter past, were as much a source of Eph’s suffering as the vampire plague itself.

He needed food, he needed protein. Nothing in this house; he had cleaned it out of food—and alcohol—many months ago. Even found a secret stash of Butterfingers in Matt’s closet.

He backed off from the window, turning to face the room and the kitchen area beyond. He tried to remember how he got here and why. He saw slash marks in the wall where, using a kitchen knife, he had released his ex-wife’s boyfriend, decapitating the recently turned creature. That was back in the early days of slaying, when killing vampires was nearly as frightening as the notion of being turned by one. Even when the vampire in question had been his ex-wife’s boyfriend, a man poised to assume Eph’s place as the most important male figure in Zack’s life.

But that gag reflex of human morality was long gone now. This was a changed world, and Dr. Ephraim Goodweather, once a prominent epidemiologist with the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, was a changed man. The virus of vampirism had colonized the human race. The plague had routed civilization in a coup d’état of astonishing virulence and violence. Insurgents—the willful, the powerful, and the strong—had all largely been destroyed or turned, leaving the meek, the defeated, and the fearful to do the Master’s bidding.

Eph returned to his weapon bag. From a narrow, zippered pocket meant for batting gloves or sweatbands, he pulled out his creased Moleskine notebook. These days he remembered nothing without writing it down in his tattered diary. Everything went in there, from the transcendental to the banal. Everything must be recorded. This was his compulsion. His diary was essentially a long letter to his son, Zack. Leaving a record of his search for his only boy. Noting his observations and theories involving the vampire menace. And, as a scientist, simply recording data and phenomena.

At the same time, it was also a helpful exercise for retaining some semblance of sanity.

His handwriting had grown so cramped over the past two years, he could barely read his own entries. He recorded the date each day, because it was the only reliable method of tracking time without a proper calendar. Not that it mattered much—except for today.

He scribbled down the date, and then his heart pushed a double beat. Of course. That was it. Why he was back here yet again.

Today was Zack’s thirteenth birthday.

YOU
MAY
NOT
LIVE
BEYOND
THIS
POINT warned the sign affixed to the upstairs door, written in Magic Marker, illustrated with gravestones and skeletons and crosses. It was drawn in a younger hand, done when Zack was seven or eight. Zack’s bedroom had been left essentially unchanged since the last time he’d occupied it, the same as the bedrooms of missing kids everywhere, a symbol of the stopping of time in the hearts of their parents.

Eph kept returning to the bedroom like a diver returning again and again to a sunken shipwreck. A secret museum; a world preserved exactly as it had once been. A window directly into the past.

Eph sat on the bed, feeling the mattress’s familiar give, hearing its reassuring creak. He had been through everything in this room, everything his boy used to touch in the life he used to lead. He curated this room now; he knew every toy, every figurine, every coin and shoestring, every T-shirt and book. He rejected the notion that he was wallowing. People don’t attend church or synagogue or mosque to wallow; they attend regularly as a gesture of faith. Zack’s bedroom was a temple now. Here, and here alone, Eph felt a sense of peace and an affirmation of inner resolve.

Zack was still alive.

This was not speculation. This was not blind hope.

Eph knew that Zack was still alive and that his boy had not yet been turned.

In past times—the way the world used to work—the parent of a missing child had resources to turn to. They had the comfort of the police investigative process, and the knowledge that hundreds, if not thousands, of people identified and sympathized with their plight and were actively assisting in the search.

This abduction had occurred in a world without police, without human law. And Eph knew the identity of the being that had abducted Zack. The creature that was once his mother—yes. She committed the abduction. But her action was compelled by a larger entity.

The king vampire, the Master.

But Eph did not know why Zack had been taken. To hurt Eph, of course. And to satisfy his undead mother’s drive to revisit her “Dear Ones,” the beings she had loved in life. The insidious epidemiology of the virus spread in a vampiric perversion of human love. Turning them into fellow strigoi locked them to you forever, to an existence beyond the trials and tribulations of being human, devolving into only primal needs such as feeding, spreading, survival.

That was why Kelly (the thing that was once Kelly) had become so psychically fixated on their boy, and how, despite Eph’s best efforts, she had been able to spirit him away.

And it was precisely this same syndrome, this same obsessive passion for turning those closest to them, that confirmed to Eph that Zack had not been turned. For if the Master or Kelly had drunk the boy, then Zack would surely have returned for Eph as a vampire. Eph’s dread of this very occurrence—of having to face his undead son—had haunted him for two years now, at times sending him into a downward spiral of despair.

But why? Why hadn’t the Master turned Zack? What was it holding him for? As a potential marker to be played against Eph and the resistance effort he was part of? Or for some other more sinister reason that Eph could not—dared not—fathom?

Eph shuddered at the dilemma this would present to him. Where his son was concerned, he was vulnerable. Eph’s weakness was equal to his strength: he could not let go of his boy.

Where was Zack at that very moment? Was he being held somewhere? Being tormented as his father’s proxy? Thoughts like these clawed at Eph’s mind.

It was not knowing that unsettled him the most. The others—Fet, Nora, Gus—were able to commit fully to the resistance, all their energy and their focus, precisely because they had no hostages in this war.

Visiting this room usually helped Eph feel less alone in this accursed world. But today it had the opposite effect. He had never felt so acutely alone as he felt right here, at this very moment.

Eph thought again about Matt, his ex-wife’s boyfriend—the one he had slain downstairs—and how he used to obsess over that man’s growing influence on Zack’s upbringing. Now he had to think—daily, hourly—about what sort of hell his boy must be living in, under the rule of this actual monster . . .

Overcome, feeling nauseous and sweaty, Eph dug out his diary and scratched down the same question that appeared throughout the notebook, like a koan:

Where is Zack?

As was his habit, he flipped back through the most recent entries. He spied a note about Nora and tried to make out his penmanship.

“Morgue.” “Rendezvous.” “Move at sunlight.”

Eph squinted, trying to remember—as a sense of anxiety spread through him.

He was supposed to meet Nora and Mrs. Martinez at the old Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. In Manhattan. Today.

Shit.

Eph grabbed his bag with a clank of the silver blades, throwing the straps over his back, sword handles behind his shoulders like leather-wrapped antennae. He looked around quickly on his way out, spying an old Transformers toy next to the CD player on Zack’s bureau. Sideswipe, if Eph remembered correctly from reading Zack’s books outlining the Autobots’ specs. A birthday present from Eph to Zack, just a few years before. One of Sideswipe’s legs dangled, snapped from overuse. Eph manipulated the arms, remembering the way Zack used to effortlessly “transform” the toy from car to robot and back again like a Rubik’s Cube grand master.

“Happy birthday, Z,” whispered Eph before stuffing the busted toy into his weapons bag and heading for the door.

Woodside

THE
FORMER KELLY Goodweather arrived outside her former residence on Kelton Street just minutes after Eph’s departure. She had been tracking the human—her Dear One—since picking up his bloodbeat some fifteen hours before. But when the sky had brightened for the meridiem—the two to three hours of dull yet hazardous sunlight that filtered through the thick cloud cover each planetary rotation—she’d had to retire underground, losing time. Now she was close.

Two black-eyed feelers accompanied her—children blinded by the solar occlusion that coincided with the Master’s arrival in New York City, who were subsequently turned by the Master itself and now gifted with the enhanced perception of second sight—small and fast, skittering along the sidewalk and over abandoned cars like hungry spiders, seeing nothing and sensing everything.

Normally, Kelly’s innate attraction to her Dear One would have been sufficient for her to track and locate her ex-husband. But Eph’s signal was weakened and distorted by the effects of ethanol, stimulants, and sedatives on his nervous and circulatory systems. Intoxication confused the synapses in a human brain, slowing its transfer rate and serving to cloak its signal, like interference over a radio channel.

The Master had taken a peculiar interest in Ephraim Goodweather, specifically in monitoring his movement throughout the city. That was why the feelers—formerly a brother and sister, now nearly identical, having shed their hair, genitals, and other human gender markers—had been sent by the Master to assist Kelly in her pursuit. Here, they began racing back and forth along the short fence in front of the house, waiting for Kelly to catch up to them.

She opened the gate and entered the property, walking once around the house, wary of traps. Once satisfied, she rammed the heel of her hand through a double windowpane, shattering glass as she reached up and unfastened the lock, raising the sash.

The feelers leaped inside, Kelly following, lifting one bare, dirty leg through, then bending and easily contorting her body to enter the three-foot-square opening. The feelers climbed all over the sofa, indicating it like trained police canines. Kelly stood very still for a long moment, opening her senses to the interior of the dwelling. She confirmed that they were alone and thus too late. But she sensed Eph’s recent presence. Maybe there was more to be learned.

The feelers scooted across the floor to a north-facing window, touching the glass as though absorbing a recent, lingering sensation—then at once scrambled up the stairs. Kelly followed them, allowing them to scent and indicate. When she came upon them they were leaping around a bedroom, their psychic senses agitated by the urgency of Eph’s recent occupation, like animals driven wild by some overwhelming but little-understood impulse.

Kelly stood in the center of the room, arms at her sides. The heat of her vampiric body, her blazing metabolism, instantly raised the temperature of the cool room a few degrees. Unlike Eph, Kelly suffered no form of human nostalgia. She felt no affinity for her former domicile, no pangs of regret or loss as she stood in her son’s room. She no longer felt any connection to this place, just as she no longer felt any connection to her pitiable human past. The butterfly does not look back upon its caterpillar self, either fondly or wistfully; it simply flies on.

A hum entered her being, a presence inside her head and a quickening throughout her body. The Master, looking through her. Seeing with her eyes. Observing their near miss.

A moment of great honor and privilege . . .

Then, just as suddenly, the humming presence was gone. Kelly felt no reproach from the Master for having fallen short of capturing Eph. She felt only useful. Of all the others that served it, throughout this world, Kelly had two things the Master greatly valued. The first was a direct link to Ephraim Goodweather.

The second was Zachary.

Still, Kelly felt the ache of wanting—of needing—to turn her dear son. The urge had subsided but never vanished. She felt it all the time, an incomplete part of herself, an emptiness. It went against her vampire nature. But she bore this agony for one reason only: because the Master demanded it. Its immaculate will alone held Kelly’s longing at bay. And so the boy remained human. Remained undelivered, unfinished. There was indeed a purpose to the Master’s demand. In that, she trusted without any uncertainty. For the motive had not been revealed to her, because it was not for her to know yet.

For now it was quite enough to see the boy sitting at the Master’s side.

The feelers leaped around her as Kelly descended the staircase. She crossed to the raised window and exited through it as she had entered, almost without breaking stride. The rains had started again, fat, black drops pelting her hot scalp and shoulders, disappearing in wisps of steam. Standing out on the center yellow line of the street, she sensed Eph’s trail anew, his bloodbeat growing stronger as he became more sober.

With the feelers racing back and forth, she strode through the falling rain, leaving a faint trail of steam in her wake. She neared a rapid-transit station and felt her psychic link to him beginning to fade. This was due to the growing distance between them. He had boarded a subway train.

No disappointment clouded her thoughts. Kelly would continue to pursue Eph until they were reunited once and for all. She communicated her report back to the Master before following the feelers into the station.

Eph was returning to Manhattan.

The Farrell

THE
HORSE
CHARGED. In its wake was a plume of thick black smoke and orange flame.

The horse was on fire.

Fully consumed, the proud beast galloped with an urgency born not of pain but of desire. At night, visible from a mile away, the horse without rider or saddle raced through the flat, barren countryside, toward the village. Toward the watcher.

Fet stood transfixed by the sight. Knowing it was coming for him. He anticipated it. Expected it.

Entering the outskirts of the village, bearing down on him with the velocity of a flaming arrow, the galloping horse spoke—naturally, in a dream, it spoke—saying, I live.

Fet howled as the flaming horse overtook him—and he awoke.

He was on his side, lying on a fold-down bed in the crew bunk beneath the foredeck of a rocking ship. The vessel pitched and swayed, and he pitched and swayed with it, the possessions around him netted and tied down tight. The other beds were folded up to the wall. He was the only one currently bunking.

The dream—always essentially the same—had haunted him since his youth. The flaming horse with burning hooves racing at him out of the dark night, awakening him just before impact. The fear he felt upon waking was deep and rich, a child’s fear.

He reached for his pack beneath the bunk. The bag was damp—everything on the ship was damp—but its top knot was tight, its contents secure.

The ship was the Farrell, a large fishing boat used for smuggling marijuana, which, yes, was still a profitable black-market business. This was the final leg of a return trip from Iceland. Fet had hired the boat for the price of a dozen small arms and plenty of ammunition to keep them running pot for years to come. The sea was one of the few areas left on the planet that was essentially beyond the vampires’ reach. Illicit drugs had become incredibly scarce under the new prohibition, the trade confined to homegrown and home-brewed narcotics such as marijuana and pockets of methamphetamine. They operated a smaller sideline business smuggling moonshine—and, on this trip, a few cases of fine Icelandic and Russian vodka.

Fet’s mission to Iceland was twofold. His first order of business was to travel to the University of Reykjavik. In the weeks and months following the vampire cataclysm, while still holed up inside the train tunnel beneath the Hudson River, waiting for the surface air to become habitable once again, Fet constantly paged through the book Professor Abraham Setrakian had died for, the book the Holocaust survivor–turned–vampire hunter had entrusted explicitly and exclusively to Fet’s possession.

It was the Occido Lumen, loosely translated as “The Fallen Light.” Four hundred eighty-nine folios, handwritten on parchment, with twenty illuminated pages, bound in leather and faced with plates of pure vampire-repelling silver. The Lumen was an account of the rise of the strigoi, based upon a collection of ancient clay tablets dating back to Mesopotamian times, discovered inside a cave in the Zagros Mountains in 1508. Written in Sumerian and extremely fragile, the tablets survived over a century until they fell into the hands of a French rabbi who was committed to deciphering them—more than two centuries before Sumerian was widely translated—in secret. The rabbi eventually presented his illuminated manuscript to King Louis XIV as a gift—and was immediately imprisoned for his effort.

The original tablets were pulverized upon royal order and the manuscript believed destroyed or lost. The king’s mistress, a dabbler in the occult, retrieved the Lumen from a palace vault in 1671, and from there it changed hands many times in obscurity, acquiring its reputation as a cursed text. The Lumen resurfaced briefly in 1823 and again in 1911, each time coinciding with mysterious outbreaks of disease, before disappearing again. The text was offered for auction at Sotheby’s in Manhattan no fewer than ten days following the Master’s arrival and the start of the vampire plague—and was won, after great effort, by Setrakian with the backing of the Ancients and their accumulated wealth.

Setrakian, the university professor who shunned normal society following the turning of his beloved wife, becoming obsessed with hunting and destroying the virus-bred strigoi, had considered the Lumen the authoritative text on the conspiracy of vampires that had plagued the earth for most of the history of mankind. Publicly, his station in life had fallen to that of a lowly pawnbroker in an economically depressed section of Manhattan; yet in the bowels of his shop he had maintained an armory of vampire-fighting weapons and a library of ancient accounts and manuals regarding the dread race, accumulated from all corners of the globe throughout decades of pursuit. But such was his desire to reveal the secrets contained within the Occido Lumen that he ultimately gave his life so that it would fall into Fet’s hands.

It had occurred to Fet, during those long, dark nights in the tunnel beneath the Hudson River, that the Lumen had to have been offered up for auction by someone. Someone had possessed the cursed book—but who? Fet thought that perhaps the seller had some further knowledge of its power and its contents. In the time since they surfaced, Fet had been diligently going through the tome with a Latin dictionary, doing the tedious work of translating the lexicon as best he could. On an excursion inside the vacated Sotheby’s building on the Upper East Side, Fet discovered that the University of Reykjavik was to be the anonymous beneficiary of the proceeds from the sale of the extraordinarily rare book. With Nora he weighed the pros and cons of undertaking this journey, and together they decided that this lengthy voyage to Iceland was their only chance of uncovering who had actually put the book up for auction.

However, the university, as he discovered upon arrival, was a warren of vampires. Fet had hoped that Iceland might have gone the way of the United Kingdom, which had reacted swiftly to the plague, blowing up the Chunnel and hunting down strigoi after the initial outbreak. The islands remained nearly vampire-free, and their people, though completely isolated from the rest of the infected globe, remained human.

Fet had waited until daylight to search the ransacked administrative offices in hopes of tracing the book’s provenance. He learned that the university trust itself had offered the book for auction, not a scholar employed there or a specific benefactor, as Fet had hoped. As the campus itself was deserted, this was a long way to travel to find a dead end. But it was not a total waste. For on a shelf in the Egyptology department, Fet had found a most curious text: an old, leather-bound book, printed in French in 1920. On its cover were the words Sadum et Amurah. The very last words that Setrakian had asked Fet to remember.

He took the text with him. Even though he spoke not a single word of French.

The second part of his mission proved to be much more productive. At some point early on in his association with these pot smugglers, after learning how wide their reach was, Fet challenged them to connect him with a nuclear weapon. This request was not as far-fetched as one might think. In the Soviet Union especially, where the strigoi enjoyed total control, many so-called suitcase nukes had been purloined by ex-KGB officers and were rumored to be available—in less-than-mint condition—on the black markets of Eastern Europe. The Master’s drive to purge the world of these weapons—in order that they could not be used to destroy its site of origin, as the Master had itself destroyed the six Ancients—proved to Fet and the others that the Master was indeed vulnerable. Much like the Ancients, the Master’s site of origin, the very key to its destruction, was encrypted within the pages of the Lumen. Fet offered the right price and had the silver to back it up.

This crew of smugglers put out feelers among their maritime compatriots, with the promise of a silver bounty. Fet was skeptical when the smugglers told him they had a surprise for him, but the desperate will believe in almost anything. They rendezvoused on a small volcanic island south of Iceland with a Ukrainian crew of seven aboard a junked-out yacht with six different outboard engines off the stern. The captain of the crew was young, in his midtwenties, and essentially one-handed, his left arm withered and ending in an unsightly claw.

The device was not a suitcase at all. It resembled a small keg or trash can wrapped in a black tarpaulin and netting, with buckled green straps around its sides and over its lid. Roughly three feet tall by two feet wide. Fet tried lifting it gently. It weighed over one hundred pounds.

“You sure this works?” he asked.

The captain scratched his copper beard with his good hand. He spoke broken English with a Russian accent. “I am told it does. Only one way to find out. It misses one part.”

“One part is missing?” said Fet. “Let me guess. Plutonium. U-233.”

“No. Fuel is in the core. One-kiloton capability. It misses the detonator.” He pointed to a thatch of wires on the top and shrugged. “Everything else good.”

The explosive force of a one-kiloton nuke equaled one thousand tons of TNT. A half-mile shockwave of steel-bending destruction. “I’d love to know how you came across this,” said Fet.

“I’d like to know what you want it for,” said the captain. “Best if we all keep our secrets.”

“Fair enough.”

The captain had another crewman help Fet load the bomb onto the smugglers’ boat. Fet opened the hold beneath the steel floor where the cache of silver lay. The strigoi were bent on collecting every piece of silver in the same manner as they were collecting and disarming nukes. As such, the value of this vampire-killing substance rose exponentially.

Once the deal was consummated, including a side transaction between crews of bottles of vodka for pouches of rolling tobacco, drinks were poured into shot glasses.

“You Ukraine?” the captain asked Fet after downing the firewater.

Fet nodded. “You can tell?”

“Look like people from my village, before it disappear.”

“Disappear?” said Fet.

The young captain nodded. “Chernobyl,” he explained, raising his shriveled arm.

Fet now looked at the nuke, bungee-corded to the wall. No glow, no tick-tick-tick. A drone weapon awaiting activation. Had he bartered for a barrel full of junk? Fet did not think so. He trusted the Ukrainian smuggler to vet his own suppliers, and also the fact that he had to continue doing business with the pot smugglers.

Fet was excited, even confident. This was like holding a loaded gun, only without a trigger. All he needed was a detonator.

Fet had seen, with his own eyes, a crew of vampires excavating sites around a geologically active area of hot springs outside Reykjavik, known as Black Pool. This proved that the Master did not know the exact location of its own site of origin—not the Master’s birthplace, but the earthen site where it had first arisen in vampiric form.

The secret to its location was contained in the Occido Lumen. All Fet had to do was what he as of yet had failed to accomplish: decode the work and discover the location of the site of origin himself. Were the Lumen more like a straightforward manual for exterminating vampires, Fet would have been able to follow its instructions—but instead, the Lumen was full of wild imagery, strange allegories, and dubious pronouncements. It charted a backward path throughout the course of human history, steered not by the hand of fate but by the supernatural grip of the Ancients. The text confounded him, as it did the others. Fet lacked faith in his own scholarship. Here, he missed most the old professor’s reassuring wealth of knowledge. Without him, the Lumen was as useful to them as the nuclear device was without a detonator.

Still, this was progress. Fet’s restless enthusiasm brought him topside. He gripped the rail and looked out over the turbulent ocean. A harsh, briny mist but no heavy rain tonight. The changed atmosphere made boating more dangerous, the marine weather more unpredictable. Their boat was moving through a swarm of jellyfish, a species that had taken over much of the open seas, feeding on fish eggs and blocking what little daily sun reached the ocean—at times in floating patches several miles wide, coating the surface of the water like pudding skin.

They were passing within ten miles of the coast of New Bedford, Massachusetts, which put Fet in mind of one of the more interesting accounts contained in Setrakian’s work papers, the pages he had compiled to leave behind alongside the Lumen. In them, the old professor related an account of the Winthrop Fleet of 1630, which made the Atlantic voyage ten years after the Mayflower, transporting a second wave of Pilgrims to the New World. One of the fleet’s ships, the Hopewell, had transported three pieces of unidentified cargo contained in crates of handsome and ornately carved wood. Upon landing in Salem, Massachusetts, and resettling in Boston (due to its abundance of freshwater) thereafter, conditions among the Pilgrims turned brutal. Two hundred settlers were lost in the first year, their deaths attributed to illness rather than the true cause: they had been prey for the Ancients, after having unwittingly conveyed the strigoi to the New World.

Setrakian’s death had left a great void in Fet. He dearly missed the wise man’s counsel as well as his company, but most acutely he missed his intellect. The old man’s demise wasn’t merely a death but—and this was not an overstatement—a critical blow to the future of humankind. At great risk to himself, he had delivered into their hands this sacred book, the Occido Lumen—though not the means to decipher it. Fet had also made himself a student of the pages and leather-bound notebooks containing the deep, hermetic ruminations of the old man, but sometimes filed away side by side with small domestic observations, grocery lists, financial calculations.

He cracked open the French book and, not surprisingly, couldn’t make heads or tails of it either. However, some beautiful engravings proved quite illuminating: in a full-page illustration, Fet saw the image of an old man and his wife, fleeing a city, burning in a holy flash of fire—the wife turning to dust. Even he knew that tale . . . “Lot . . . ,” he said. A few pages before he saw another illustration: the old man shielding two painfully beautiful winged creatures—archangels sent by the Lord. Quickly Fet slammed the book shut and looked at the cover. Sadum et Amurah.

“Sodom and Gomorrah . . . ,” he said. “Sadum and Amurah are Sodom and Gomorrah . . .” And suddenly he felt fluent in French. He remembered an illustration in the Lumen, almost identical to the one in the French book. Not in style or sophistication but in content. Lot shielding the archangels from the men seeking congress with them.

The clues were there, but Fet was mostly unable to put any of this to good use. Even his hands, coarse and big as baseball mitts, seemed entirely unsuited for handling the Lumen. Why had Setrakian chosen him over Eph to guard the book? Eph was smarter, no doubt, much better-read. Hell, he probably spoke fucking French. But Setrakian knew that Fet would die before allowing the book to fall into the Master’s hands. Setrakian knew Fet well. And loved him well—with the patience and the care of an old father. Firm but compassionate, Setrakian never made Fet feel too slow or uninformed; quite to the contrary, he explained every matter with great care and patience and made Fet feel included. He made him belong.

The emotional void in Fet’s life had been filled by a most unsuspected source. When Eph grew increasingly erratic and obsessive, beginning in the earliest days inside the train tunnel but magnifying once they surfaced, Nora had come to lean more on Fet, to confide in him and to give and to seek comfort. Over time, Fet had learned how to respond. He had come to admire Nora’s tenacity in the face of such overwhelming despair; so many others had succumbed to either hopelessness or insanity, or else, like Eph, had allowed their despair to change them. Nora Martinez evidently saw something in Fet—maybe the same thing the old professor had seen in him—a primal nobility, more akin to a beast of burden than a man, and something Fet himself had been unaware of until recently. And if this quality that he possessed—steadfastness, determination, ruthlessness, whatever it was—made him somehow more attractive to her under these extreme circumstances, then he was the better for it.

Out of respect for Eph, he had resisted this entanglement, denying his own feelings as well as Nora’s. But their mutual attraction was more evident now. On the last day before his departure, Fet had rested his leg against Nora’s. A casual gesture by any measure, except for someone like Fet. He was a large man but incredibly conscious of his personal space, neither seeking nor allowing any violation of it. He kept his distance, ultimately uncomfortable with most human contact—but Nora’s knee was pressed against his, and his heart was racing. Racing with hope as the notion dawned on him: She’s holding. She is not moving away . . .

She had asked him to be careful, to take care of himself, and in her eyes were tears. Genuine tears as she saw him leave.

No one had ever cried for Fet before.

Manhattan

EPH
RODE
THE 7 express inbound, clinging fast to the exterior of the subway train. He gripped the rear left corner of the last car, his right boot perched on the rear step, fingertips dug into the window frames, rocking with the motion of the train over the elevated track. The wind and the black rain whipped at the tails of his charcoal-gray raincoat, his hooded face turned in toward the shoulder straps of his weapon pack.

It used to be that the vampires had to ride on the outside of the trains, shuttling around the underground of Manhattan in order to avoid discovery. Through the window, whose dented frame he had pried his fingers under, he saw humans sitting and rocking with the motion of the train. The distant stares, the expressionless faces: a perfectly orderly scene. He did not look for long, for if there were any strigoi riding, their heat-registering night vision would have spotted him, resulting in a very unpleasant welcoming party at the next stop. Eph was still a fugitive, his likeness hanging in post offices and police stations throughout the city, the news stories concerning his successful assassination of Eldritch Palmer—cleverly edited from his unsuccessful attempt—still replayed on television every week or so, keeping his name and face foremost in the minds of the watchful citizenry.

Riding the trains required skills that Eph had developed through time and necessity. The tunnels were invariably wet—smelling of burned ozone and old grease—and Eph’s ragged, smeared clothes acted as perfect camouflage, both visual and olfactory. Hooking up to the rear of the train—that required timing and precision. But Eph had it down. As a kid in San Francisco, he had routinely used the back of streetcars to hitch a ride to school. And you had to board them just in time. Too early and you would be discovered. Too late and you would be dragged and take a bad tumble.

And in the subway, he had taken some tumbles—usually due to drink. Once, as the train took a curve under Tremont Avenue, he had lost his footing as he calculated his landing jump and trailed on the back of the train, legs hopping frantically, bouncing against the tracks until he rolled on his side, cracking two ribs and dislocating his right shoulder—the bone popping softly as it hit the steel rails on the other side of the line. He barely avoided being hit by an oncoming train. Seeking refuge in a maintenance alcove saturated in human urine and old newspapers, he had popped the shoulder back in—but it bothered him every other night. If he rolled on it in his sleep he would wake up in agony.

But now, through practice, he had learned to seek the footholds and the crevices in the rear structure of the train cars. He knew every train, every car—and he had even fashioned two short grappling hooks to grab on to the loose steel panels in a matter of seconds. They were hammered out of the good silver set at the Goodweather household and, now and then, served as a short-range weapon with the strigoi.

The hooks were attached to wooden handles, made from the legs of a mahogany table Kelly’s mother had given them as a wedding present. If she only knew . . . She had never liked Eph—not good enough for her Kelly—and now she would like him even less.

Eph turned his head, shaking off some of the wetness in order to look out through the black rain to the city blocks on either side of the concrete viaduct high above Queens Boulevard. Some blocks remained ravaged, razed by fires during the takeover, or else looted and long since emptied. Patches of the city appeared as though they had been destroyed in a war—and, indeed, they had.

Others were lit by artificial light, city zones rebuilt by humans overseen by the Stoneheart Foundation, at the direction of the Master: light was critical for work in a world that was dark for as many as twenty-two hours each calendar day. Power grids all across the globe had collapsed following initial electromagnetic pulses that were the result of multiple nuclear detonations. Voltage overruns had burned out electrical conductors, plunging much of the world into vampire-friendly darkness. People very quickly came to the realization—terrifying and brutal in its impact—that a creature race of superior strength had seized control of the planet and that man had been supplanted at the top of the food chain by beings whose own biological needs demanded a diet of human blood. Panic and despair swept the continents. Infected armies fell silent. In the time of consolidation following Night Zero, as the new, poisonous atmosphere continued to roil and cure overhead, so did the vampires establish a new order.

The subway train slowed as it approached Queensboro Plaza. Eph lifted his foot from the rear step, hanging from the blind side of the car so as not to be seen from the platform. The heavy, constant rain was good for one thing only: obscuring him from the vampires’ watchful, blood-red eyes.

He heard the doors slide open, people shuffling in and out. The automated track announcements droned from overhead speakers. The doors closed and the train began moving again. Eph regripped the window frame with his sore fingers and watched the dim platform recede from his vision, sliding away down the line like the world of the past, shrinking, fading, swallowed up by the polluted rain and the night.

The subway train soon dipped underground, out of the driving rain. After two more stops, it entered the Steinway Tunnel, beneath the East River. It was modern conveniences such as this—the amazing ability to travel beneath a swift river—that contributed to the human race’s undoing. Vampires, forbidden by nature from crossing a body of moving water under their own power, were able to circumvent such obstacles by the use of tunnels, long-distance aircraft, and other rapid-transit alternatives.

The train slowed, approaching Grand Central Station—and just in time. Eph readjusted his grip on the subway car’s exterior, fighting fatigue, tenaciously holding on to his homemade hooks. He was malnourished, as thin now as he had been as a freshman in high school. He had grown accustomed to the persistent, gnawing emptiness in the pit of his belly; he knew that protein and vitamin deficiencies affected not only his bones and muscles but also his mind.

Eph hopped off before it came to a full stop, stumbling to the rock bed between the tracks. He rolled on his left shoulder, landing like an expert. He flexed his fingers, unlocking the arthritis-like paralysis of his knuckles, putting away the hooks. The train’s rear light shrank up ahead, and he heard the grating of steel wheels braking against steel rails, a metallic shriek his ears never got used to.

He turned and hobbled off the other way, deeper into the tunnel. He had traveled this route enough times that he did not need his night scope to reach the next platform. The third rail was not a concern, covered with wood casing, in fact making for a convenient step up onto the abandoned platform.

Construction materials remained on the tile floor, a renovation interrupted at its earliest stage: scaffolding, a stack of pipe sections, bales of tubing wrapped in plastic. Eph pushed back his wet hood and reached into his pack for his night-vision scope, strapping it over his head, the lens fitting in front of his right eye. Satisfied that nothing had been disturbed since his last visit, he moved toward the unmarked door.

At its pre-vampire peak, half a million people daily crossed the polished Tennessee marble of the Grand Concourse floor somewhere above him. Eph could not risk entering the main terminal—the half-acre concourse afforded few places to hide—but he had been up on the catwalks on the roof. There, he had looked at the monuments to a lost age: landmark skyscrapers such as the MetLife Building and the Chrysler Building, dark and silent against the night. He had climbed above the two-story-high air-conditioning units on the terminal roof, standing on the pediment facing Forty-second Street and Park Avenue, among colossal statues of the Roman gods Minerva, Hercules, and Mercury above the great clock of Tiffany glass. On the central section of the roof, he had looked down more than a hundred feet to the cathedral-like Grand Concourse. That was as close as he had gotten.

Eph eased open the door, his scope seeing into the total darkness beyond. He climbed two long flights of stairs, then went through another unlocked door into a long corridor. Thick steam pipes ran the length of it, still functioning, groaning with heat. By the time he reached the next door, he was dripping with sweat.

He slid a small silver knife from his backpack, needing to be careful here. The cement-walled emergency exit was no place to get cornered. Black-tinged groundwater had seeped into the floor, pollution from the sky having become a permanent part of the ecosystem. This section of the underground was once regularly patrolled by maintenance workers, rooting out the homeless, the curious, the vandals. Then the strigoi briefly assumed control of the underworld of the city, hiding, feeding, spreading. Now that the Master had reconfigured the planet’s atmosphere in order to free vampires from the threat of the sun’s virus-killing ultraviolet rays, they had risen from this labyrinthine netherworld and claimed the surface for themselves.

The last door was plastered with a white-and-red sign: EMERGENCY
EXIT
ONLY—ALARM
WILL
SOUND. Eph returned his blade and his night-vision scope to his backpack, then pushed the pressure bar, the alarm wires having been snipped long ago.

A foul breeze from the stringy black rain exhaled into his face. He pulled up his damp hood and started walking east on Forty-fifth Street. He watched his feet splashing on the sidewalk, walking as he was with his head down. Many of the wrecked or abandoned cars from the initial days remained shoved to the curbs, making most of the streets one-way paths for work vans or supply trucks operated by the vampires and the Stoneheart humans. Eph’s eyes remained low but vigilantly searched either side of the street. He had learned never to look around conspicuously; the city had too many windows, too many pairs of vampire eyes. If you looked suspicious, you were suspicious. Eph went out of his way to avoid any interaction with strigoi. On the streets, as everywhere, humans were second-class citizens, subject to search or any kind of abuse. A sort of creature apartheid existed. Eph could not risk exposure.

He hurried over to First Avenue, to the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, quickly ducking down the ramp reserved for ambulances and hearses. He squeezed behind stretchers and a rolling wardrobe they had set there in order to obscure the basement entrance, and entered the unlocked door to the city morgue.

Inside, he stood a few moments in the dim silence, listening. This room, with its stainless steel autopsy tables and numerous sinks, was where the first group of passengers from doomed Regis Air Flight 753 had been brought two years before. Where Eph had first examined the needle-like breach in the necks of the seemingly dead passengers, exposing a puncture wound that extended to the common carotid artery—which they would soon discover had been caused by the vampires’ stingers. Where he had also first been shown the strange antemortem augmentation of the vestibular folds around the vocal cords, later determined to be the preliminary stage of the development of the creatures’ fleshy stingers. And where he had first witnessed the transformation of the victims’ blood from healthy red to oily white.

Also, just outside on the sidewalk was where Eph and Nora first encountered the elderly pawnbroker Abraham Setrakian. Everything Eph knew about the vampire breed—from the killing properties of silver and ultraviolet light, to the existence of the Ancients and their role in the shaping of human civilization since the earliest times, to the rogue Ancient known as the Master whose journey to the New World aboard Flight 753 marked the beginning of the end—he had learned from this tenacious old man.

The building had remained uninhabited since the takeover. The morgue was not part of the infrastructure of a city administered by vampires, because death was no longer the necessary end point of human existence. As such, the end-of-life rituals of mourning and corpse preparation and burial were no longer needed and rarely observed.

For Eph, this building was his unofficial base of operations. He started up the stairs to the upper floors, ready to hear it from Nora: how his despair over Zack’s absence was interfering with their resistance work. Dr. Nora Martinez had been Eph’s number two in the Canary Project at the CDC. In the midst of all the stress and chaos of the rise of the vampires, their long-simmering relationship had gone from professional to personal. Eph had attempted to deliver Nora and Zack to safety, out of the city, back when the trains were still running beneath Penn Station. But Eph’s worst fears were realized when Kelly, drawn to her Dear One, led a swarm of strigoi into the tunnels beneath the Hudson River, derailing the train and laying waste to the rest of the passengers—and Kelly attacked Nora and spirited his son away.

Zack’s capture—for which Eph in no way held Nora accountable—had nonetheless driven a wedge between them, just as it had driven a wedge between Eph and everything. Eph felt disconnected from himself. He felt fractured and fragmented and knew that this was all he had to offer Nora now.

Nora had her own concerns: chiefly her mother, Mariela Martinez, her mind crippled by Alzheimer’s disease. The OCME building was large enough that Nora’s mother could roam the upper floors, strapped into her wheelchair, creeping down the hallway by the grip socks on her feet, conversing with people no longer present or alive. A wretched existence, but, in reality, not so far removed from that of the rest of the surviving human race. Perhaps better: Mrs. Martinez’s mind had taken refuge in the past and thus could avoid the horror of the present.

The first sign Eph found that something was amiss was the overturned wheelchair, lying on its side near the door off the fourth-floor stairway, strap belts lying on the floor. Then the ammonia scent hit him, the telltale odor of vampire presence. Eph drew his sword, his pace quickening down the corridor, a sick feeling rising from his gut. The medical examiner’s building had limited electricity, but Eph could not use lamps or light fixtures that would be visible from the street, so he proceeded down the dim corridor in a defensive crouch, mindful of doors and corners and other potential hiding places.

He passed a fallen partition. A ransacked cubicle. An overturned chair. “Nora!” he called. An incautious act, but if there were still any strigoi present, he wanted to draw them out now.

On the floor in a corner office, he discovered Nora’s travel backpack. It had been ripped open, her clothes and personal items flung around the room. Her Luma lamp sat in the corner, plugged into its charger. Her clothes were one thing, but Eph knew that Nora would never go anywhere without her UV lamp, unless she had no choice. He did not see her weapon pack anywhere.

He picked up the handheld lamp, switching on the black light. It revealed swirling bursts of bright color on the carpet and against the side of the desk: vampire excrement stains.

Strigoi had marauded here; that was obvious. Eph tried to remain focused and calm. He thought he was alone, at least on this floor: no vampires, which was good, but no Nora, or her mother, which was devastating.

Had there been a fight? He tried to read the room, its swirling stains and overturned chair. He didn’t think so. He roamed the hall looking for more evidence of violence beyond property damage but found none. Combat would have been her last resort, and had she made a stand here, the building would certainly be under the control of vampires now. This, to Eph’s eye, looked more akin to a house raid.

While examining the desk, he found Nora’s weapon bag stowed beneath it, her sword still inside. So evidently she had been surprised. If there was no battle—no silver-to-vampire contact—then her chances of meeting a violent end decreased exponentially. The strigoi weren’t interested in victims. They were intent on filling their camps.

Had she been captured? It was a possibility, but Eph knew Nora, and she would never go without a battle—and he just didn’t see any evidence of that. Unless they had captured her mother first. Nora might have acquiesced then out of fear for Mrs. Martinez’s safety.

If so, it was unlikely that Nora would have been turned. The strigoi, under the Master’s command, were reluctant to add to their ranks: drinking a human’s blood and infecting them with the vampiric viral strain only created another vampire to feed. No, it was more likely that Nora would have been transported to a detention camp outside the city. From there, she could be assigned work or further disciplined. Not much was known about the camps; some of those who went in never reemerged. Mrs. Martinez, having lived well beyond her productivity years, would meet a more certain end.

Eph looked around, becoming frantic, trying to figure out what to do. This appeared to be a random incident—but was it? At times, Eph had to keep his distance from the others and carefully monitor his comings and goings from the OCME, because of Kelly’s tireless pursuit of him. His discovery could lead the Master right to the heart of their resistance. Had something gone wrong? Was Fet compromised as well? Had the Master somehow gotten onto their entire cell?

Eph went to the laptop computer on the desk, opening it. It was still powered on, and he struck the space bar to wake up the screen. Workstation computers in the ME’s building were hardwired to a still-functioning network server. The Internet was heavily damaged in spots and generally unreliable. One was more likely to receive an error message than a page load. Unrecognized and unauthorized Internet protocol addresses were particularly susceptible to worms and viruses, and many computers in the building had become either locked up due to hard-drive-damaging malware or slowed to an unusable crawl by corrupted operating systems. Mobile phone technology was no longer in existence, either for telecommunication or for Internet access. Why allow the human underclass access to a communications network capable of spanning the globe—something the vampires possessed telepathically?

Eph and the others operated under the assumption that all Internet activity was vampire-monitored. The page he was now looking at—that Nora had apparently abandoned suddenly, without time to shut down the hard drive—was some sort of personal message exchange, a two-party chat conducted in shorthand.

“NMart” was obviously Nora Martinez. Her partner in conversation, “VFet,” was Vasiliy Fet, the former New York City exterminator. Fet had joined their fight early, by way of an invasion of rats prompted by the arrival of the strigoi. He had proven himself invaluable to the cause, for both his vermin-killing techniques and his knowledge of the city, in particular the boroughs’ subterranean passageways. He had become as much of a disciple of the late Setrakian as Eph was, coming into his own as a New World vampire hunter. Currently, he was on a freighter somewhere on the Atlantic Ocean, returning from Iceland on a very important errand.

This thread, full of Fet’s grammatical idiosyncrasies, had started the day before, and it was mainly about Eph. He read words he was never meant to see:

NMart: E not here—missed rendezvous. You were right. I shouldn’t have relied on him. Now all I can do is wait . . .

VFet: Don’t wait there. Keep moving. Return to Roosvlt.

NMart: Can’t—my mother is worse. Will try to stay another day at most. TRULY cannot take this anymore. He’s dangerous. He’s becoming a risk to us all. Just a matter of time before bitch-vamp Kelly catches up with him or he leads her back here.

VFet: I hear you. But w need him. Most keep hm close.

NMart: He goes out on his own. Doesn’t care about anything else.

VFet: He’s 2 important. 2 them. 2 the M. 2 us.

NMart: I know it . . . it’s just that I can’t trust him anymore. I don’t even know who he is . . .

VFet: We all just have to keep him from sinking all to the deep end. You especially. Keep him afloat. He dsn’t know where the book is. That’s our double blind. He can’t hurt us that way.

NMart: He’s at K’s house again. I know it. Raiding it for memories of Z. Like stealing from a dream.

And then:

NMart: You know I miss you. How much longer?

VFet: Returning now. Missing you too.

Eph shrugged off his weapon pack, resheathing his sword, and dropped down into the office chair.

He stared at the most recent exchange, reading it again and again, hearing Nora’s voice, then Fet’s Brooklyn accent.

Missing you too.

He felt weightless, reading it—as though the force of gravity had been removed from his body. And yet, here he sat, still.

He should have felt more anger. More righteous fury. Betrayal. A jealous frenzy.

And he did feel all these things. But not deeply. Not acutely. They were there, and he acknowledged them, but it amounted to . . . more of the same. His malaise was so overwhelming that no other flavor, no matter how sour, could change his emotional palate.

How had this happened? At times, over these past two years, Eph had consciously kept his distance from Nora. He had done so to protect her, to protect them all . . . or so he said to himself, justifying plain abandonment.

Still—he couldn’t understand it. He reread the other part. So he was a “risk.” He was “dangerous.” Unreliable. They seemed to think that they were carrying him. Part of him felt relief. Relief for Nora—Good for her—but most of him just throbbed with mounting rage. What was this? Was he jealous just because he couldn’t hold her anymore? God knew he was not exactly minding the store; was he angry because someone else had found his forgotten toy and now he wanted it back? He knew himself so little . . . Kelly’s mother used to tell him he was always ten minutes too late to all the major milestones of his life. Late for Zack’s birth, late for the wedding, late to save his marriage from falling apart. God knew he was late to save Zack or save the world, and now—now this . . .

Nora? With Fet?

She was gone. Why didn’t he do something before? Strangely, amid the pain and the sense of loss he also felt relief. He didn’t need to worry anymore—he didn’t need to compensate for his shortcomings, explain his absence, mollify Nora. But as that tenuous wave of relief was about to kick in, he turned around and caught himself in a mirror.

He looked older. Much older than he should have. And dirty, almost like a hobo. His hair was plastered against his sweaty forehead and his clothes were layered with months of grime. His eyes were sunk and his cheeks jutted out, pulling the taut, thin skin surrounding them. No wonder, he thought. No wonder.

He pulled himself back out of the chair in a daze. He walked down four flights of stairs and out of the medical examiner’s building through the pissing black rain to nearby Bellevue Hospital. He climbed in through a broken window and walked the dark and deserted halls, following signs for the emergency room. Bellevue’s ER was once a Level 1 trauma center, meaning it had housed a full range of specialists providing access to the best facilities.

As well as the best drugs.

He arrived at the nurses’ station and found the drug cabinet door torn off. The locked refrigerator had also been pried open and ransacked. No Percs, no Vikes, no Demerol. He pocketed some oxycodone and antianxiety meds in blister packs—self-diagnosing and self-medicating—tossing empty cartons over his shoulder. He popped two white oxys and dry-swallowed them—then froze.

He had been moving so quickly and making so much noise that he had not heard the bare feet approaching. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement from across the nurses’ station and stood.

Two strigoi, staring at him. Fully formed vampires, hairless and pale, unclothed. He saw the thickened arteries bulging through their necks, running down over their clavicles into their chests like throbbing tree roots. One had once been a male human (larger body) and the other had been a female (breasts shriveled and pale).

The other distinguishing trait of these matured vampires was their loose, floppy wattle. Disgusting, stretched-out flesh that hung like a turkey neck, pale red when in need of nourishment, flushing crimson after feeding. The wattles of these strigoi hung pale and scrotumlike, swaying with a turn of their heads. A sign of rank, and the mark of an experienced hunter.

Were these the same two that had accosted Nora and her mother or otherwise rousted them from the OCME? There was no way to confirm it, but something told Eph this was the case—which, if true, meant that Nora might have gotten away clean after all.

He saw what he thought was a glimmer of recognition in their otherwise blank, red eyes. Normally there was no spark or hint of a brain at work behind a vampire’s gaze—but Eph had seen this look before and knew that he had been recognized and identified. Their surrogate eyes had communicated their find to the Master, whose presence came flooding into their brains with the force of possession. The horde would be there in a matter of minutes.

“Doctor Goodweather . . . ,” both the creatures said at the same time, their voices chirping in eerie synchrony. Their bodies rose like twin marionettes controlled by the same invisible string. The Master.

Eph observed, both fascinated and repulsed, how their blank stare gave way to the intelligence, the poise of the superior creature—undulating, snapping to attention, like a leather glove snapping into shape as the hand fills it with form and intention.

The pale, elongated faces of the creatures morphed as the will of the Master overtook the flaccid mouths and the vacant eyes . . .

“You look . . . quite tired . . . ,” the twin marionettes said, their bodies moving in unison. “I think you should rest . . . don’t you think? Join us. Give in. I will procure for you. Anything you want . . .”

The monster was right: he was tired—oh, so very, very tired—and yes, he would’ve liked to give in. Can I? he thought. Please? Give in?

His eyes brimmed with tears and he felt his knees give—just a little—like a man about to sit down. “The people you love—the ones you miss—they live in my embrace . . . ,” the twin messengers said, their message worded so carefully. So inviting, so ambiguous . . .

Eph’s hands trembled as he reached back over each shoulder, gripping the worn leather handles of his two long swords. He drew them out straight so as not to slice his weapon pack. Maybe it was the opioid kicking in, but something clicked deep inside his brain, something that made him associate these two monstrosities, female and male, with Nora and Fet. His lover and his trusted friend, now conspiring against him. It was as though they themselves had come upon Eph here, rummaging through the drug cabinet like a junkie, witnessing him at his lowest moment—for which they were directly responsible.

“No,” he said, renouncing the Master with a broken whimper, his voice breaking even in that single syllable. And rather than push his emotions aside, Eph brought them to the fore, molded them into rage.

“As you wish,” the Master said. “I will see you again . . . soon . . .”

And then, the will gave way to the hunters. Snorting, huffing, the beasts came back, leaving behind the poised, erect stance and landing on all fours, ready to circle their prey. Eph did not give the vampires a chance to flank him. He rushed straight at the male first, both swords at the ready. The vamp leaped away from him at the last moment—they were agile and fast—but not before Eph’s sword tip caught it across the side of its torso. The slash was deep enough to make the vampire land off-balance, the wound leaking white blood. Strigoi rarely felt any bodily pain, but they felt it when the weapon was silver. The creature twisted and gripped its side.

In that moment of hesitation and inattention, Eph spun and brought his other sword across at shoulder height. One slice removed the head from the neck and shoulders, severing it just beneath the jaw. The vampire’s arms went up in a reflex of self-protection before its trunk and limbs collapsed.

Eph turned again just as the female was in the air. It had vaulted the counter, springing at him with its twin taloned middle fingers poised to cut at his face—but Eph was just able to deflect its arms with his own as the vampire flew past, landing hard against the wall, slumping to the floor. Eph lost both his swords in the process. His hands were so weak. Oh, yes, yes, please—I want to give up.

The strigoi quickly sprang onto all fours, facing Eph from a crouch. Its eyes bore into him, surrogates of the Master, the evil presence that had taken everything from him. Eph’s rage flared anew. He swiftly produced his grappling hooks and braced for impact. The vampire charged and Eph went for it—the vampire wattle dangling beneath its chin made for a perfect target. He had done this move hundreds of times—like a worker in a fish plant scaling a big tuna. One hook connected with the throat behind the wattle, sinking quickly and jamming behind the cartilaginous tube that housed the larynx and launched the stinger. Pulling down on it—hard—he blocked the stinger and forced the creature to genuflect with a piglike squeal. The other hook connected to the eye socket, and Eph’s thumb jammed under the jaw, locking the mouth shut. One summer, a long, long time ago, his father had shown him that move when catching snakes on a small river up north. “Clamp the jaw,” he had said, “lock the mouth—so they can’t bite.” Not many snakes were poisonous but a lot of them had a nasty bite and enough bacteria in their mouth to cause a lot of pain. Turned out that Eph—city boy Eph—was good at catching snakes. A natural. He had even been able to show off one good day, catching a snake in the driveway at home when Zack was still a child. He felt superior—a hero. But that was a long time ago. A zillion years BC.

Now Eph, weak and infirm, was hooking up a powerful, undead creature so hot to the touch, all angry energy and thirst. He was not knee-deep in a cool California stream or climbing out of his minivan to catch a city snake. He was in real danger. He could feel his muscles give. His strength was fading. Yes . . . yes—I would like to give in . . .

And his weakness made him angry. And he thought of everything he had lost—Kelly, Nora, Zack, the world—and he yanked hard, with a primal scream, ripping the trachial tube and snapping the tense cartilage. The jaw snapped and dislocated under his grimy thumb at the very same time. A surge of blood and worms sprang forth and Eph danced backward, avoiding them studiously, weaving like a boxer out of the reach of his opponent.

The vampire sprang to its feet, sliding along the wall, howling, wattle and neck torn and flapping, gushing. Eph feigned a strike, the vamp retreating a few steps, wheezing and wailing, an awkward, wet little sound—almost like a duck call. He feinted again, and the vamp didn’t buy it at all this time. Eph had it lulled into a rhythm when the vamp stiffened, then ran off.

If Eph could ever put together a list of rules of engagement, near the top would have been Never follow a fleeing vampire. Nothing good could come from it. There was no strategic advantage to running down a strigoi. Its clairvoyant alert had already gone out. The vampires had developed coordinated attack strategies over the past two years. Running was either a stalling tactic or an outright ruse.

And yet, Eph, in his anger, did what he knew not to do. He picked up his swords and pursued it, down the hallway to a door marked STAIRS. Anger and a weird desire for proxy revenge made him hit the door and run up two flights. The female then left the stairwell, and Eph followed it out, the vampire loping down the corridor, Eph chasing after it with a long sword in each hand. The vamp turned right and then left, entering another stairwell, racing up one flight.

As Eph tired, common sense returned. He saw the female at the far end of the corridor and sensed that it had slowed, that it was waiting for him, making sure that Eph could see it rounding the corner.

He stopped. It couldn’t be a trap. He had just shown up in the hospital; there was no time. So the only other reason for the vampire to lead him on what amounted to a wild goose chase was . . .

Eph walked into the nearest patient room, crossing to the windows. The glass was streaked with oily black rain, the city below obscured by ripples of dirty water washing down the glass. Eph strained to see the streets, his forehead against the glass.

He saw dark forms, identifiable as bodies, racing out onto the sidewalks from facing buildings, flooding the street below. More and more, from around corners and out of doors, like firemen answering a six-alarm call, moving to the hospital entrance.

Eph backed away. The psychic call had indeed gone out. One of the architects of the human resistance, Dr. Ephraim Goodweather, was trapped inside Bellevue Hospital.

Twenty-eighth Street Subway

NORA
STOOD
AT the corner of Park and Twenty-eighth, rain rapping on the hood of her slicker. She knew she needed to keep moving, but she also needed to know she was not being followed. Otherwise, escaping into the subway system would instead be like walking into a trap.

Vampires had eyes all over the city. She had to appear like any other human on her way to work or home. The problem with that was her mother.

“I told you to call the landlord!” said her mother, pulling back her hood to feel the rain on her face.

“Mama,” said Nora, pushing the hood back over her head.

“Fix this broken shower!”

“Shhh! Quiet!”

Nora had to keep moving. Hard as it was for her mother, walking kept her quiet. Nora gripped her around her lower back, holding her close as she stepped to the curb, just as an army truck approached the intersection. Nora stepped back again, head lowered, watching the vehicle pass. The truck was driven by a strigoi. Nora held her mother tightly, stopping her from wandering into the street.

“When I see that landlord, he’s going to be sorry he crossed us.”

Thank goodness for the rain. Because rain meant raincoats, and raincoats meant hoods. The old and infirm had been rounded up long ago. The unproductive had no place in the new society. Nora would never take a risk such as this—venturing out in public with her mother—were there any other choice.

“Mama, can we play the quiet game again?”

“I’m tired of all that. This goddamn leaky ceiling.”

“Who can be quietest the longest? Me or you?”

Nora started her across the street. Ahead, hanging from the pole that supported the street sign and the traffic signal, hung a dead body. Exhibition corpses were commonplace, especially along Park Avenue. A squirrel on the dead man’s slumped shoulder was battling two pigeons for rights to the corpse’s cheeks.

Nora would have steered her mother away from the sight, but her mother didn’t even look up. They turned and started down the slick stairs into the subway station, the steps oily from the filthy rain. Once underground, Nora’s mother again tried to remove her hood, which Nora quickly replaced, scolding her.

The turnstiles were gone. One old MetroCard machine remained for no reason. But the IF
YOU
SEE
SOMETHING, SAY
SOMETHING signs remained. Nora caught a break: the only two vampires were at the other end of the entrance, not even looking her way. She walked her mother down to the uptown platform, hoping a 4 5 6 train would arrive quickly. She was holding down her mother’s arms and trying to make the embrace appear natural.

Commuters stood around them as they had in the old days. Some read books. A few listened to music on portable music players. All that was missing were the phones and the newspapers.

On one of the poles people leaned against was an old police flier featuring Eph’s face: a copy of his old work ID photograph. Nora closed her eyes, cursing him silently. It was he whom they had been waiting for at the morgue. Nora didn’t like it there, not because she was squeamish—she was anything but—but because it was too open. Gus—the former gangbanger who, following a life-changing encounter with Setrakian, had become a trusted comrade in arms—had carved out space for himself underground. Fet had Roosevelt Island—where she was headed now.

Typical Eph. A genius, and a good man, but always a few minutes behind. Always rushing to catch up at the end.

Because of him she had stayed there that extra day. Out of misplaced loyalty—and, yes, maybe guilt—she wanted to connect with him, to check up on him, to make sure he was okay. The strigoi had entered the morgue at street level; Nora had been typing into one of the computers when she heard the glass break. She had just enough time to find her mother, asleep in her wheelchair. Nora could have killed the vampires, but doing so would have given away her position, and the location of Eph’s hideout, to the Master. And unlike Eph, she was too considerate to risk betraying their alliance.

Betraying it to the Master, that is. She had already betrayed Eph with Fet. Betrayed him within their alliance. Which she felt particularly guilty about, but again, Eph was always a few minutes late. This proved it. She had been so patient with him—too patient, especially with his drinking—and now she was living fully for herself.

And her mother. She felt the old woman pulling at her grip and opened her eyes.

“There’s a hair in my face,” said her mother, trying to swipe it away.

Nora examined her quickly. Nothing. But she pretended to see a single strand and released her mother’s arm momentarily to pluck it away. “Got it,” she said. “All set now.”

But she could tell from her mother’s fidgeting that her ploy had not worked. Her mother tried blowing at it. “Tickles. Let me go!”

Nora felt a head or two turn. She released her mother’s arm. The old woman brushed at her face, then tried to remove her hood.

Nora forced it back on over her head, but not before a shock of unkempt silver-gray was briefly visible.

She heard someone gasp near her. Nora fought the urge to look, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. She heard whispering, or else imagined she did.

She leaned toward the yellow line, hoping to see train headlights.

“There he is!” shouted her mother. “Rodrigo! I see you. Don’t pretend!”

She was yelling the name of their landlord from when Nora was a child. A rail-thin man, Nora recalled, with a great mop of black hair and hips so narrow he carried his tool belt rather than wore it. The man she was calling to now—dark-haired, but no double for the Rodrigo of thirty years ago—looked over attentively.

Nora turned her mother away, trying to shush her. But her mother twisted back around, her hood slipping back from her face as she tried to call to the phantom landlord.

“Mama,” implored Nora. “Please. Look at me. Silence.”

“He’s always there to flirt with me, but when there is work to be done . . .”

Nora wanted to clamp her hand over her mother’s mouth. She fixed the hood and walked her away down the platform, only drawing more attention in the process. “Mama, please. We will be discovered.”

“Lazy bastard, he is!”

Even if her mother was mistaken for a drunk, there would be trouble. Alcohol was prohibited, both because it affected the blood and because it promoted antisocial behavior.

Nora turned, thinking about fleeing the station—and saw headlights brightening the tunnel. “Mama, our train. Shhhh. Here we go.”

It pulled in. Nora waited at the first car. A few passengers disembarked before Nora rushed her mother inside, finding a pair of seats together. The 6 train would get them to Fifty-ninth Street in a matter of minutes. She fixed her mother’s hood back on her head and waited for the doors to close.

Nora noticed that no one else sat near them. She looked down the length of the car in time to see the other entering passengers look quickly away. Then she looked out onto the platform and saw a young couple out standing with two Transit Authority cops—humans—pointing at the first subway car. Pointing at Nora.

Close the doors, she pled silently.

And they did. With the same random efficiency the New York transit system had always exhibited, the doors slid shut. Nora waited for the familiar lurch, looking forward to getting back over to vampire-free Roosevelt Island and waiting there for Fet’s return.

But the car did not start forward. She waited for it, one eye on her fellow passengers at the other end of the car, the other on the transit cops walking toward the car. Behind them now were the two vampires, red eyes fixed on Nora. Behind them stood the concerned couple who had pointed out Nora and her mother.

The couple had thought they were doing the right thing, following the new laws. Or perhaps they were spiteful; everyone else had to abandon their elders to the master race.

The doors opened and the human transit cops boarded first. Even if she could murder two of her own kind and release the two strigoi and escape from the underground station, she would have to do so alone. There was no way she could do so without sacrificing her mother, either to capture or to death.

One of the cops reached over and pulled back Nora’s mother’s hood, revealing her head. “Ladies,” he said, “you have to come with us.” When Nora did not stand right away, he placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed tightly. “Now.”

Bellevue Hospital

EPH
BACKED
AWAY from the window and the vampires converging on Bellevue Hospital on the streets below. He had screwed up . . . Dread burned at the pit of his stomach. It was all lost.

His first instinct was to keep rising, to buy time by heading to the roof—but that was an obvious dead end. The only advantage to being on the roof was that he could throw himself off of it, were the choice death or vampire afterlife.

Going straight down meant fighting his way through them. That would be like running into a swarm of killer bees: he was almost certain to get stung at least once, and once was all it took.

So, running was not an option. Nor was making a suicidal final stand. But he had spent enough time in hospitals to consider this his home turf. The advantage was his; he just had to find it.

He hurried past the patient elevators, then stopped, doubling back, stopping before the gas control panel. An emergency shutoff for the entire floor. He cracked open the plastic shield and made sure the cutoff was open, then stabbed at the fixture until he heard a pronounced hiss.

He ran to the stairwell, charging up one flight, racing to that floor’s gas control panel, and repeating the same damage. Then right back into the stairs—and this time he could hear the bloodsuckers charging up the lower flights. No outcry, because they had no voice. Only the slapping of dead, bare feet as they climbed.

He risked one more floor, making quick work of the access panel there. He pressed the nearby elevator button but did not wait for the car, instead running off in search of the service elevators, the ones the orderlies used to transport supply carts and bedridden patients. He located the bank of elevators and pressed the button, waiting for one to board.

The adrenaline of survival and the chase put a charge into his blood that was as sweet as any artificial stimulant he could find. This, he realized, was the high he sought from pharmaceuticals. Over the course of so many life-or-death battles, he had messed up his pleasure receptors. Too many highs and too many lows.

The elevator door opened and he pressed “B” for basement. Signs admonished him on the importance of patient confidentiality and clean hands. A child smiled at him from a grimy poster. Sucking on a lollipop and giving him a wink and a thumbs-up. EVERYTHING
IS
GOING
TO
BE
A-OKAY said the printed moron. On the poster were timetables and dates for a pediatrics fair taking place a million years ago. Eph returned one sword to the bag on his back, watching the floor numbers go down. The elevator jerked once, and the car darkened and stopped between floors—stuck. A nightmare scenario, but then moments later it lurched and continued downward. Like everything else that depended on regular upkeep, these mechanical conveyances were not to be trusted—that is, if you had a choice.

The door dinged and opened finally, Eph exiting into the service wing of the hospital basement. Stretchers with bare mattresses were bunched up against the wall like supermarket carts awaiting customers. A giant canvas laundry cart sat beneath the open end of a wall chute.

In the corner, on a handful of long-handled dollies, stood a dozen or so green-painted oxygen tanks. Eph worked as fast as his fatigued body allowed, hustling the tanks into each of the three elevators, four tanks to a car. He pulled off their metal nose caps and used them to hammer at the feed nozzles until he heard the reassuring hiss of escaping gas. He pressed the buttons for the top floor, and all three doors closed.

He pulled a half-full can of charcoal lighter fluid from inside his pack. His box of all-weather matches was somewhere inside his coat pocket. With trembling hands, he tipped over the canvas laundry cart, emptying the crusty linen in front of the three elevators, then squeezed the lighter fluid can with wicked glee, pissing flammable liquid all over the heap of cotton. He struck a pair of matches and dropped them onto the pile, which ignited with a hot whumph. Eph pressed the call button for all three elevator cars—operated individually from the service basement—and then ran like hell, trying to find a way out.

Near a barred exit door, he saw a large control panel of colored pipes. He freed a fire axe from its glass cabinet—it felt so heavy, so big. Repeatedly, he chopped at the gaskets of all three feeds, using more the ax’s weight than his own fading strength, until gas came whistling out. He pushed through the door and found himself in the spitting rain, standing in a muddy sitting area of park benches and cracked walkways overlooking Franklin D. Roosevelt Drive and the rain-swept East River. And for some reason all he could think of was a line from an old movie, Young Frankenstein—“It could be worse. It could be raining.” He chuckled. He had seen that movie with Zack. For weeks they had quoted punch lines from it to each other. “There wolf . . . there castle.”

He was behind the hospital. No time to run for the street. He instead rushed across the small park, needing to put as much space between him and the building as possible.

As he reached the far edge, he saw more vamps coming up the high wall from Roosevelt Drive. More assassins dispatched by the Master, their high-metabolism bodies steaming in the rain.

Eph ran at them, waiting for the building behind him to explode and collapse at any moment. He kicked back the first few, forcing them off the wall down to the parkway below—where they landed on their hands and feet, righting themselves immediately, like unkillables in a video game. Eph ran along the top edge of the wall, toward the NYU Medical Center buildings, trying to get away from Bellevue. Before him, a long-taloned vamp hand gripped the top of the wall, a bald, red-eyed face appearing. Eph dropped to his knee, jabbing the end of his sword blade into the vamp’s open mouth, the point reaching the back of its hot throat. But he did not run it through, did not destroy it. The silver blade burned it, keeping its jaw from unhinging and unleashing its stinger.

The vampire could not move. Its red-rimmed eyes glared at Eph in confusion and pain.

Eph said, “Do you see me?”

The vamp’s eyes showed no reaction. Eph was addressing not it but the Master, watching through this creature.

“Do you see this?”

He turned the sword, forcing the vamp’s perspective toward Bellevue. Other creatures were scaling the wall, and some were already running out of the hospital, alerted to Eph’s escape. He had only moments. He feared that his sabotage had failed, that the leaking gas had instead found a safe way out of the hospital building.

Eph got back in the vamp’s face as though it were the Master’s itself.

“Give me back my son!”

He had just finished the last word as the building erupted behind him, throwing Eph forward, his sword piercing the back of the vampire’s throat and exiting its neck. Eph tumbled off the wall, gripping the handle of his sword, the blade sliding out of the vampire’s face as together they twisted and fell.

Eph landed on the roof of an abandoned car, one of many lining the inside lane of the roadway. The vampire slammed into the road next to him.

Eph’s hip took the brunt of the impact. Over the ringing in his ears, Eph heard a high whistling scream and looked up into the black rain. He watched something like a missile shoot out from high above, arc overhead, and splash down into the river. One of the oxygen tanks.

Mortar-heavy bricks thumped down onto the road. Shards of glass fell like jewels in the rain, shattering on the road. Eph covered his head with his coat as he slid down off the dented roof, ignoring the pain in his side.

Only as he stood up did he notice two shards of glass, lodged firmly in his calf. He yanked them out. Blood poured from the wounds. He heard a wet, excited squeal . . .

A few yards away, the vamp lay on its back, dazed, white blood gurgling from the perforation in the back of its neck—but still excited and hungry. Eph’s blood was its call for dinner.

Eph got in its face, gripping its broken, dislodged chin, and saw its red eyes focus on him, then on the silver point of his blade.

“I want my son, you motherfucker!” yelled Eph.

He then released the strigoi with a vicious chop to the throat, severing its head and its communication with the Master.

Limping, bleeding, he got up again. “Zack . . . ,” he murmured. “Where are you . . . ?”

Then he started his long journey back home.

Central Park

BELVEDERE CASTLE, SET on the northern end of the Lake in Central Park along the Seventy-ninth Street Transverse Road, was a high Victorian Gothic and Romanesque “folly” constructed in 1869 by Jacob Wray Mould and Calvert Vaux, the original designers of the park. All Zachary Goodweather knew was that it looked spooky and cool, and that was what had always drawn him to it: this medieval (to his mind) castle in the center of the park in the center of the city. As a child, he used to make up tales about the castle, how it was in fact a giant fortress constructed by tiny trolls for the original architect of the city, a dark lord named Belvedere who dwelled in catacombs deep beneath the castle rock, haunting the dark citadel by night as he tended to his creatures throughout the park.

This was back when Zack still had to resort to fantasy for tales of the supernatural and the grotesque. When he needed to daydream in order to escape from the boredom of the modern world.

Now his daydreams were real. His fantasies were attainable. His wishes were requests, his desires realized.

He stood inside the open doorway to the castle, a young man now, watching black rain pummel the park. It slapped the overflowing Turtle Pond, once an algae-rich pool of shimmering green, now a muddy black hole. The sky above was ominously overcast, which was to say, normal. No blue in the sky meant no blue in the water. For two hours a day, some ambient light seeped through the tumultuous cloud cover, enough so that visibility improved to a point where he could see the rooftops of the city around him and the Dagobah-like swamp that the park had become. The solar-powered park lamps could not soak up enough juice in that time to illuminate the twenty-two hours of darkness, their light fading soon after the vampires returned from their retreat beneath ground and into the shadows.

Zack had grown—and grown strong—in this past year; his voice had started changing a few months ago, his jawline becoming defined and his torso elongating seemingly overnight. His strong legs carried him up, climbing the near staircase, a skinny iron spiral leading to the Henry Luce Nature Observatory on the second floor. Along the walls and beneath glass tables remained displays of animal skeletons, bird feathers, and papier-mâché birds set in plywood trees. Central Park had once been one of the richest bird-watching areas in the United States, but the climate change had ended that, probably forever. In the first weeks following the earthquakes and volcanic eruptions triggered by nuclear plant meltdowns and warhead detonations, the dark sky had hung thick with birds. Shrieks and calls all night. Mass bird deaths, winged corpses falling from the sky along with heavy black hail. As chaotic and desperate in the air as it was for humans on the ground. Now there were no longer any warmer southern skies to migrate to. For days, the ground had been literally covered with flapping, blackened wings. Rats feasted on the fallen voraciously. Agonized chirping and hooting punctuated the rhythm of the falling hail.

But now, the park was still and quiet when there was no rain, its lakes empty of waterfowl. A few grimy bones and feather strands melded in the mulch and the mud covering the soil and pavement. Ragged, mangy squirrels occasionally darted up trees, but their population in the park was way down. Zack looked out through one of the telescopes—he had jammed a quarter-sized stone into the pay slot so that the telescope operated without money—and his field of vision disappeared in the fog and the murky rain.

The castle had been home to a functioning meteorological station before the vampires came. Most of the equipment remained on the peaked tower roof, as well as inside the fenced compound south of the castle. New York City radio stations used to give the weather with, “The temperature in Central Park is . . . ,” and the number they called was a reading taken from the turret observatory. It was July now, maybe August, what used to be known as the “dog days” of summer, and the highest temperature reading Zack had witnessed during one particularly balmy night was sixty-one degrees Fahrenheit, sixteen degrees Celsius.

August was Zack’s birth month. There was a two-year-old calendar in the back office, and he wished that he had thought to keep track of the passing days more carefully. Was he thirteen years old yet? He felt that he was. He decided that yes, he was. Officially a teenager.

Zack could still—barely—remember the time his father had taken him to the Central Park Zoo one sunny afternoon. They had visited this very nature exhibit inside the castle, then ate Italian ices out on the stone wall overlooking the meteorological equipment. Zack remembered confiding in his father about how kids in school sometimes made wisecracks about his last name, Goodweather, saying that Zack was going to be a weatherman when he grew up.

“What are you going to be?” asked his dad.

“A zookeeper,” Zack had answered. “And probably a motocross racer.”

“Sounds good,” said his dad, and they threw their empty paper cups into the recycling bin before moving on to an afternoon matinee. And, at the end of that day, after a perfect afternoon, father and son had vowed to repeat the excursion. But they never did. Like so many promises in the Zack-Eph story, this one went unfulfilled.

Remembering that was like recalling a dream now—if it had ever existed at all. His dad was long gone, dead along with Professor Setrakian and the rest. Once in a great while, he would hear an explosion somewhere in the city or see a thick plume of smoke or dust rising into the rain and wonder. There had to be some humans still resisting the inevitable. It made Zack think of the raccoons that pestered his family one Christmas vacation, raiding their garbage no matter what Dad did to secure it. This was like that, he supposed. A nuisance, but little more.

Zack left the musty exhibit and went back down the stairs. The Master had created a room for him that Zack had modeled on his old bedroom at home. Except that his old bedroom did not have a wall-sized video display screen taken from the Times Square ESPN Zone. Or a Pepsi machine, or entire store racks of comic books. Zack kicked a game controller he had left on the floor, dropping down into one of the luxe leather chairs from Yankee Stadium, the thousand-dollar seats behind home plate. Occasionally, kids were brought in for matches, or he played them online on a dedicated server, but Zack almost always won. Everybody else was out of practice. Domination could get boring, especially when there were no new games being produced.

At first, being at the castle was terrifying. He had heard all the stories about the Master. He kept waiting to be turned into a vampire, like his mom, but it never happened. Why? He had never been given a reason, nor had he asked for one. He was a guest there and, as the only human, almost like a celebrity. In the two years since Zack had become the Master’s guest, no other nonvampire had been admitted to Belvedere Castle or anywhere near the premises. What had at first seemed like a kidnapping instead came to seem, gradually, over time, like selection. Like a calling. As though a special place had been reserved for him in this new world.

Over all others, Zack had been chosen. For what, he did not know. All he knew was that the being that had delivered him to this point of privilege was the absolute ruler of the new dominion. And, for some reason, he wanted Zack at his side.

The stories Zack had been told—of a fearsome giant, a ruthless killer, and evil incarnate—were obvious exaggerations. First of all, the Master was of average height for an adult. For an ancient being, it appeared almost youthful. Its black eyes were piercing, such that Zack could certainly see the potential for horror if someone fell into disfavor with it. But behind them—for one so fortunate to view them directly, as Zack had been—was a depth and a darkness that transcended humanity, a wisdom that reached back through time, an intelligence connected to a higher realm. The Master was a leader, commanding a vast clan of vampires throughout the city and the world, an army of beings answering its telepathic call from this castle throne in the swampy center of New York City.

The Master was a being possessed of actual magic. Diabolical magic, yes, but the only true magic Zack had ever witnessed. Good and evil were malleable terms now. The world had changed. Night was day. Down was the new up. Here, in the Master, was proof of a higher being. A superhuman. A divinity. His power was extraordinary.

Take Zack’s asthma. The air quality in the new climate was extremely poor, due to stagnancy, elevated ozone readings, and the recirculation of particulate matter. With the thick cloud cover pressing down over everything like an unwashed blanket, weather patterns suffered, and ocean breezes did little to refresh the city’s airflow. Mold grew and spores flew.

Yet, Zack was fine. Better than fine: his lungs were clear, and he breathed without wheezing or gasping. In fact, he hadn’t had anything resembling an asthma attack in all the time he had been with the Master. It had been two years since he had used an inhaler, because he did not need one anymore.

His respiratory system was fully dependent upon one substance even more magically effective than albuterol or prednisone. A fine, white droplet of the Master’s blood—administered orally, once weekly, from the Master’s pricked finger onto Zack’s waiting tongue—cleared Zack’s lungs, allowing him to breathe free.

What had seemed weird and disgusting at first now came as a gift: the milky-white blood with its faint electrical charge and a taste of copper and hot camphor. Bitter medicine, but the effect was nothing short of miraculous. Any asthma sufferer would give just about anything never to feel the smothering panic of an asthma attack again.

This blood absorption did not make Zack a vampire. The Master prevented any of the blood worms from reaching Zack’s tongue. The Master’s only desire was to see Zack healthy and comfortable. And yet the true source of Zack’s affinity and awe for the Master was not the power the Master exercised, but rather the power the Master conferred. Zack was evidently special in some way. He was different, exalted among humans. The Master had singled him out for attention. The Master had, for lack of a better term, befriended him.

Like the zoo. When Zack heard that the Master was going to close it down forever, he protested. The Master offered to spare it, to turn the entire zoo over to Zack, but on one condition: that Zack had to take care of it. Had to feed the animals and clean the cages, all by himself. Zack had jumped at the chance, and the Central Park Zoo became his. Just like that. (He was offered the carousel too, but carousels were for babies; he had helped them tear it down.) The Master could grant wishes like a genie.

Of course, Zack didn’t realize how much work it was going to be, but he kept at it as best he could. The changed atmosphere claimed some of the animals quickly, including the red panda and most of the birds, making his job easier. Still, with no one to prod him along, he allowed the intervals between feeding times to grow and grow. It fascinated him how some of the animals turned on one another, both the mammals and the reptiles. The great snow leopard was Zack’s favorite and the animal he feared most. So the leopard was fed most regularly: at first, thick slabs of fresh meat arriving by truck every other day. Then one day, a live goat. Zack led it into the cage and watched from behind a tree as the leopard stalked its prey. Then a sheep. Then a baby deer. But over time, the zoo fell deep into disrepair, the cages fouled with animal waste that Zack grew tired of cleaning. After many months he came to dread the zoo, and more and more he ignored his responsibilities. At night sometimes he heard the other animals cry out, but never the snow leopard.

After the better part of a year, Zack went to the Master and complained that the work was too much for him.

It will be abandoned, then. And the animals destroyed.

“I don’t want them destroyed. I just . . . don’t want to take care of them anymore. You could have any of your kind do it, and they would never complain.”

You want me to keep it open just for your enjoyment only.

“Yes.” Zack had asked for more extravagant things and always received them. “Why not?”

On one condition.

“Okay.”

I have watched you with the leopard.

“You have?”

Watched you feed it animals to stalk and devour. Its agility and beauty attracts you. But its power frightens you.

“I guess.”

I have also watched you allow other animals to starve.

Zack began to protest. “There are too many to take care of—”

I have watched you pit them against one another. It is natural enough, your curiosity. Watching how lesser species react under stress. Fascinating, isn’t it? Watching them fight for survival . . .

Zack did not know if he should admit to this.

The animals are yours to do with what you wish. That includes the leopard. You control its habitat and its feeding schedule. You should not fear it.

“Well . . . I don’t. Not really.”

Then . . . why don’t you kill it?

“What?”

Have you never thought about what it would be like, to kill such an animal?

“Kill it? Kill the leopard?”

You’ve grown bored with zoo-keeping because it is artificial, unnatural. Your instincts are correct, but your method is wrong. You want to own these primitive creatures. But they are not meant to be kept. Too much power. Too much pride. There is only one way to truly possess a wild animal. To make it your own.

“To kill it.”

Prove yourself equal to this task, and I will reward you by seeing to it that your zoo remains open and the animals fed and cared for, while relieving you of your duties there.

“I . . . I can’t.”

Because it is beautiful or because you fear it?

“Just . . . because.”

What is the one thing I have refused you? The one thing you asked for that I declined to allow?

“A loaded gun.”

I will see to it that a rifle is maintained for your use within the confines of the zoo. The decision is yours . . . I want you to take a side . . .

So Zack went to the zoo the next day, just to hold the loaded weapon. He found it on an umbrella table inside the entrance, brand-new, small sized, with a satin walnut stock and a recoil pad, and a scope on top. It only weighed about seven pounds. He carefully carried the weapon around his zoo, sighting various targets. He wanted to shoot but wasn’t sure how many rounds it held. It was a bolt-action rifle, but he wasn’t 100 percent certain he could reload it, even if he could get more ammunition. He aimed for a sign that said RESTROOMS and fingered the trigger, not really squeezing, and the weapon jumped in his hands. The rifle butt slammed into his shoulder, the recoil shoving him backward. The report was a loud crack. He gasped and saw a wisp of smoke coming out of the muzzle. He looked at the sign and saw a hole punched through one of the O’s.

Zack practiced his aim for the next several days, utilizing the exquisite, whimsical bronze animals in the Delacorte clock. The clock still played music every half hour. As the figures moved along their circular track, Zack aimed at a hippopotamus playing the violin. He missed his first two shots entirely, and the third one grazed the goat playing the pipes. Frustrated, Zack reloaded and waited for the next go-around, sitting on a nearby bench as the distant sirens lulled him into a nap. The bells woke him thirty minutes later. This time he aimed ahead of his target rather than trying to track with it as it moved. Three shots at the hippo, and he distinctly heard one sharp ricochet off the bronze figure. Two days later, the goat had lost the tip of one of its two pipes, and the penguin had lost part of a drumstick. Zack was able to hit the figures now with speed and accuracy. He felt ready.

The leopard habitat consisted of a waterfall and a birch and bamboo forest, all contained within a high tent of stainless steel woven mesh. The terrain inside was steep, with tunnel-like tubes carved into the slope, leading to the windowed viewing area.

The snow leopard stood on a rock and looked at Zack, associating the boy’s appearance with feeding time. The black rain had soiled her coat, but the animal still possessed a regal air. At four feet in length, she could leap forty or fifty feet if motivated, as when going after prey.

She stepped off the rock, prowling in a circle. The rifle report had antagonized her. Why did the Master want Zack to kill it? What purpose would it serve? It seemed like a sacrifice, as though Zack were being asked to execute the bravest animal in order that the others might survive.

He was shocked when the leopard came bounding toward the steel mesh separating them, baring her teeth. She was hungry and disappointed that she did not smell any food, as well as alarmed by the rifle shot—though that was not at all what it seemed like to Zack. He jumped back before reasserting himself, pointing the rifle at the snow leopard, answering her low, intimidating growl. She walked in a tight circle, never taking her eyes off him. She was voracious, and Zack realized that she would go through meal after meal and that, if the food ever ran out, she would feast on the hand that fed her without a moment’s justification. She would take if she needed to take. She would attack.

The Master was right. He was afraid of the leopard, and rightly so. But which one was the keeper and which one the kept? Didn’t she have Zack working for her, feeding her regularly over these many months? He was her pet as much as she was his. And suddenly, with the rifle in his hand, that arrangement didn’t feel right.

He hated her arrogance, her will. He walked around the enclosure, the snow leopard following him on the other side of the mesh. Zack entered the ZOO
EMPLOYEES
ONLY feeding area, looking out through the small window over the door through which he dropped the leopard’s meat or released livestock. Zack’s deep breathing seemed to fill the entire room. He ducked through the top-hinged door, which slammed shut behind him.

He had never been inside the leopard’s pen before. He looked up at the high tent overhead. A number of different-sized bones were scattered over the ground before him, remnants of past meals.

He had a grand fantasy of striding out into the small wood and tracking the cat, looking her in her eyes before deciding whether or not to pull the trigger. But the noise of the closing door was the equivalent of ringing the dinner bell, and at once the snow leopard came slinking around a boulder strategically set to shield the leopard’s feeding from zoo visitors.

The leopard stopped short, surprised to see Zack inside there. For once there was no steel mesh between them. She lowered her head as though trying to understand this strange turn of events, and Zack saw that he had made a terrible mistake. He brought the rifle to his shoulder without aiming it and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. He pulled it again. Nothing.

He reached for the bolt handle and yanked it back and slid it forward. He squeezed the trigger, and the rifle jumped in his hands. He worked the bolt again, frantically, and squeezed the trigger, and the report was the only thing that reached his ringing ears. He worked the bolt again, and squeezed the trigger, and the rifle jumped. Another time, and the rifle clicked empty. Again, and still empty.

He realized only then that the snow leopard was lying on its side before him. He went to the animal, seeing the red bloodstains spreading over its coat. The animal’s eyes were closed, its powerful limbs still.

Zack climbed up on the boulder and sat there with the empty rifle on his lap. Overcome with emotions, he shuddered and cried. He felt at once triumphant and lost. He looked out at the zoo from inside the pen. It had begun to rain.

Things began to change for Zack after that. His rifle only held four rounds, and for a while he returned to his zoo each day for target practice: more signs, benches, branches. He began to take more risks. He rode a dirt bike along the old jogging routes in the park, around and around the Great Lawn, riding the bike through the empty streets of Central Park, past the shriveled remains of hanging corpses or the ashes of funerary pyres. When he rode at night, he liked to turn the bike’s headlight off. It was exciting, magical—an adventure. Protected by the Master, he felt no fear.

But what he did feel, still, was the presence of his mother. Their bond, which had felt strong even after her turning, had faded over time. The creature that had once been Kelly Goodweather now barely resembled the human woman who had been his mother. Her scalp was dirty, hairless, her lips thin and lacking even a hint of pink. The soft cartilage of her nose and ears had collapsed into mere vestigial lumps. Loose, ragged flesh hung from her neck, and an incipient, crimson wattle, undulating when she turned her head. Her chest was flat, her breasts shriveled, her arms and legs caked with a grime so thick the driving rain could not wash it away. Her eyes were orbs of black floating on beds of dark red, essentially lifeless . . . except for sometimes, rarely, perhaps only in Zack’s imagination now, when he saw what he thought might be a glimmer of recognition reflective of the mother she once was. It wasn’t so much an emotion or expression, but rather the way a certain shadow fell across her face, in a manner more obscuring of her vampire nature than revealing of her former human self. Fleeting moments, growing more rare with time—but they were enough. More psychologically than physically, his mother remained on the periphery of his new life.

Bored, Zack pulled the plunger on his vending machine, and a Milky Way bar dropped to the bottom drawer. He ate it as he went back up to the first floor, then outside, looking for some trouble to get into. As though on cue, Zack’s mother came scrabbling up the craggy rock face that was the castle’s foundation. She did so with feline agility, scaling the wet schist seemingly without exertion, her bare feet and talon-aided hands moving from purchase to purchase as though she had ascended that very path one thousand times before. At the top, she vaulted easily onto the walkway, two spiderlike feelers following behind her, loping back and forth on all fours.

As she neared Zack, standing in the doorway just out of the rain, he saw that her neck wattle was flush, engorged and red even through the accumulated dirt and filth. It meant that she had recently fed.

“Had a nice dinner out, Mom?” he asked, revolted. The scarecrow that had once been his mother stared at him with empty eyes. Every time he saw her, he felt the exact same contradictory impulses: repulsion and love. She followed him around for hours at a time, occasionally keeping her distance like a watchful wolf. He had, once, been moved to caress her hair and afterward had cried silently.

She entered the castle without a glance at Zack’s face. Her wet footprints and the muck tracked in by the feelers’ hands and feet added to the grunge coating the stone floor. Zack looked at her and, for a fleeting moment—though distorted by vampiric mutation—saw his mother’s face emerge. But, just as immediately, the illusion was broken, the memory soiled by this ever-present monster that he could not help but love. Everybody else he ever had in his life was gone. This was all Zack had left: a broken doll to keep him company.

Zack felt a warmth fill the breezy castle, as though left by a being in swift motion. The Master had returned, a slight murmur entering Zack’s head. He watched his mother ascend the stairs to the upper floors and followed her, wanting to see what the commotion was about.

The Master

THE MASTER
HAD once understood the voice of God. It once held it within itself, and in a way, it retained a pale imitation of that state of grace. It was, after all, a being of one mind and many eyes, seeing all at once, processing it all, experiencing the many voices of its subjects. And like God’s, the Master’s voice was a concert of flow and contradiction—it carried the breeze and the hurricane, the lull and the thunder, rising and fading with dusk and dawn . . .

But the scale of God’s voice encompassed it all—not earth, not the continents, but the whole world. And the Master could only witness it but no longer could make sense of it as it was able to once upon a time in the origin of it all.

This is, it thought, for the millionth time, what it is to fall from grace . . .

And yet, there the Master stood: monitoring the planet through the observations of its brood. Multiple sources of input, one central intelligence. The Master’s mind casting a net of surveillance over the globe. Squeezing planet Earth in a fist of a thousand fingers.

Goodweather had just released seventeen serfs in the explosion of the hospital building. Seventeen lost, their number soon to be replaced; the arithmetic of infection was of paramount importance to the Master.

The feelers remained out searching the surrounding blocks for the fugitive doctor, seeking his psychic scent. Thus far, nothing. The Master’s ultimate victory was assured, the great chess match all but over, except that its opponent obstinately refused to concede defeat—leaving to the Master the drudgery of chasing the last remaining piece around the board.

That final piece was not, in fact, Goodweather, but instead the Occido Lumen, the lone extant edition of the cursed text. In detailing the mysterious origin of the Master and the Ancients, the book also contained an indication for bringing about the Master’s demise—the location of its site of origin—if one knew where to look.

Fortunately, the current possessors of the book were illiterate cattle. The tome had been stolen at auction by the old professor Abraham Setrakian, at that time the lone human on earth with the knowledge necessary to decrypt the tome and its arcane secrets. However, the old professor had little time to review the Lumen before his death. And in the brief time the Master and Setrakian were linked through possession—in those precious moments between the old professor’s turning and his destruction—the Master learned, through their shared intelligence, every bit of knowledge the professor had gleaned from the silver-bound volume.

Everything—and yet it was not enough. The location of the Master’s origin—the fabled “Black Site”—was still unknown to Setrakian at the time of his turning. This was frustrating, but it also proved that his loyal band of sympathizers did not know the location either. Setrakian’s knowledge of folklore and the history of the dark clans was unsurpassed among humans and, like a snuffed flame, had died with him.

The Master was confident that even with the cursed book in hand, Setrakian’s followers could not decode the book’s mystery. But the Master needed the coordinates itself, in order to guarantee its safety for eternity. Only a fool leaves anything of importance to chance.

In that moment of possession, of unique psychological intimacy with Setrakian, the Master had also learned the identities of Setrakian’s co-conspirators. The Ukrainian, Vasiliy Fet. Nora Martinez and Augustin Elizalde.

But none was more compelling to the Master than the one whose identity the Master had already known: Dr. Ephraim Goodweather. What the Master had not known, and what came as a surprise, was that Setrakian considered Goodweather the strongest link among them. Even given Goodweather’s obvious vulnerabilities—his temperament, and the loss of his former wife and his son—Setrakian believed him to be absolutely incorruptible.

The Master was not a being prone to surprise. Existing for centuries tended to dull revelations, but this one nagged at the Master. How could it be? Reluctantly, the Master admitted to having a high opinion of Setrakian’s judgment—for a human. As with the Lumen, the Master’s interest in Goodweather had begun as a mere distraction.

The distraction had become a pursuit.

The pursuit was now an obsession. All humans broke at the end. Sometimes it took mere minutes, sometimes days, sometimes decades, but the Master always won at the end. This was endurance chess. His time frame was much broader than theirs, his mind far more trained—and void of delusions or hopes.

This was what had led the Master to Goodweather’s progeny. This was the original reason the Master had not turned the boy. The reason the Master assuaged the discomfort in the boy’s lungs with a drop or so of its precious blood every week—which also had the effect of enabling the Master to peer into the boy’s warm and pliable mind.

The boy had responded to the Master’s power. And the Master used this, engaging the boy mentally. Subverting his naïve ideas about divinity. After a period of fear and disgust, the boy, with assistance from the Master, had come to feel admiration and respect. His cloying emotions for his father had shrunk like an irradiated tumor. The boy’s young mind was an agreeable lump of dough, one the Master continued to knead.

Preparing it. To rise.

The Master normally met such subjects at the end of the corruption process. Here, the Master had the unusual opportunity to participate in the corruption of the son and surrogate of the allegedly incorruptible. The Master was able to experience this downfall directly through the boy, thanks to the bond of the blood feeding. The Master had felt the boy’s conflict when facing the snow leopard, felt his fear, felt his joy. Never had the Master wanted to keep anyone alive before; never had he wanted them to remain human. The Master had already decided: this was the next body to inhabit. With that in mind, the Master was essentially preparing young Zachary. It had learned never to take a body younger than age thirteen. Physically, the advantages included boundless energy, fresh joints, and supple muscles, requiring little maintenance. But the disadvantages were still those of taking a weaker body, structurally fragile and with limited strength. So, even though the Master no longer required extraordinary size and strength—as it did with Sardu, the giant body inside which it had traveled to New York, the host the Master had to shed after it was poisoned by Setrakian—it also did not require extraordinary physical appeal and seductiveness, as with Bolivar. It would wait . . . What the Master sought for the future was convenience.

The Master had been able to view itself through Zachary’s own eyes, which had been most illuminating. Bolivar’s body had served the Master ably, and it was interesting to note the boy’s response to his arresting appearance. He was, after all, a magnetic presence. A performer. A star. That, combined with the Master’s dark talents, proved irresistible to the young man.

And the same could be said in reverse. The Master found itself telling Zachary things, not out of rank affection but in the manner of an older self to a younger self. A dialogue like that was a rarity in its prolonged existence. After all, it had consorted for centuries with some of the most hardened and ruthless souls. Sided with them, molded them to its will. In a contest of brutality, he knew no equal.

But Zack’s energy was pure, his essence quite similar to his father’s. A perfect pool to study and taint. All this contributed to the Master’s curiosity about young Goodweather. The Master had, over the centuries, perfected the technique of reading humans, not only in nonverbal communication—known as a “tell”—but even in their omissions. A behaviorist can anticipate or detect a lie by the concert of micro-gestures that telegraphs it. The Master could anticipate a lie two beats before it even happened. Not that it cared, morally, one way or another. But to detect the truth or lie in a covenant was vital for it. It meant access or lack of it—cooperation or danger. Humans were insects to the Master and it an entomologist living among them. This discipline had lost all fascination for the Master thousands of years ago—until now. The more Zachary Goodweather tried to hide things, the more the Master was able to draw out of him—without the young man even knowing he was telling the Master everything it needed to know. And through the young Goodweather, the Master was amassing information about Ephraim. A curious name. Second son of Joseph and a woman once visited by an angel: Asenath. Ephraim, known only for his progeny—lost in the Bible, without identity or purpose. The Master smiled.

So the search continued on two fronts: for the Lumen, containing the secret of the Black Site in its silver-bound pages, and for Ephraim Goodweather.

It occurred to the Master, many times, that he might claim both prizes at the same time.

The Master was convinced the Black Site was near at hand. All the clues indicated this was so—the very clues that had led it here. The prophecy that had forced it to cross the ocean. And yet, in an abundance of caution, its slaves continued their excavations in far-flung parts of the world to see if they could find it elsewhere.

The Black Cliffs of Negril. The Black Hills mountain range in South Dakota. The oil fields at Pointe-Noire, on the western coast of the Republic of the Congo.

In the meantime, the Master had nearly achieved complete worldwide nuclear disarmament. Having taken immediate control of the military forces of the world through the directed spread of vampirism among infantry and command officers, it now had access to much of the world’s stockpiles. Rounding up and dismantling rogue nations’ weaponry, as well as so-called loose nukes, would take some more time, but the end was close.

The Master looked at every corner of its Earth farm and was pleased.

The Master reached for Setrakian’s wolf-headed staff, the one the vampire hunter had carried. The walking stick had once belonged to Sardu and had been refitted to include a silver blade when twisted open. It was nothing more than a trophy now, a symbol of the Master’s victory. The token amount of silver in its silver handle did not bother the Master, though it took great care not to touch the ornamental wolf’s head.

The Master carried it into the castle turret, the highest point in the park, and stepped outside into the oily rain. Beyond the spindly upper branches of the denuded treetops, through the thick haze of fog and pollution-heavy air, stood the dirty gray buildings, the East Side and the West Side. In the glowing register of his heat-sensitive vision, thousands upon thousands of empty windows stared down like the cold, dead eyes of fallen witnesses. The dark sky roiled above, voiding filth on the defeated city.

Below the Master, forming an arc around the base of the raised rock foundation, stood the guardians of the castle, twenty deep. Beyond them, in answer to the Master’s psychic call, a sea of vampires had assembled on the fifty-five-acre Great Lawn, each staring up with black-moon eyes.

No cheer. No salute. No exultation. A still and quiet congregation; a silent army, awaiting its orders.

Kelly Goodweather appeared at the Master’s side, and, next to her, the Goodweather boy. Kelly Goodweather had been summoned; the boy had wandered over out of pure curiosity.

The Master’s command went out to every vampire’s mind.

Goodweather.

There was no answer to the Master’s call. The only response would be action. In due time, he would kill Goodweather—first his soul, and then his body. Unbearable suffering would be endured.

He would make sure of that.

Roosevelt Island

PRIOR
TO
ITS late-twentieth-century reinvention as a planned community, Roosevelt Island was home to the city’s penitentiary, its lunatic asylum, and its smallpox hospital, and was previously known as Welfare Island.

Roosevelt Island had always been a home for New York City’s castaways. Fet was that now.

He had decided that he would rather live in isolation on this narrow, two-mile-long island in the middle of the East River than reside in the vampire-ruin city or its infested boroughs. He could not bear to live inside an occupied New York. Apparently, the river-phobic strigoi could find no use for this small satellite island of Manhattan, and so, soon after the takeover, they cleared the island of all residents and set it afire. The cables to the tram at Fifty-ninth Street had been cut and the Roosevelt Island Bridge destroyed at its terminus in Queens. The F line subway still ran through the island beneath the river, but the Roosevelt Island Station stop had been permanently walled up.

But Fet knew a different way in from the underwater tunnel up to the geographic center of the island. An access tunnel built to service the island community’s unusual pneumatic tube system of refuse collection and disposal. The vast majority of the island, including its once-towering apartment buildings offering magnificent Manhattan views, was in ruins. But Fet had found a few mostly undamaged belowground units in the luxury apartment complex constructed around the Octagon, formerly the main building of the old lunatic asylum. There, well concealed among the destruction, he had sealed off the burned top floors and joined four bottom-floor units. The water and electricity pipes under the river had not been disturbed, so once the borough grids were repaired Fet had power and potable water.

Under cover of daylight, the smugglers dropped off Fet and the Russian nuke at the northern end of the island. He retrieved a wheeled hardware-store pallet cart he kept stashed in a hospital utility shed near the rocky shoreline and towed the weapon and his rucksack and a small Styrofoam cooler through the rain to his hideout.

He was excited to see Nora and even feeling a bit giddy. Return journeys will do that. Also, she was the only one who knew he was meeting with the Russians, and so he arrived with his great prize in tow like a boy with a school trophy. His sense of accomplishment was amplified by the excitement and enthusiasm he knew she would show him.

However, when he arrived at the charred door that led inside to his concealed subterranean chamber, he found it open a few inches. This was not a mistake Dr. Nora Martinez would ever make. Fet quickly removed his sword from his bag. He had to tow the cart inside in order to get it out of the rain. He left it in the fire-damaged hallway and walked down the partially melted flight of stairs.

He entered his unlocked door. His hideaway did not require much security, because it was so well hidden and because, other than the rare maritime smuggler risking a journey along the Manhattan interior, almost no one else ever set foot on the island anymore.

The spare kitchen was unoccupied. Fet lived largely on snack food pilfered and stockpiled after the first few months of the siege, crackers and granola bars and Little Debbie cakes and Twinkies that were now reaching or, in some cases, already surpassing their “sell by” dates. Contrary to popular belief, they did become inedible. He had tried his hand at fishing, but the sooty river water was so rife with blight he was worried that no flame could get hot enough to safely cook out the pollution.

He moved through the bedroom after a quick check of the closets. The mattress on the floor had been just fine with him until the prospect of Nora perhaps staying overnight made him hunt for a proper bed frame. The spare bathroom, where Fet kept the rat-hunting equipment he had salvaged from his old storefront shop in the Flatlands, a few instruments from his former vocation that he had been unable to part with, was otherwise empty.

Fet ducked through the hole he had sledgehammered open, into the next unit, which he used as a study. The room was stocked with bookshelves and stacked cartons of Setrakian’s library and writings, centered around a leather sofa under a low-hanging reading lamp.

At about two o’clock in the circularly arranged room stood a hooded figure, well over six feet tall, strongly built. His face receded into the black cotton hood, but the eyes were apparent, piercing and red. In his pale hands was a notebook filled with Setrakian’s fine handwriting.

He was a strigoi. But he was clothed. He wore pants and boots in addition to the hooded sweatshirt.

He eyed the rest of the room, thinking ambush.

I am alone.

The strigoi put his voice directly into Fet’s head. Fet looked again at the notebook in his hands. This was a sanctuary to Fet. This vampire had invaded it. He could easily have destroyed it. The loss would have been catastrophic.

“Where is Nora?” Fet asked, and then moved on the strigoi, unsheathing his sword as fast as a man of Fet’s size can move. But the vampire at once eluded him and pushed him down to the ground. Fet roared in anger and tried to wrestle his opponent, but no matter what he did, the strigoi would retaliate with a block and a crippling move, immobilizing Fet—hurting him just enough.

I have been here alone. Do you, by chance, remember who I am, Mr. Fet?

Fet did, vaguely. He remembered that this one had once held an iron spike at his neck, inside an old apartment high above Central Park.

“You were one of those hunters. The Ancients’ personal bodyguards.”

Correct.

“But you didn’t vaporize with the rest.”

Obviously not.

“Q something.”

Quinlan.

Fet freed his right arm and tried to connect with the creature’s cheek but the wrist was clamped and twisted in the blink of an eye. This time it hurt. A lot.

Now, I can dislocate this arm or I can break it. Your choice. But think about it. If I wanted you dead, you would be by now. Over the centuries I have served many masters, fought many wars. I have served emperors and queens and mercenaries. I have killed thousands of your kind and hundreds of rogue vampires. All I need from you is a moment. I need you to listen. If you attack me again, I will kill you instantly. Do we understand each other?

Fet nodded. Mr. Quinlan released him.

“You didn’t die with the Ancients. Then you must be one of the Master’s breed . . .”

Yes. And no.

“Uh-huh. That’s convenient. Mind me asking how you got here?”

Your friend Gus. The Ancients had me recruit him for sun hunting.

“I remember. Too little, too late, as it turned out.”

Fet remained guarded. This didn’t add up. The Master’s wily ways made him paranoid, but it was precisely this paranoia that had kept Fet alive and unturned over the past two years.

I am interested in viewing the Occido Lumen. Gus told me that you might be able to point me in the right direction.

“Fuck you,” said Fet. “You’ll have to go through me to get it.”

Mr. Quinlan appeared to smile.

We seek the same goal. And I have a little more of an edge when it comes to deciphering the book and Setrakian’s notes.

The strigoi had closed Setrakian’s notebook—one that Fet had reread many times. “Good reading?”

Indeed. And impressively accurate. Professor Setrakian was as learned as he was cunning.

“He was the real deal, all right.”

He and I almost met once before. About twenty miles north of Kotka, in Finland. He had somehow tracked me there. At the time I was wary of his intentions, as you might imagine. In retrospect, he would have made for an interesting dinner companion.

“As opposed to a meal himself,” said Fet. He thought that perhaps a quick test was in order. He pointed at the text in Q’s hands. “Ozryel, right? Is that the name of the Master?” he said. Fet had brought along with him on his voyage some copied pages of the Lumen to study whenever possible—including an image Setrakian had first focused on upon opening the Lumen. The archangel whom Setrakian referred to as Ozryel. The old professor had lined up this illuminated page with the alchemical symbol of three crescent moons combined to form a rudimentary biohazard sign, in such a way that the twinned images achieved a kind of geometric symmetry. “The old man called Ozy ‘the angel of death.’ ”

It’s “Ozy” now, is it?

“Sorry, yeah. Nickname. So—it was Ozy who became the Master?”

Partially correct.

“Partially?”

Fet had lowered his sword by now and leaned on it like a cane, the silver point making another notch in the floor.

“See, Setrakian would have had one thousand questions for you. Me, I don’t even know where to start.”

You already started.

“I guess I did. Shit, where were you two years ago?”

I’ve had work to do. Preparations.

“Preparations for what?”

Ashes.

“Right,” Fet said. “Something about the Ancients, collecting their remains. There were three Old World Ancients.”

You know more than you think you do.

“But still not enough. See, I just returned from a journey myself. Trying to track down the provenance of the Lumen. A dead end . . . but something else broke my way. Something that could be big.”

Fet thought of the nuke, which made him remember his excitement at returning home, which made him remember Nora. He moved to a laptop computer, waking it from a weeklong sleep. He checked the encrypted message board. No postings from Nora since two days ago.

“I have to go,” he told Mr. Quinlan. “I have many questions, but there might be something wrong, and I have to go meet someone. I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’ll wait here for me?”

None. I must have access to the Lumen. Like the sky, it is written in a language beyond your comprehension.
If you produce it for me . . . next time we meet I can promise you a plan of action . . .

Fet felt an overwhelming urge to hurry, a sudden sense of dread. “I’ll have to talk to the others first. This is not a decision I can make alone.”

Mr. Quinlan remained still in the half-light.

You may find me through Gus. Just know there is precious little time. If ever a situation called for decisive action, this is it.

INTERLUDE
I
MR. QUINLAN’S STORY

THE
YEAR 40 AD, THE
LAST
FULL
YEAR
OF
THE
REIGN
OF Gaius Caligula, emperor of Rome, was marked by extraordinary displays of hubris, cruelty, and insanity. The emperor began appearing in public dressed as a god, and various public documents of the time refer to him as “Jupiter.” He had the heads removed from statues of gods and replaced with images of his own head. He forced senators to worship him as a physical living god. One of these Roman senators was his horse, Incitatus.

The imperial palace on the Palatine was extended to annex a temple erected for Caligula’s worship. Among the emperor’s court was a former slave, a pale, dark-haired boy of fifteen years, summoned by the new sun god at the behest of a soothsayer who was never again seen. The slave was renamed Thrax by the emperor.

Legend held that Thrax had been discovered in an abandoned village in the savage hinterlands of the far East: the frozen regions, inhabited only by the most Barbaric tribes. His reputation was that of a being of great brutality and cunning despite his innocent, fragile appearance. Some claimed he was gifted with the power of prophecy, and Caligula was instantly enthralled by him. Thrax was only seen at night, usually seated at Caligula’s side, where he exerted great influence for one so young—or else alone in the temple under the light of the moon, his pale skin glowing like alabaster. Thrax spoke several Barbaric tongues, and quickly learned Latin and science—his voracious desire for knowledge surpassed only by his appetite for cruelty. He quickly earned a sinister reputation in Rome, at a time when it was considered an achievement to distinguish oneself by cruelty alone. He advised Caligula politically and dispensed or withdrew imperial favor with complete ease. Regardless, he encouraged the emperor’s rise to divinity. They could be seen sitting side by side at the Circus Maximus, fervently supporting the Roman Green stables in the horse races. It was rumored, in fact, that it was Thrax who suggested they poison the rival stables after a loss of their team.

Caligula could not swim, and neither could Thrax, who inspired the emperor to erect his greatest folly: a temporary floating bridge, more than two miles long, using ships as pontoons, connecting the port city of Baiae to the port city of Puteoli. Thrax was not present when Caligula triumphantly rode Incitatus across the Bay of Baiae, attired in Alexander the Great’s original breastplate—but it was said that the former slave later made many night crossings, always in a litter carried by four Nubian slaves, dressed in the finest garments, an unholy sedia gestatoria flanked by a dozen guards.

Habitually, once a week, seven handpicked female slaves were brought to Thrax in his gold and alabaster chamber beneath the temple. He demanded they be virgins, in perfect health, and no older than nineteen. Tiny swabs of their sweat would be used to select them during the course of the week. At nightfall on the seventh day, the ironwood door would be barred from within.

The first killing took place on a green marble pedestal at the center of the chamber, with sculptural relief depicting a mass of writhing, pleading bodies, raising their supplicant eyes and arms toward the heavens. Twin canals at the base redirected the flowing slave blood into gold cups encrusted with rubies and garnets.

Thrax emerged out of a passage, wearing only his subligar, and quietly ordered the slave to climb upon the pedestal. There he drank her in full view of the seven bronze mirrors hanging from the chamber walls, biting her fiercely as he punctured her throat with his stinger. The suction was so sudden, so swift, that one could actually see the veins collapsing beneath the slave’s skin as the color drained from her flesh within seconds. Thrax’s wiry arms restrained the slave’s torso with great strength and expert control.

When the entertainment of the ensuing panic faded, a second slave was swiftly attacked, feasted on, and brutally killed. There followed a third and a fourth and so on, until one terrorized slave remained. Thrax savored the final kill the most. Satiating.

But one night late in winter, Thrax slowed before finishing the final slave, having detected an extra pulse in the slave’s blood. He felt her belly through her tunic and found it firm and swollen. Confirming her pregnancy, Thrax brutally slapped her down, her blood trailing from his mouth. He went for a gold dagger, kept next to a cornucopia of fresh fruit. He sliced at her, going for the neck—only to have his expert blow deflected by her bare forearm, severing her outer muscles and missing the tendons by mere millimeters. Thrax lunged again but was stopped by the girl. Despite his speed and skill, he remained at a disadvantage due to his underdeveloped, adolescent body. So weak in spite of his time-honed technique.

The Master thereby resolved never again to occupy any vehicle younger than thirteen years of age. The slave girl wept and begged the Master to spare her life and that of her unborn child—all the while bleeding deliciously. She invoked the names of her gods. But her pleas meant nothing to the Master—except as part of the feeding process: the sizzling sound of bacon in the frying pan.

At that moment, palace guards came pounding at his door. Their orders were to never interrupt his weekly ceremony, but, because they knew his penchant for cruelty, the Master knew that their reason for disturbing him must be one of importance. Accordingly, the Master unbarred the door and admitted them to the gory scene. Months of palace duty had inured the guards to the sight of such desecration and perversion. They informed Thrax that Caligula had survived an assassination attempt and summoned him to the emperor’s side.

The slave needed to be dispatched and her pregnancy terminated. The rules dictated as much. But the Master did not want to be cheated of his weekly sport, and so Thrax ordered that the doors be guarded until his return.

It turned out that the supposed assassination plot was simply a bout of imperial hysteria, resulting in the slaying of seven innocent orgy guests. Thrax returned to his chamber not much later to discover that while he was away assuaging the sun god, the centurions had cleared the palace grounds, including the temple, in order to quell the phantom coup. The pregnant slave—infected, wounded—was gone.

As dawn approached, Thrax persuaded Caligula to dispatch soldiers into all the surrounding cities to find the slave and return her to the temple. Despite a near-sacking of their own land, the soldiers failed to find her. When nightfall finally returned, Thrax went out in search of the slave, but his imprint upon her mind was weak due to her pregnancy. The Master was only a few hundred years old at the time and still apt to make mistakes.

This particular omission would dog the Master for centuries to come. For within the first month of the new year, Caligula was indeed assassinated, and his successor, Claudius, after a brief period of exile, came into power by procuring the support of the Praetorian guard—and the evil slave Thrax found himself purged and on the run.

The pregnant slave girl kept moving south, back to the land of her Dear Ones. She gave birth to a pale, nearly translucent baby boy, its skin the color of marble in moonlight. He was born in a cave amid an olive field near Sicily and in that dry land they hunted for years. The slave and the baby shared a weak psychic bond, and although they both survived on the blood of humans, the boy lacked the infecting pathogen necessary to turn his victims.

Rumors of a demon spread throughout the Mediterranean as the Born grew—and grew quickly. The half boy could sustain limited exposure to the sun without perishing. But otherwise, tainted by the curse of the Master, he possessed all of the vampiric attributes, with the exception of the enslaving link to his creator.

But if the Master was ever destroyed, so he would be too.

A decade later, as the Born was returning to his cave just before dawn, he sensed a presence. He saw, within the shadows of the cave, a deeper shadow still, stirring, watching him. Then he felt the voice of his mother waning within him—her signal extinguished. He knew instantly what had happened: whatever was in there had done away with his mother . . . and now awaited him. Without even seeing his enemy, the Born knew the intensity of its cruelty. The thing in the shadows knew no mercy. With absolutely no hesitation, the Born turned away and escaped toward his only refuge: the light of the morning sun.

The Born survived as best he could. He scavenged and hunted and occasionally robbed travelers in the Sicilian crossroads. Soon he was captured and brought to justice. He was indentured and trained as a gladiator. In exhibitions, the Born defeated every challenger, human or beast, and his unnatural talents and peculiar appearance drew the attention of the senate and the Roman military. On the eve of their ceremonial branding, an ambush by multiple rivals jealous of his success and attention resulted in multiple sword wounds, fatal blows that, miraculously, did not kill him. He healed quickly and was immediately withdrawn from the gladiator school, taken in by a senator, Faustus Sertorius, who had a passing familiarity with the dark arts and held a considerable collection of primitive artifacts. The senator recognized the gladiator as the fifth immortal to be birthed by human flesh and vampiric blood, and thus named him Quintus Sertorius.

The strange peregrinus was inducted into the army’s auxilia at first but quickly rose through the ranks and joined the third legion. Under the banner of Pegasus, Quintus crossed the ocean to wage war in Africa against the fierce Berbers. He became proficient in handling the pilum, the Roman elongated lance, and it is said that he could throw it with such force as to take down a horse in full gallop. He wielded a double-edged steel sword, a gladius hispaniensis, forged specially for him—void of any silver ornaments and with a bone grip made from a human femur.

Through the decades, Quintus took the victorious march from the temple of Bellona to the Porta Triumphalis many times and served through generations and various reigns, at the pleasure of every emperor. Rumors about his longevity added to his legend and he grew to be both feared and admired. In Brittania, he struck terror into the hearts and minds of the Pict army. Among the German Gamabrivii, he was known as the Shadow of Steele, and his mere presence kept the peace along the banks of the Euphrates.

Quintus was an imposing figure. His chiseled physique and preternaturally pale skin gave him the appearance of a living, breathing statue carved of the purest marble. Everything about him was martial and combative, and he carried himself with the greatest assurance. He put himself at the head of every charge, and he was the last to leave the battleground. For the first few years he kept trophies, but, as the slaughter became repetitive, and as these keepsakes began to clutter his domicile, he lost interest. He broke down the rules of combat to exactly fifty-two moves: techniques of balletic precision that brought down his adversaries in fewer than twenty seconds.

At every step of his career, Quintus felt the persecution of the Master, who had long since abandoned the fifteen-year-old slave Thrax’s body as its host. There were thwarted ambushes, slave vampire attacks, and, only rarely, direct assaults by the Master in various guises. At first Quintus was confused by the nature of these attacks, but over time, he became curious about his progenitor. His Roman military training taught him to go on the offensive when threatened, and so he began tracking the Master, in a search for answers.

At the same time, the Born’s exploits and his growing legend brought him to the attention of the Ancients, who approached him one night in the middle of battle. Through his contact with them, the Born learned the truth about his lineage and the background of the wayward Ancient they referred to as “the Young One.” They showed him many things under the assumption that, once their secrets were revealed to him, the Born would naturally join them.

But Quintus refused. He turned his back on the dark order of vampire lords born of the same cataclysmic force as the Master. Quintus had spent all his life among humans, and he wanted to try to adapt to their kind. He wanted to explore that half of him. And, despite the threat the Master posed to him, he wished to live as an immortal among mortals, rather than—as he thought of himself then—a half-breed among purebreds.

Having been born out of omission rather than action, Quintus was unable to procreate in any way. He was unable to reproduce and could never truly claim a woman as his very own. Quintus lacked the pathogen that would have allowed him to spread the infection or subjugate any humans to his will.

At the end of his campaign days, Quintus found himself a legate and was given a fertile plot of land and even a family: a young Berber widow with olive skin, dark eyes, and a daughter of her own. In her, he found affection and intimacy and eventually love. The dark woman sang for him sweet songs in her native tongue and lulled him to sleep in the deep cellars of his home. During a time of relative peace, they kept house on the shore of southern Italy. Until one night when he was away, and the Master visited her.

Quintus came back to find his family turned and lying in wait, attacking him along with the Master. Quintus had to fight them all at once, releasing his savage wife and then her child. He barely survived the Master’s onslaught. At the time, the vehicle chosen by the Master was the body of a fellow legionnaire, an ambitious, ruthless tribune named Tacitus. The short but sturdy and muscular body gave the Master ample margin in the fight. There were almost no legionnaires under five foot ten, but Tacitus had been admitted because he was strong as an ox. His arms and neck were thick and short and made of bulging strands of muscle. His mountainous shoulders and back gave him a slightly hunched aspect but now, as he towered over a beaten Quintus, Tacitus was as straight as a marble column. Quintus had, however, prepared for this occasion—both fearing it and hoping it would one day come. In a hidden fold of his belt, he hid a narrow silver blade—sheathed away from his skin but with a carved sandalwood handle that allowed him to retrieve it fast. He pulled it out and slashed Tacitus across the face, bisecting his eye and snapping his right cheekbone in two. The Master howled and covered its injured eye, out of which blood and vitreous humor poured forth. In a single bound, it jumped out of the house and into the darkened garden beyond.

When he recovered, Quintus felt a loneliness that would never leave him again. He swore revenge upon the creature that created him—even though such an act would mean his own demise as well.

Many years later, upon the advent of the Christian faith, Quintus returned to the Ancients, acknowledging who and what he was. He offered them his wealth, his influence, and his strength, and they welcomed him as one of their own. Quintus warned them of the Master’s perfidy, and they acknowledged the threat but never lost confidence in their numerical advantage and the wisdom of their years.

Through the ensuing centuries Quintus continued his quest for vengeance.

But for the next seven centuries, Quintus—later Quinlan—never got closer to the Master than he did one night in Tortosa, in what is now known as Syria, when the Master called him “son.”

My son, wars this long can only be won by yielding. Lead me to the Ancients. Help me destroy them and you may take your rightful place at my side. Be the prince that you truly are . . .

The Master and Quintus were standing at the edge of a rocky cliff overlooking a vast Roman necropolis. Quinlan knew that the Master had no escape. The nascent rays of daylight were already causing him to smoke and burn. The Master’s words were unexpected and his voice, in Quinlan’s head, an intrusion. Quinlan felt an intimacy that scared him. And for a moment—which he would live to regret for the rest of his life—he felt true belonging. This thing—having taken refuge in the tall, pale body of an ironworker—was his father. His true father. Quinlan lowered his weapon for an instant, and the Master rapidly crawled down the rocky cliff face, disappearing into a system of crypts and tunnels below.

Centuries later, a ship sailed from Plymouth, England, to Cape Cod in the newly discovered territory of America. The ship was carrying 130 passengers according to the official manifest, but within the cargo compartments several boxes containing earth could be found. The items listed within were earth and tulip bulbs; presumably their owner wanted to take advantage of the coastal climate. The reality was far darker. Three of the Ancients and their loyal ally Quinlan established themselves rather rapidly in the New World, under the auspices of a rich merchant: Kiliaen Van Zanden. The settlements in the New World were in fact little more than a collective banana republic whose mercantile ways were grown into the preeminent economic and military power on the planet in fewer than two centuries’ time—all of which was essentially a front for the real business being conducted belowground and behind closed doors. All efforts were focused on the acquisition of the Occido Lumen, in hopes of answering what, at that time, was the only question remaining for Quinlan and the Ancients:

How could they destroy the Master?

Camp Liberty

DR. NORA MARTINEZ awoke to the shrill camp whistle. She lay in a canvas stretcher hanging from the ceiling, enveloping her like a sling. The only way out was to shimmy under her blanket, escaping through the end, feet first.

Standing, she sensed immediately that something wasn’t right. She turned her head this way and that. It felt too light. Her free hand went immediately to her scalp.

Bare. Completely bald. This shocked her. Nora didn’t have many vanities, but she’d been blessed with gorgeous hair, keeping it long even though—as an epidemiologist—it was an impractical choice for a professional. She gripped her scalp now as though fighting a searing migraine, feeling bare flesh where she never had before. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she suddenly felt smaller and—somehow, but truly—weakened. In shaving off her hair, they had also cut away a bit of her strength.

But her unsteadiness wasn’t just the result of her bare scalp. She felt groggy, swaying for balance. After the confusing admittance process, and her attendant anxiety, Nora was amazed she had been able to sleep at all. In fact, she now remembered that she had been determined to remain awake, in order to learn as much as she could about the quarantine area before proceeding into the general population of the absurdly named Camp Liberty.

But this taste in her mouth now—as though she had been gagged with a fresh cotton sock—told Nora that she had been drugged. That bottle of drinking water she had been issued—they had doped it.

Anger rose inside her, some of it aimed at Eph. Unproductive. Instead, she focused on Fet, yearning for him. She was almost certain never to see either of those two men again. Not unless she could find some way out of this place.

The vampires who ran the camp—or perhaps their human co-conspirators, contract members of the Stoneheart Group—wisely enforced a quarantine for new entries. This type of encampment was tinder for an infectious disease event, one that had the potential to wipe out the camp population, their precious blood providers.

A woman entered the room through the canvas flaps that hung over the doorway. She wore a slate-gray jumpsuit, the same color and bland style as Nora’s. Nora recognized her face, remembering her from yesterday. Terrifically thin, her skin a pale parchment wrinkled at the corners of her eyes and her mouth. Her dark hair was close-cropped, her scalp due for a shave. Yet the woman appeared upbeat, for some reason Nora could not fathom. Her function here was apparently that of a camp mother of sorts. Her name was Sally.

Nora asked her, as she had the day before, “Where is my mother?”

Sally’s smile was all customer service, tolerant and disarming. “How did you sleep, Ms. Rodriguez?”

Nora had given a false name upon admission, as her association with Eph had certainly landed her name on every watch list. “I slept just fine,” she said. “Thanks to the sedative mixed into my water. I asked you where my mother is.”

“My assumption is that she has been transferred to Sunset, which is a sort of active retirement community associated with the camp. That is normal procedure.”

“Where is it? I want to see her.”

“It’s a separate part of the camp. I suppose a visit is possible at some point, but not now.”

“Show me. Where it is.”

“I could show you the gate, but . . . I’ve never been inside myself.”

“You’re lying. Or else you really believe it. Which means you’re lying to yourself.”

Sally was just a functionary, a messenger. Nora understood that Sally was not intentionally trying to mislead her but simply repeating what she had been told. Perhaps she had no idea, nor capacity to suspect, that this “Sunset” might not exist exactly as advertised.

“Please listen to me,” said Nora, growing frantic. “My mother is not well. She is sick, she is confused. She has Alzheimer’s disease.”

“I am sure she’ll be well looked after—”

“She will be put down. Without a moment’s hesitation. She’s outlived her usefulness to these things. But she is sick, she is panicked, she needs to see a familiar face. Do you understand? I just want to see her. One last time.”

This was a lie, of course. Nora wanted to bust the both of them out of there. But she had to find her mother first.

“You’re human. How can you do this—how?”

Sally reached out to squeeze Nora’s left arm reassuringly but mechanically. “She truly is in a better place, Ms. Rodriguez. The elderly have rations sufficient to support their health and aren’t required to produce anything in return. I envy them, frankly.”

“Do you really believe that?” said Nora, amazed.

“My father is there,” said Sally.

Nora gripped her arm. “Don’t you want to see him? Show me where.”

Sally was entirely sympathetic—to the point where Nora wanted to slap her. “I know it is difficult, the separation. What you have to focus on now is taking good care of yourself.”

“Was it you who drugged me?”

Sally’s smile drained of conviviality, replaced by concern—perhaps concern for Nora’s sanity, for her future potential as a productive camp member. “I have no access to medication.”

“Do they drug you?”

Sally offered no opinion on Nora’s response. “Quarantine is over,” she said. “You’re to be part of the general camp community now, and I’m to show you around, to help you get acclimated.”

Sally led her out through a small, open-air buffer zone, along a walkway beneath a tarpaulin keeping them from being soaked by rainfall. Nora looked out at the sky: another starless night. Sally had papers for the human at the checkpoint, a man in his fifties wearing a white doctor’s coat over his slate-gray jumpsuit. He looked over the forms, glanced at Nora with the eyes of a customs agent, then let them through.

Rain found them despite the overhead canopy, splashing at their legs and feet. Nora wore hospital-style foam sandals with spongy soles. Sally wore a comfortable, if damp, pair of Saucony sneakers.

The path of crushed stone fed into a wide circular walkway surrounding a high lookout post similar to a lifeguard’s station. The rotary formed a hub of sorts, with four other paths extending from it. Warehouse-style buildings stood nearby, long and low, with what appeared to be factory-style buildings farther away. No signs marked the way, only arrows fashioned out of white stone embedded in the muddy ground. Low-wattage lights marked the paths, necessary for human navigation.

A handful of vampires stood around the rotary like sentinels, and on seeing them, Nora fought back a chill. They were completely exposed to the elements—bare, pale skin covered by no coat or clothes—and yet showed no discomfort, the black rain striking their bare heads and shoulders, streaming down their pellucid flesh. Arms hanging limply, the strigoi watched the humans come and go with grave indifference. They were policemen, guard dogs, and security cameras all in one.

“Security enforces routine so that everything runs in a very orderly manner,” said Sally, picking up on Nora’s fright and distress. “In fact, there are very few incidents.”

“Of people resisting?”

“Of any disruptions,” said Sally, surprised at Nora’s assumption.

Being this close to them without any sharpened silver to protect herself made Nora’s skin crawl. And they smelled it. Their stingers clicked softly against their palates as they sniffed the air, alerted by the scent of her adrenaline.

Sally nudged Nora’s arm in order to get her moving. “We cannot linger here. It is not allowed.”

Nora felt the sentinels’ black and red eyes tracking them as Sally led her down a long offshoot path leading past the warehouselike buildings. Nora sized up the high fences that formed the camp walls: chain link laced with orange hurricane stripping, obscuring the view outside the camp. The tops of the fences were angled out at forty-five degrees, beyond her view, though at a few points she glimpsed tufts of barb wire sticking up like cowlicks. She would have to find another way out.

Beyond, she saw the bare tops of distant trees. She already knew she was out of the city. There were rumors of a large camp north of Manhattan and two smaller camps in Long Island and northern New Jersey. Nora had been transported there with a hood placed over her head, and she had been too anxious and concerned about her mother to think about estimating travel time.

Sally led Nora to a rolling wire gate standing twelve feet high and at least that length wide. It was locked and manned by two female guards standing inside a gatehouse, who nodded familiarly to Sally and worked together to unlatch it and push the gate open just wide enough to admit them.

Inside stood a large barracks house resembling a homey-looking medical building. Behind it, dozens of small mobile homes were arranged in rows like a neatly maintained trailer park.

They entered the barracks house, stepping inside a wide common area. The space resembled a cross between an upscale waiting room and the lounge of a college dormitory. An old episode of Frasier was playing, the laugh track ringing so falsely, like the mocking of carefree humans from the past.

In cushioned, pastel-colored chairs, a dozen women sat around in clean white jumpsuits, as opposed to Nora’s and Sally’s dull gray. Their bellies bulged noticeably, each woman in her second or third trimester of pregnancy. And something else: they were allowed to grow their hair, made thick and lustrous from the pregnancy hormones.

And then Nora saw the fruit. One of the women was snacking on a soft, juicy peach, its inside threaded with red veins. Saliva gushed inside Nora’s mouth. The only fresh, not-canned fruit she had tasted in the past year or so were mushy apples from a dying tree in a Greenwich Village courtyard. She had trimmed out the spoiled spots with a multitool blade until the remaining fruit looked like it had already been eaten.

The expression on her face must have reflected her desire, for the pregnant woman, upon meeting Nora’s eyes, looked away uncomfortably.

“What is this?” said Nora.

“The birthing barracks,” said Sally. “This is where pregnant women convalesce and where their infants are ultimately delivered. The trailers outside are among the best and most private living quarters in the entire compound.”

“Where did she get”—Nora lowered her voice—“the fruit?”

“Pregnant women also receive the best food rations. And they are excused from being bled for the length of their pregnancy and nursing.”

Healthy babies. The vampires needed to replenish the race, and their blood supply.

Sally went on. “You are one of the lucky ones, the twenty percent of the population with B-positive blood type.”

Nora knew her own blood type, of course. B positives were the slaves that were more equal than the others. For that, their reward was camp internment, frequent bloodletting, and forced breeding.

“How could they bring a child into this world as it is now? Into this so-called camp? Into captivity?”

Sally looked either embarrassed for Nora or ashamed of her. “You may come to find that childbirth is one of the few things that makes life worth living here, Ms. Rodriguez. A few weeks of camp life and you might feel different. Who knows? You may even look forward to this.” Sally pushed her gray sleeve back, revealing bull’s-eye bruises that looked like terrible bee stings, purpling and browning her skin. “One pint every five days.”

“Look, I don’t mean to offend you personally, it’s just that—”

“You know, I’m trying to help you here,” she said. “You’re young enough still. You have opportunities. You could conceive, deliver a baby. Make a life for yourself in this camp. Some of the rest of us . . . are not so fortunate.”

Nora saw this from Sally’s perspective for a moment. She understood that blood loss and malnutrition had weakened Sally and everyone else, sapping the fight from them. She understood the pull of despair, the cycle of hopelessness, that sense of circling the drain—and how the prospect of childbirth could be their only source of hope and pride.

Sally went on. “And someone like yourself who finds this so distasteful, you might appreciate being segregated from the other kind for months at a time.”

Nora made sure she’d heard that correctly. “Segregated? There are no vampires in the birthing area?” She looked around and realized it was true. “Why not?”

“I don’t know. It is a strict rule. They are not allowed.”

“A rule?” Nora struggled to make sense of this. “Is it pregnant women who have to be segregated from vampires, or vampires who have to be segregated from pregnant women?”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

A tone rang, akin to a doorbell, and the women set aside their fruit or their reading material and pushed themselves up from their chairs.

“What’s this?” asked Nora.

Sally had straightened up a bit as well. “The camp director. I strongly suggest you be on your best behavior.”

On the contrary, she looked for a place to run to, a door, an escape. But it was too late. A contingent of camp officials arrived, humans, bureaucrats, dressed in casual business wear, not jumpsuits. They entered the central walkway, eyeing the inmates with barely concealed distaste. Their visit seemed to Nora to be an inspection, and a spot one at that.

Trailing them were two huge vampires, arms and necks still bearing tattoos from their human days. Once convicts, Nora surmised, now upper-level guards in this blood factory. Both carried dripping black umbrellas, which Nora thought strange—vampires caring about the rain—until the last man entered behind them, evidently the camp director. He wore a resplendent, mudless, blindingly white suit. Freshly laundered, as clean an article of clothing as Nora had seen in months. The tattooed vampires were this camp commandant’s personal security detail.

He was old, sporting a trim, white mustache and a pointed beard, which gave him the mien of a grandfatherly Satan—the sight of which nearly choked her. She saw medals on the breast of the white suit, fit for a navy admiral.

Nora stared in disbelief. Such a bald, stunned stare that it immediately drew his attention, too late for her to turn away.

She saw the look of recognition on his face, and a sick feeling spread throughout her body like a sudden fever.

He stopped, his eyes widening in similar disbelief, then turned on his heel, walking toward her. The tattooed vampires trailed him, the old man approaching her with his hands clasped behind his back—his disbelief spreading into a sly smile.

He was Dr. Everett Barnes, the onetime director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Nora’s former boss, who, now nearly two years after the fall of the government, still insisted on wearing the uniform symbolic of the Centers’ origin as a branch of the U.S. Navy.

“Dr. Martinez,” he said in his soft Southern drawl. “Nora . . . Why, this is a most welcome surprise.”

The Master

ZACK
COUGHED
AND gagged as the camphor scent burned the back of his throat and overwhelmed his palate. His breathing returned, his heartbeat slowed down, and he looked up at the Master—standing before him in the form of the rock star Gabriel Bolivar—and smiled.

At night, the beasts of the zoo became very active, their instincts kicking in for a hunt that would never come behind those bars. In consequence, the night was full of noise. Monkeys howled and big cats roared. Humans now tended the cages and cleaned the streets as a reward for Zack’s hunting skills.

The boy had become quite deft at shooting and the Master rewarded each kill with a new privilege. Zack was curious about girls. Women, really. The Master saw to it that he was brought some. Not to talk. Zack wanted to watch them. Mostly from a place where they couldn’t see him looking. He wasn’t inordinately shy or scared. If anything, he was crafty and he didn’t want to be seen. He didn’t want to touch them. Not yet. But he looked at them—much as he had watched the leopard in the cage.

In all his years on this earth, the Master had rarely experienced something like this: the chance to groom the body he was to occupy with such care, such attention. For hundreds of years, even under the patronage of the powerful, the Master had been in hiding, feeding and living in the shadows, avoiding its enemies and held back by the truce with the Ancients. But now the world was new, and the Master had a human pet.

The boy was bright and his soul was entirely permeable. The Master was an expert at manipulation. It knew how to push the buttons of greed, desire, vengeance—and at present, its body was quite regal. Bolivar was indeed a rock star and so, by extension, was the Master now.

If the Master suggested Zack was smart, the boy would instantly turn smarter: he would be stimulated into giving the Master his very best. Consequently, if the Master suggested the boy was cruel and cunning, the boy adopted these characteristics to please it. So, through the months and the many nights of conversation and interaction, the Master was training the boy, grooming the darkness that was already in his heart. And the Master felt something it hadn’t felt in centuries: it felt admired.

Was this what it felt like—being a human father—and was being a father always such a monstrous endeavor? Molding the soul of your beloved ones in your image, in your shadow?

The end was near. The decisive times. The Master felt it in the rhythm of the universe, in the small signs and portents, in the cadence of the voice of God. The Master was to inhabit one more body for all time and its reign on Earth would endure. After all, who could stop the Master with the thousand eyes and the thousand mouths? The Master who now governed the armies and the slaves and who held the world in fear?

It could manifest its will instantly in the body of a lieutenant in Dubai or in France simply by thought. It could order the extermination of thousands and no one would know because the media existed no more. Who would try that? Who would succeed?

And then, the Master would look into the boy’s eyes and at the boy’s face and in them see traces of his enemy. The one enemy who, no matter how insignificant he was, would never give up.

Goodweather.

The attacks Goodweather and his group perpetrated on the Master’s installation amounted to very little—vandalism at most. But their actions were murmured about—spoken of in the farms and the factories and aggrandized with every repetition. They were becoming some sort of symbol. And the Master knew the importance of symbols. On Night Zero, it had made a point to have many buildings burn in every city that he overtook. It wanted the ashes and molten metal to remain on the ground, checkering the city maps with symbols of its power. Reminders of its will.

There were other dissidents—drug dealers, smugglers, looters—but they were anarchic vectors that never intersected with the Master’s plan, and so the Master cared little for their transgressions. But Goodweather was different. He and his group were remnants of Setrakian’s presence on Earth, and as such their very existence was an affront to the Master’s power.

But the Master held hostage the very thing that would lure Goodweather to him.

The Master smiled at the boy. And the boy smiled back.

Office of the Chief Medical
Examiner, Manhattan

AFTER
THE BELLEVUE Hospital explosion, Eph had worked his way north up along East River Drive, using the abandoned cars and trucks for cover. He jogged as fast as he could with his sore hip and wounded leg, moving the wrong way down an entrance ramp, back toward Thirtieth Street. He knew he had pursuers, probably including some of the juvenile feelers, the freakish, blind psychic trackers who moved on all fours. He dug out his night-vision scope and hurried back to the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, thinking that the last place the vampires would look would be a building they had recently infiltrated and cleared.

His ears continued to ring from the concussive blast. A few car alarms honked and blared, and freshly broken glass lay in the street, high windows shattered by the force of the explosion. As he came to the corner of Thirtieth and First, he noticed chunks of bricks and mortar in the road, part of a building façade had failed, raining debris into the street. As he got closer, through the green light of his scope, he noticed a pair of legs sticking out from behind two old traffic safety barrels.

Bare legs, bare feet. A vampire lying facedown off the sidewalk.

Eph slowed, circling the barrels. He saw the vampire laid out among chunks of brick and concrete. White, worm-infested blood lay in a small pool beneath its downturned face. It wasn’t released: subcutaneous worms continued to ripple beneath its flesh, meaning its blood was still circulating. Evidently, this wounded creature was unconscious, or its undead equivalent.

Eph looked for the largest chunk of brick and concrete. He lifted it over his head to finish the job . . . until a sense of gruesome curiosity came over him. He used his boot to roll the strigoi onto its back, the creature lying flat and still. It must have heard the rumbling of the loose bricks and looked skyward, because its face was bashed in.

The chunk of bricks grew heavy in his hands, and he lowered it, tossing it aside, letting it crash against the sidewalk just a foot away from the creature’s head. No reaction.

The medical examiner’s building was right across the street. A great risk—but if the creature was indeed blind, as it appeared, then it could not feed the Master its vision. And if it was also brain-damaged . . . then it could not communicate with the Master at all, and its current location could not be traced.

Eph moved quickly, before he could talk himself out of it. He got his hands beneath the creature’s armpits, careful of the sticky mass of blood, and rescue-dragged him off the curb, across the street, and around to the ramp leading to the basement morgue.

Inside, he nudged over a step stool to help him load the vampire onto an autopsy table. He worked quickly, binding the creature’s wrists beneath the table with rubber tubing, then similarly affixing its ankles to the table legs.

Eph looked at the strigoi laid out upon the examining table. Yes, he was indeed about to do this. He pulled a pathologist’s full-length smock from the closet, pulling on twin pairs of latex gloves. He taped the wrists to his sleeves and his leg cuffs to the tops of his boots, creating a seal. In a cabinet over one of the sinks, he found a clear plastic splash guard and fit it over his face. Then he wheeled over a tray and arranged upon it a dozen different stainless steel implements, all of them cutting tools.

As he was looking at the vampire, it roused into consciousness, stirring at first, rolling its head this way and that. It sensed the bindings and began to struggle against them, bucking its waist up and down off the table. Eph used another length of tubing around its waist and beneath the table, and then another across its neck, knotting it tightly underneath.

From behind the creature’s head, Eph used a probe to tempt its stinger, allowing for the possibility that it still might be functioning even within its smashed face. He saw the vampire’s throat buck and heard a clicking in its jaw as it tried to activate its stinging mechanism. But the mandible had been damaged internally. His only concern therefore was the blood worms, for which he kept his Luma lamp close at hand.

He drew the scalpel across the being’s throat, opening it around the tube ligature, peeling back the folds. Eph was most careful here, watching the throat column jerk, the jaw attempt to de-hinge. The fleshy protuberance that was the stinger remained retracted and limp. Eph seized its narrow tip with a clamp and pulled, the stinger extending generously. The creature tried to retake control of it, the muscle at the base twitching.

For his own safety, Eph reached for his small silver blade and amputated the appendage.

The being tensed as though shot through with pain and defecated a small amount of discharge, the smell of ripe ammonia stinging Eph’s nose. White blood spilled out around the throat incision, the caustic fluid seeping onto the stretched rubber tube.

Eph carried the writhing organ to the counter, where he lay it next to a digital scale. He examined it under the light of a magnifying lens, and as it twitched like a severed lizard’s tail, he noted the tiny double tip at the end. Eph bisected the organ lengthwise, then peeled back the pink flesh, exposing dilated bifurcated canals. He already knew that one canal introduced, along with the virus-infected parasitic worm, a narcotizing agent and a salivary blend of anticoagulants when a vampire stung its victim. The other canal siphoned the blood meal. The vampire did not suck the blood out of its human victim but instead relied on physics to do the extraction, the second stinger canal forming a vacuum-like connection through which arterial blood was drawn up as easily as water crawls up the stem of a plant. The vampire could speed the capillary action if necessary by working the base of its stinger like a piston. Amazing that this complex biological system arose out of radical endogenous growth.

Human blood is more than 95 percent water. The rest is proteins, sugars, and minerals, but no fat. Tiny bloodsuckers such as mosquitoes, ticks, and other arthropods could survive on blood meals just fine. As efficient as the vampires’ transmuted bodies were, as large sanguivores they had to consume a steady blood diet in order to avoid starvation. And because human blood was mostly water, they expressed waste frequently, including while feeding.

Eph left the flayed stinger upon the counter, returning to the creature. The acidic white vampire blood had eaten through the tubing across its neck, but the vampire’s thrashing had subsided. Eph opened up the creature’s chest, cutting down from sternum to waist in a classic Y. Through the calcified bone of the rib cage, he saw that the interior of the chest had mutated into quadrants, or chambers. He had long ago surmised that the entire digestive tract was transformed by the vampiric disease syndrome, but never, until now, had he viewed the chest cavity in its mature form.

The scientist in him found it truly extraordinary.

The human survivor in him found it absolutely repellent.

He stopped cutting when he heard footsteps on the floor above him. Hard steps—shoes—but some creatures occasionally still wore them, as quality footwear lasted longer than most other articles of clothing. He looked at the vampire’s smashed face and dented head and hoped he hadn’t underestimated the power of the Master’s reach, unwittingly inviting a fight.

Eph took up his long sword and lamp. He stepped back into a recess near the door to the walk-in cooler, giving him a good view of the stairs. No point in hiding; vamps could hear the beating of a human heart, circulating the red blood they craved.

The footsteps descended slowly—until the last few steps, which they ran down and kicked open the door. Eph saw a flash of silver, a long blade like his own, and knew immediately who it was—and relaxed.

Fet saw Eph standing against the wall and narrowed his eyes in that way he did. The exterminator wore wool trousers and a deep-blue anorak, the buckled leather strap of his bag slung across his chest. He pulled his hood back, further revealing his grizzled face, and sheathed his blade.

“Vasiliy?” said Eph. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Fet saw Eph’s pathology smock and gloved hands, then turned toward the still-animate strigoi eviscerated upon the table.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Fet asked, lowering his sword. “I just arrived today . . .”

Eph stepped away from the wall and returned his own sword to the pack on the floor. “I am examining this vampire.”

Fet came forward to the table, looking at the creature’s crushed face. “Did you do that?”

“No. Not directly. He was struck by a chunk of falling concrete, caused by a hospital I blew up.”

Fet looked at Eph. “I heard it. That was you?”

“They had me cornered. Almost.”

Eph felt relief as soon as he saw Vasiliy—but he also felt a bolt of anger tensing his body. He stood there, frozen. Not knowing what to do. Should he embrace the ratcatcher? Or beat the shit out of him?

Fet turned back to the strigoi on the table, wincing at the sight. “And so you decided to bring him down here. To play with him.”

“I saw an opportunity to answer some outstanding questions about our tormentors’ biological system.”

Fet said, “Looks more like torture to me.”

“Well, that is the difference between an exterminator and a scientist.”

“Maybe,” said Fet, circling the table so that he faced Eph across it. “Or maybe you can’t tell the difference. Maybe, since you can’t hurt the Master, you grabbed this thing in its place. You do realize this creature won’t tell you where your boy is.”

Eph didn’t like it when they threw Zack back at him like that. Eph had a stake in this battle that none of the others understood. “In studying its biology, I am looking for weaknesses in the design. Something we can exploit.”

Fet said, standing across the vampire’s opened body from Eph, “We know what they are. Forces of nature who invade us and exploit our bodies. Who feed off us. They are no mystery to us anymore.”

The creature moaned softly and stirred on the table. Its hips thrust forward and its chest heaved as though humping an invisible partner.

“Jesus, Eph. Destroy this fucking thing.” Fet backed away from the table. “Where’s Nora?”

He had tried to make it sound casual and failed.

Eph took a deep breath. “I think something’s happened to her.”

“What do you mean ‘something’? Talk.”

“When I got back here, she was gone. Her mother, too.”

“Gone where?”

“I think they got rousted from here and left. I haven’t heard from her since. If you haven’t either, then something’s happened.”

Fet stared, stunned. “And you figured the best thing to do was stay here and dissect a fucking vamp?”

“To stay here and wait for one of you two to get in touch with me, yes.”

Fet scowled at Eph’s attitude. He felt like slapping the guy—slapping him and telling him what a waste of time he was. Eph had it all and Fet had nothing, and yet Eph repeatedly squandered or overlooked his good fortune. He would have liked to slap the guy a couple of times alright. But instead he sighed heavily and said, “Take me through this.”

Eph walked him upstairs, showed him the overturned chair and Nora’s abandoned lamp, clothes, and weapons bag. He watched Fet’s eyes, saw them burning. Given Fet’s and Nora’s deception, Eph had thought it might feel good to see Fet suffer—but it didn’t. Nothing about this felt good. “It’s bad,” said Eph.

“Bad,” said Fet, turning toward the windows looking out at the city. “That’s all you got?”

“What do you want to do?”

“You say that as though we even have a choice. We have to go get her.”

“Ah. Simple.”

“Yes! Simple! You wouldn’t want us to go after you?”

“I wouldn’t expect it.”

“Really?” said Fet, turning to him. “I guess we have fundamentally different ideas about loyalty.”

“Yes, I guess we do,” said Eph with enough edge on his words to make them stick.

Fet didn’t respond, but he didn’t back down either. “So you think she was grabbed. But not turned.”

“Not here. But how can we know for sure? Unlike Zack, she has no Dear One to go after. Right?”

Another jab. Eph couldn’t help himself. The computer containing their intimate correspondence was right there on the desk.

Fet understood now that Eph at least suspected something. Maybe he was daring Eph to come right out and make an open accusation, but Eph would not give him the satisfaction. So, instead of answering Eph’s insinuations, Fet countered as usual, attacking Eph’s vulnerable spot. “I assume you were at Kelly’s house again instead of here to meet Nora at the appointed time? This obsession with your son has warped you, Eph. Yes, he needs you. But we need you too. She needs you. This isn’t just about you and your son. Others are relying on you.”

“And what about you?” said Eph. “Your obsession with Setrakian. That’s what your trip to Iceland was. Doing what you think he would have done. Did you figure out all the secrets in the Lumen? No? I thought not. You could have been here as well, but you chose to follow in the old man’s shoes, his self-appointed disciple.”

“I took a chance. We have to get lucky sometime.” Fet stopped himself, throwing up his hands. “But—forget all that. Focus on Nora. She’s our only problem right now.”

Eph said, “Best-case scenario, she’s in a heavily guarded blood camp. If we guess right on which one, then all we have to do is get ourselves inside, find her, and get back out again. I can think of easier ways to commit suicide.”

Fet began packing up Nora’s things. “We need her. Pure and simple. We can’t afford to lose anyone. We need all hands on deck if we’re gonna have any chance of digging ourselves out of this mess.”

“Fet. We’ve seen two years of this. The Master’s system has taken root. We are lost.”

“Wrong—just because I might have struck out on the Lumen doesn’t mean I came back empty-handed.”

Eph tried to figure out that one. “Food?”

“That too,” said Fet.

Eph was not in the mood for a guessing game. Besides, at the mention of real food, his mouth had begun to water, his belly twisting into a fist. “Where?”

“In a cooler, stashed nearby. You can help me carry it.”

“Carry it where?”

“Uptown,” said Fet. “We need to go get Gus.”

Staatsburg, New York

NORA
RODE
IN the backseat of a town car, speeding through rainy rural New York. The upholstery was dark and clean, but the floor mats were filthy from foot mud. Nora sat all the way over on the right, curled up in the corner, not knowing what was to come next.

She did not know where she was being taken. After her shocking encounter with her former boss Everett Barnes, Nora was led by two hulking vampires to a building with a room full of curtainless showers. The vampires remained near the only door, standing together. She could have made a stand there and refused but felt it was best to go along and see what was to come, perhaps a better chance to escape.

So she disrobed and showered. Self-consciously at first, but when she looked back at the big vampires, their eyes were focused on the far wall with their trademark distant stare, lacking any interest in the human form.

The cool spray—she could not get it hot—felt alien against her bare scalp. Her skin was prickled by needles of cold water, and the runoff spilled unimpeded down the back of her neck and naked back. The water felt good. Nora grabbed a half bar of soap sitting in a recessed tile niche. She lathered her hands and head and bare stomach and found relief in the ritual. She washed her shoulders and neck, pausing to smell the soap right against her nose—rose and lilac—a relic from the past. Someone, somewhere had made this bar of soap. Along with thousands of others, and packaged and shipped it in a normal day with traffic jams and school drops and hurried lunches. Someone had thought the bar of soap with rose and lilac scent would sell well and designed it—its shape and scent and color—to attract the attention of housewives and mothers on the crowded shelves of a Kmart or a Walmart. And now that bar of soap was here—in a processing plant. An archaeological artifact that smelled of roses and lilacs and of times gone by.

A new gray jumper was folded on a bench in the middle of the room, with a pair of white cotton panties set on top. She dressed and was led back through the quarantine station to the front gates. Above her, on an arch of rusting iron, dripped the word LIBERTY. The town car arrived, as did another one behind it. Nora got in the back of the first car; no one entered the second car.

A glasslike partition of hard plastic separated the driver from her passenger. She was a human in her early twenties, dressed in a man’s chauffeur suit and cap. Her hair was shaved tight below the back of her cap brim, leading Nora to assume that she was bald, and therefore perhaps a camp resident herself. And yet the pinkness of her flesh on the back of her neck and the healthy color of her hands made Nora doubt that she was a regular bleeder.

Nora turned again, obsessing over the tail car as she had done since pulling away from the camp. She couldn’t be sure, through the glare of its headlights in the dark rain, but something about the driver’s posture made her think it was a vamp. A backup car, maybe, in case she tried to escape. Her own doors were completely stripped of their inside panels and armrests, with the lock and window controls removed.

She expected a long ride, but little more than two or three miles away from the camp the town car pulled off the road through an open driveway gate. Rising out of the foggy gloom at the end of a long, curling driveway was a house larger and grander than most any she had ever seen. It appeared out of the New York countryside like a European manor, with nearly every window lit warmly yellow, as though for a party.

The car stopped. The driver remained behind the wheel as a butler exited the door, holding two umbrellas, one open over his head. He pulled Nora’s door open and shielded her from the dirty rain as she exited the vehicle and walked with him up slick marble steps. Inside, he disposed of the umbrellas and snapped a white towel off a nearby rack, dropping to one knee to attend to her muddied feet.

“This way, Dr. Martinez,” he said. Nora followed him, her bare soles silent upon the cool floor down a wide hallway. Brightly lit rooms, floor vents pushing warm air, the pleasing odor of cleaning solution. It was all so civilized, so human. Which is to say, so dreamlike. The difference between the blood camp and this mansion was the difference between ash and satin.

The butler pulled open twin doors, revealing an opulent dining room featuring a long table with only two settings laid out, adjoining one corner. The dishes were gold-rimmed with fluted edges, a small coat of arms in the center. The glassware was crystal, but the silverware was stainless steel—not silver. It was apparently the only concession in the entire mansion to the reality of the vampire-run world.

Arranged on a brass platter kitty-corner between the twin settings were a bowl of gorgeous plums, a porcelain basket of assorted pastries, and two dishes of chocolate truffles and other confectionery treats. The plums called to her. She reached for the bowl before stopping herself, remembering the drugged water they had given her in the camp. She needed to resist temptation and, despite her hunger, make smart choices.

She did not sit, remaining standing on bare feet. Music played faintly elsewhere inside the house. There was a second door across the room, and she considered trying the knob. But she felt watched. She looked for cameras and saw none.

The second door opened. Barnes entered, again wearing his formal, all-white admiral’s uniform. His skin beamed healthy and pink around his trim white Vandyke beard. Nora had almost forgotten how healthy a well-nourished human being could look.

“Well,” he said, striding down the length of the table toward her. He kept one hand tucked in his pocket, aping a gentleman of the manor. “This is a much more amenable setting to reacquaint ourselves, isn’t it? Camp life is so dreary. This place is my great escape.” He swirled his hand at the room and the house beyond. “Too big for only me, of course. But with eminent domain, everything on the menu is priced the same, so why settle for less than the very best? It was once owned by a pornographer, I understand. Smut bought all this. So I don’t feel all that bad.” He smiled, the corners of his mouth pulling up the trimmed edges of his pointy beard, as he reached her end of the table. “You haven’t eaten?” he said, looking at the food tray. He reached for a pastry drizzled with a sugary glaze. “I imagined you’d be famished.” He looked at the pastry with pride. “I have these made for me. Every day in a bakery in Queens, just for me. I used to long for them as a kid—but I couldn’t afford them . . . But now . . .”

Barnes took a bite of the pastry. He sat down at the head of the table and unfolded his napkin, smoothing it out on his knee.

Nora, once she knew the food was untainted, grabbed a plum and made quick work of it, devouring the fruit. She grabbed her own napkin to swipe at her juice-slicked chin, then reached for another.

“You bastard,” she said with her mouth full.

Barnes smiled flatly, expecting better from her. “Wow, Nora—straight to the point . . . ‘Realist’ is more like it. You want ‘opportunist’? That I might accept. Maybe. But this is a new world now. Those who accept this fact and acclimate themselves to it are much better off.”

“How noble. A sympathizer with these . . . these monsters.”

“On the contrary, I would say that sympathy is one trait that I lack.”

“A profiteer, then.”

He considered that, playing at polite conversation, finishing off his pastry and licking each of his fingertips. “Maybe.”

“How about ‘traitor’? Or—‘motherfucker’?”

Barnes slammed his hand against the table. “Enough,” he said, waving off the word as one would a pesky fly. “You’re clinging to self-righteousness because that is all you have left! But look at me! Look at all that I have got . . .”

Nora didn’t take her eyes from him. “They killed all the real leaders in the first weeks. The opinion makers, the powerful. Leaving room for someone like you to float to the top. That can’t feel so good either. Being the floater in the flush.”

Barnes smiled, pretending her opinion of him did not matter. “I am trying to be civilized. I am trying to help you. So sit . . . Eat . . . Converse . . .”

Nora pulled the other chair back from the table, in order to give herself some distance from him.

“Allow me,” he said. Dull knife in hand, Barnes began preparing a croissant for her, swiping in butter and raspberry preserves. “You are using wartime terms such as ‘traitor’ and ‘profiteer.’ The war, if there ever was one, is over. A few humans such as yourself haven’t accepted this new reality yet, but that is your delusion. Now—does this mean we all have to be slaves? Is that the only choice? I don’t think so. There is room in the middle, even room near the top. For those few with exceptional skills and the perspicacity to apply them.” He set the croissant on her plate.

“I had forgotten how slippery you were,” she said. “And how ambitious.”

He smiled as though she had offered him a compliment. “Well—camp living can be a fulfilled existence. Not only living for oneself but for others. This basic human biological function—the creation of blood—is an enormous resource to their kind. Do you think that leaves us with no leverage? If one plays things right, that is. If one can demonstrate to them that one has real value.”

“As a jailer.”

“Again—so reductive. Yours is the language of losers, Nora. I believe that the camp exists neither to punish nor oppress. It is simply a facility, constructed for mass production and maximum efficiency. My opinion—though I consider it a simple fact—is that people quickly come to appreciate living a life with clearly defined expectations. With simple, understandable rules for survival. If you provide, you will be provided for. There is real comfort in that. The human population has decreased by almost a third worldwide. A lot is the doing of the Master, but people kill each other pursuing simple things . . . like the food you have before you. So I assure you, camp life, once you give yourself over to it fully, is remarkably stress-free.”

Nora ignored the croissant prepared by his hands, pouring some lemon water from a pitcher into her glass instead. “I think the scariest thing is that you actually do believe this.”

“The notion that we humans were somehow more than mere animals, mere creatures set upon this earth—that we were instead chosen to be here—is what got us into trouble. Made us settled, made us complacent. Privileged. When I think about the fairy tales we used to tell ourselves and each other about God . . .”

A servant opened the double doors, entering with a gold-foil-topped bottle balanced upon a brass tray.

“Ah,” said Barnes, sliding his empty glass toward the servant. “The wine.”

Nora watched the servant pour a bit into Barnes’s glass. “What is all this about?” she asked.

“Priorat. Spanish. Palacios, L’Ermita, ’04. You’ll like it. Along with this fine house, I inherited a quite wonderful wine cellar.”

“I mean all this. Me being brought here. Why? What do you want?”

“To offer you something. A great opportunity. One that could improve your lot in this new life considerably, and perhaps forever.”

Nora watched him sample and okay the wine, allowing the servant to fill his glass. She said, “You need another driver? A dishwasher? A wine steward?”

Barnes smiled, with something shy behind the smile. He was looking at Nora’s hands as though he wanted to take them in his own. “You know, Nora, I have always admired your beauty. And . . . to be quite candid, I always thought Ephraim didn’t deserve a woman such as you . . .”

Nora opened her mouth to speak. No sound came out, only breath, emptying her lungs with a silent exhalation.

“Of course, back then, in an office environment, a government setting, it would have been . . . unprofessional to make any sort of advance on a subordinate. Termed harassment or some such. Remember those ridiculous and unnatural rules? How fussy civilization got toward the end? Now we have a much more natural order of things. He who wants and can . . . conquers and takes.”

Nora swallowed finally and found her voice. “Are you saying what I think you are saying, Everett?”

He blushed a little, as though lacking the conviction of his boorishness. “There aren’t many people left from my previous life. Or yours. Mightn’t it be nice every once in a while to reminisce? That could be very pleasant, I think—to share experiences we had together. Work anecdotes . . . dates and places. Remembering the way things used to be? We have so much in common—our professional backgrounds, our work experience. You could even practice medicine at the camp, if you wish. I seem to recall you have a background in social work. You could tend to the ill, ready them to return to productivity. Or even pursue more serious work, if you desire. You know, I have much influence.”

Nora kept her voice at an even pitch. “And in return?”

“In return? Luxury. Comfort. You would reside here, with me—on a trial basis, at first. Neither of us would want to commit to a bad situation. Over time, I think the arrangement would come together nicely. I am sorry that I didn’t find you before they shaved your lovely hair. But we have wigs—”

He reached for her bare scalp, but Nora straightened fast, pulling back.

“Is this how your driver got her job?” she said.

Barnes slowly drew back his hand; his face showed regret. Not for himself, but for Nora, as though she had rudely crossed a line that could not be uncrossed.

“Well,” he said, “you seemed to fall in with Goodweather, who was your boss at the time, quite easily.”

She was less offended than incredulous. “So that’s it,” she said. “You didn’t like that. You were my boss’s boss. You thought you were the one who should . . . First-night rights, is that it?”

“I am merely reminding you that this is apparently not your first time around this particular block.” He sat back, crossing his legs and arms, in the manner of a debater with supreme confidence in his side of the argument. “This is not an unusual situation for you to find yourself in.”

“Wow,” said Nora. “You really are the imbecilic bigot I always thought you would be . . .”

Barnes smiled, unfazed. “I think your choice is an easy one. Life in the camp or—potentially, if you play your cards right—life here. It is a choice no sane person would deliberate over very long.”

Nora felt herself smiling in disbelief, her face twisted uncomfortably. “You dirty fuck,” she said. “You are worse than a vampire, you know that? It’s not need for you, just opportunity. A power trip. Real rape would be too messy for you. You’d rather tie me up with ‘luxuries.’ You want me grateful and compliant. Appreciative for your exploitation of me. You’re a monster. I can see why you fit so well into their plans. But there are not enough plums in this house, or on this ruined planet, that would make me—”

“Perhaps a few days in a harsher environment will change your mind.” Barnes’s eyes had hardened while she was dressing him down. Now suddenly he appeared even more interested in her, as though feeding off this power disparity. “And if you do indeed choose to remain there, isolated and in the dark—which is of course your right—let me remind you of what you have to look forward to. Your blood type happens to be B positive, which, for whatever reason—taste? some vitamin-like benefit?—is most desirable to the vampire class. This means that you will be bred. Since you have entered the camp without a mate, one will be selected for you. He will also be B positive, in order to increase the chances for birthing more B-positive offspring. Someone such as myself. That can easily be arranged. Then, for the rest of your fertility life cycle, you will be either pregnant or nursing. Which has its advantages, as you may have seen. Better housing, better rations, two fruit and vegetable servings per day. Of course, if you should have any trouble conceiving, then after a reasonable amount of time, allowing for numerous attempts using a variety of fertility drugs, you will be relegated to camp labor and five-day bloodletting. After a while, if I may be completely candid, you will die.” Barnes wore a tight smile on his face. “In addition, having taken the liberty of reviewing your intake forms, ‘Ms. Rodriguez,’ I believe you were admitted to the camp with your mother.”

Nora felt the skin on the back of her neck—where she once had hair—tingling.

“You were apprehended on the subway while trying to hide her. I wonder where you two were going.”

“Where is she?” said Nora.

“Still alive, in fact. But, as you might know, due to her age and obvious infirmity, she is scheduled to be bled and then permanently retired.”

These words clouded Nora’s vision.

“Now,” said Barnes, unfolding his arms in order to select a white-chocolate truffle, “it is entirely possible she could be spared. Perhaps . . . this is just coming to me now, but perhaps even brought here, in a sort of semi-retirement. Given her own room, possibly a nurse. She could be well cared for.”

Nora’s hands trembled.

“So . . . you wanna fuck me and you wanna play house?”

Barnes bit into his treat, delighted to find sweet cream inside. “You know, this could have gone much more congenially. I tried the soft sell. I am a gentleman, Nora.”

“You are a son of a bitch. That’s what you are.”

“Ha.” He nodded in enjoyment. “Your Spanish temper, right? Feisty. Good.”

“You goddamn monster.”

“You said that, yes. Now, there is one more thing that I want you to consider. You should know that what I should have done the instant I saw you there in the detention house was identify you and turn you over to the Master. The Master would be only too pleased to learn more about Dr. Goodweather and the rest of your band of rebels. Such as their current whereabouts and the extent of their resources. Even simply where you and your mother were headed on that Manhattan subway car—or where you were coming from.” Barnes smiled and nodded. “The Master would be extremely motivated to learn such information. I can say in total confidence that I believe the Master would enjoy your company even more than I would. And it would use your mother to get to you. No question about that. If you go back to the camp without me you will eventually be discovered. I can assure you of that, too.” Barnes stood, smoothing out the creases in his admiral’s uniform, brushing away the crumbs. “So—now you understand that you have a third option as well. A date with the Master, with eternity as a vampire.”

Nora’s gaze blurred into the middle distance. She felt lethargic, almost dizzy. She believed that this was something like what it must feel like to be bled.

“But you have a decision to mull over,” said Barnes. “I won’t keep you any longer. I know you want to get right back to the camp—to your mother, while she is still alive.” He went to the double doors, pushing them open out into the grand hallway. “Do think it over, and let me know what you decide. Time is running out . . .”

Unseen by him, Nora pocketed one of the butter knives at the table.

Beneath Columbia University

COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY
HAD been, Gus knew, a big-shot school. Lots of old buildings, crazy expensive tuition, mucho security and cameras. He used to see some of the students out trying to mix with the neighborhood, some for community-minded reasons, which he never understood, and others for more illicit reasons, which he understood very well. But as for the university itself, the derelict Morningside Heights campus and all of its facilities, there was nothing much worth his time.

Now it was Gus’s base, his headquarters and his home. The Mexican gangbanger would never be made to leave his turf; indeed, he would blow it all up before allowing that to happen. As his sabotage and hunting activities dwindled in number and became more regimented, Gus started to look for a permanent base. He really needed it. It was hard to be efficient in this mad new world. Sticking it to the man became a 24/7 occupation, and one that was less and less rewarding every time. Police and fire departments, medical services, traffic surveillance—everything had been co-opted. When searching his old Harlem haunts for a place to coop, he’d connected with two of his La Mugre gangbangers and fellow saboteurs, Bruno Ramos and Joaquin Soto.

Bruno was fat—no other way to say it—fed mostly with Cheetos and beer. Joaquin was tight and lean. Groomed, tattooed, and full of ’tude. They were both brothers to Gus and they would die for him. Born ready.

Joaquin had done jail time with Gus. They’d done cell time together. Sixteen months for Gus. They’d watched each other’s back and Joaquin had done solitary for a good stretch after elbowing the teeth out of a guard, a big black guy named Raoul—what a fucked-up name for someone with no teeth: Raoul. After the vampires’ arrival—what some called the Fall—Gus had reconnected with Joaquin during the looting of an electronics store. Joaquin and Bruno helped him carry a big plasma TV and a box of video games.

Together they had taken the university and found it to be only slightly infested. Windows and doors were boarded and sealed with steel plates, the interiors razed and desecrated with ammonia waste. The students had all fled early, trying to evacuate the city and get back home. Joaquin guessed they never got very far.

What they found, in prowling around the deserted buildings, was a system of tunnels below the foundation. A book in the display case at the admissions office tipped Joaquin off to the fact that the campus had originally been erected on the grounds of a nineteenth-century insane asylum. The university architects had leveled all the existing hospital buildings except one and then built upon the existing foundations. Many of the linking tunnels were used for utilities, steam pipes generating scalding condensation, miles of electric wiring. Over time, a number of these passages had been boarded up or otherwise sealed in order to prevent injury to thrill-seeking students and urban spelunkers.

Together they had explored and claimed for themselves much of this underground network linking almost all of Columbia’s seventy-one campus buildings located between Broadway and Amsterdam on New York’s Upper West Side. Some more remote sections remained unexplored, simply because there wasn’t enough time in the day or night for hunting vampires, sowing chaos throughout Manhattan, and clearing musty tunnels.

Gus had carved out his own digs, concentrated in one quadrant of the campus’s main plaza. His domain started beneath the only remaining building original to the asylum, Buell Hall; ran beneath the Low Memorial Library and Kent Hall; and terminated at Philosophy Hall, the building outside of which was a bronze statue of a naked dude just sitting there, thinking.

The tunnels made for a cool crib, a real villain’s lair. The failure of the steam system meant he could access areas rarely visited in at least a century—the coarse black fibers sticking out of cracks in the underground walls were actual horsehairs used to strengthen the plaster mix—which had led him into a dank subbasement of iron-barred cells.

The loony bin. Where they caged up the maddest of the mad. No skeletons in chains or anything like that, though they had found scratches in the stonemasonry, like the jagged clawing of fingernails, and it didn’t take much imagination to hear ghostly echoes of the hideous, soul-baring screams from centuries past.

This was where he kept her. His madre. In an eight-by-six cage made of iron bars running ceiling to floor, forming a semicircle creating a corner cell. Gus’s mother’s hands were manacled behind her back with a pair of thick wrist cuffs he had found under a table in a nearby chamber, for which there was no key. A full-face black motorcycle helmet covered her head, much of the finish chipped away from her repeated headlong ramming against the bars during the first few months of her captivity. Gus had superglued the neck curtain of the helmet to her flesh. This was the only way he could fully contain her vampire stinger, for his own safety. It also covered the growing turkey wattle, the sight of which sickened him. He had removed the clear plastic face plate and replaced it with a padlocked iron flat, sprayed black and hinged at the sides. He had baffled the ear molds inside the helmet with thick cotton wadding.

She could therefore neither see nor hear anything, and yet, whenever Gus entered the chamber, the helmet turned and tracked him. Her head turned, eerily attuned to his walk, following him across the room. She gurgled and squealed as she stood in the center of the rounded corner cell, unclothed, her worn vampire body grimy from the asylum’s century-old dust. Gus had once attempted to clothe her through the bars, using cloaks, coats, then blankets, but they all fell away. She had no need for clothes and no concept of modesty. The soles of her feet had developed a pad of calluses, as thick as the treads on a pair of tennis sneakers. Insects and lice wandered freely over her body and her legs were stained, tanned by repeated defecation. Chaps of brown skin were delineated around her veiny, pale thighs and calves.

Months ago, after the fight inside the Hudson River train tunnel, once the air had cleared, Gus had separated from the others. Part of it was his nature, but part of it was his mother. He knew that she would soon find him—her Dear One—and he prepared for her arrival. When she did, Gus got the drop on her, bagging her head and hog-tying her. She fought him with ridiculous vampire strength, but Gus managed to jam the helmet on her, caging her head and trapping her stinger. Then he manacled her wrists and dragged her by the neck of the helmet to this dungeon. Her new home.

Gus reached in through the bars, sliding up her faceplate. Her dead black pupils, rimmed with scarlet, stared out at him, mad, soulless, but full of hunger. Every time he raised the iron shield, he could feel her desire to unleash her stinger, and sometimes, if she tried repeatedly, thick curtains of lubricant oozed out of any fissure in the seal.

In the course of their domestic life, Bruno, Joaquin, and Gus had formed a great, imperfect family together. Bruno was always ebullient and for some reason, he had the gift of cracking up both Gus and Joaquin. They shared every duty in the household but only Gus was allowed direct contact with his mother. He washed her, head to toe, every week and kept her cell as clean and dry as he humanly could.

The dented helmet gave her a machinelike appearance, like a banged-up robot or android. Bruno remembered a bad old movie he saw on TV late one night called Robot Monster. In the film, the titular creature had a steel helmet screwed atop a brutish apelike body. This is how he saw the Elizaldes: Gustavo vs. the Robot Monster.

Gus pulled a small pocketknife from his jacket and unfolded the silver blade. His mother’s eyes watched him carefully—like a caged animal’s. He pushed back his left sleeve, then extended both arms through the iron bars, holding them above her helmeted head as her dead eyes tracked the silver blade. Gus pressed the sharpened point against his left forearm, cutting, leaving a thin incision of less than half an inch in length. Rich, red blood spilled from the wound. Gus angled his arm so that the blood ran down to his wrist, dripping into the open helmet.

He watched his mother’s eyes as her mouth and stinger worked unseen inside the helmet, ingesting the blood meal.

She got maybe a shot glass’s worth of him before he pulled his arms back outside the cage. Gus retreated to a small table he kept across the room, ripping a square of paper towel from a thick brown roll and applying direct pressure to the wound, then sealing the cut with liquid bandage squeezed from an almost-empty tube. He pulled a baby wipe from a pop-up box and cleaned off the bloodstain on his arm. The length of his left forearm was scored with similar knife scratches, adding to his already impressive display of body art. In feeding her, he kept tracing and retracing the same pattern, opening and reopening the same old wounds, carving the word “MADRE” into his flesh.

“I found you some music, Mama,” he said, producing a handful of battered and burned CDs. “Some of your favorites: Los Panchos, Los Tres Ases, Javier Solis . . .”

Gus looked at her standing inside the cage, feasting on her son’s blood, and tried to remember the woman who raised him. The single mother with a sometime husband and occasional boyfriends. She did her best for him, which was different from always doing the right thing. But it was the best she knew how to do. She had lost the custody battle, her versus the street. The barrio had raised him. It was the street behavior he emulated, rather than that of his madre. So many things he regretted now but could not change. He chose to remember their younger days. Her caressing him—treating his wounds after a neighborhood fight. And, even in her angriest moments, the kindness and love in her eyes.

All gone now. All disappeared.

Gus had disrespected her in life. So why did he now revere her in undeath? He did not know the answer. He did not understand the forces that drove him. All he knew was that visiting with her in this state—feeding her—charged him up like a battery. Made him crazy for revenge.

He placed one of the CDs in a luxurious stereo system he had pillaged from a car full of corpses. He had jimmied a few speakers of different brands and managed to get a good sound out of it. Javier Solis started singing “No te doy la libertad” (I will not give you freedom), an angry and melancholic bolero that proved eerily appropriate for the occasion.

“Do you like it, Madre?” he said, knowing all too well that this was just another monologue between them. “You remember it?”

Gus returned to the cage wall. He reached inside to close the faceplate, sealing her back in the darkness, when he saw something change in her eyes. Something came into them.

He had seen this before. He knew what it meant.

The voice, not his mother’s, boomed deep inside his head.

I can taste you, boy, said the Master. I taste your blood and your yearning. I taste your weakness. I know who you are in league with. My bastard son. The eyes remained focused on him, with a hint of a spark behind them, like that tiny red light on a camera that tells you it is passively recording.

Gus tried to clear his mind. He tried to think nothing. Yelling at the creature through his mother brought him nothing. That much he had learned. Resist. The way old man Setrakian would have advised him. Gus was training himself to withstand the dark intelligence of the Master.

Yes, the old professor. He had plans for you. If only he could see you here. Feeding your madre in the same manner he used to feed the infested heart of his long-lost wife. He failed, Gus. As you will fail.

Gus focused the pain in his head on the image of his mother as she once was. His mind’s eye stared at this image in an attempt to block out everything else.

Bring me the others, Augustin Elizalde. Your reward will be great. Your survival will be assured. Live like a king, not as a rat. Or else . . . no mercy. However much you beg for a second chance, I will no longer hear you. Your time is growing short . . .

“This is my house,” said Gus, aloud but quietly. “My mind, demon. You are not welcome here.”

What if I gave her back? Her will is stored in me along with the millions of voices. But I can find it for you, invoke it for you. I can give you your mother back . . .

And then, Gus’s mother’s eyes became almost human. They softened and became wet and full of pain.

“Hijito,” she said. “My son. Why am I here? Why am I like this . . . ? What are you doing to me?”

It hit him all at once, her nakedness, the madness, the guilt, the horror.

“No!!” he screamed, and reached in through the bars with a trembling hand, sliding the faceplate shut at once. Immediately, once it was closed, Gus felt released, as though by an invisible hand. And in the helmet, the laughter of the Master exploded. Gus covered his ears but the voice continued resounding in his head until, like an echo, it faded away.

The Master had attempted to engage him long enough to get a fix on Gus’s location, so it could send in his army of vampires to wipe him out.

It was just a trick. Not my mother. Just a trick. Never deal with the devil—that much he knew. Live like a king. Right. The king of a ruined world. The king of nothing. But down here, he was alive. An agent of chaos. Caca grande. The shit in the Master’s soup.

Gus’s reverie was interrupted by footfalls in the tunnels. He went to the door and saw artificial light coming around the corner.

Fet came first, Goodweather behind him. Gus had seen Fet a month or two before, but the doctor he had not seen in quite some time. Goodweather looked the worst he’d ever seen him.

They had never seen Gus’s mother before, never even knew he had her here. Fet saw her first, moving to the bars. Gus’s mother’s helmet tracked him. Gus explained the situation to them—how he had it all under control, how she was not a threat to him, his homies, or the mission.

“Holy Christ,” said the big exterminator. “Since when?”

“Long time now,” answered Gus. “I just don’t like to talk about it.”

Fet moved laterally, watching her helmet follow him. “She can’t see though?”

“No.”

“The helmet works? Blocking out the Master?”

Gus nodded. “I think so. Plus, she doesn’t even know where she is . . . it’s a triangulation thing. They need sight and sound and something inside the brain to home in on you. I keep one fully blocked all the time—her ears. Faceplate blocks her sight. It’s her vampire brain and her sense of smell spotting you now.”

“What are you feeding her?” asked Fet.

Gus shrugged. The answer was obvious.

Goodweather spoke up then. “Why? Why do you keep her?”

Gus looked at him. “I guess that’s still none of your fucking business, doctor . . .”

“She’s gone. That thing in there—that’s not your mother.”

“You really think I don’t know that?”

Goodweather said, “There’s no reason to keep her otherwise. You need to release her. Now.”

“I don’t need to do anything. This is my decision. My madre.”

“Not anymore she isn’t. My son, if I find that he has been turned, I will release him. I will cut him down myself, without a moment’s hesitation.”

“Well, this ain’t your son. Or any of your business.”

Gus couldn’t see Goodweather’s eyes clearly in the dim room. Last time they had met, Gus could tell that he had been hyped on speed. The good doctor was self-medicating then, and he thought now, too.

Gus turned away from him, back to Fet, cutting Goodweather out of the conversation. “How was your vacation, hombre?”

“Ah. Funny. Very relaxing. No, it was a wild goose chase, but with an interesting ending. How’s the street battle?”

“I’m taking it to them as best I can. Keeping the pressure up. Program Anarchy, you know? Agent Sabotage, reporting for duty, every damn night. Burned down four vamp lairs last week. Blew up a building the week before. Never knew what hit ’em. Guerilla warfare and dirty fucking tricks. Fight the power, manito.”

“We need it. Any time something explodes in the city, or a thick plume of smoke or dust rises up into the rain, it has to register with people that there are still some in the city who are fighting back. And it’s another thing for the vampires to have to explain away.” Fet motioned to Goodweather. “Eph brought down an entire hospital building a day ago. Detonated oxygen tanks.”

Gus turned to him. “What were you looking for in the hospital?” he asked, letting the doc know that he knew his dirty little secret. Fet was a fighter, a killer like Gus. Goodweather was something more complicated, and simplicity was what they needed now. Gus didn’t trust him. Turning back to Fet, he said, “You remember El Angel de Plata?”

“Of course,” said Fet. “The old wrestler.”

“The Silver Angel.” Gus kissed his thumb and saluted the wrestler’s memory with a fist. “So—call me the Silver Ninja. Got moves that would make your head spin so hard, all your hair would fall out. Two other homeboys with me, we’re on a tear like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Silver Ninja. I like it.”

“Vampire assassin. I’m legendary. And I ain’t gonna rest until I got all their heads on spikes running the length of Broadway.”

“They’re still hanging corpses from street signs. They would love to have yours.”

“And yours. They think they’re badass, but I’m ten times as dangerous as any bloodsucker. Viva las ratas! Long live the rats!”

Fet smiled and shook Gus’s hand. “I wish we had a dozen more like you.”

Gus waved that off. “You get a dozen of me, we’d end up killing off each other.”

Gus led them back out of the tunnels to the basement of Buell Hall, where Fet and Goodweather had left the Coleman cooler. He then led them back underground to Low Memorial Library, then up through its administrative offices to the roof. A cool, dark afternoon-night with no rain, only an ominously black cloud of fog rolling in off the Hudson.

Fet popped open the top of the cooler, revealing two magnificent headless tunas sloshing around in what was left of the ice from the ship’s hold.

“Hungry?” asked Fet.

Eating it raw was the obvious thing to do, but Goodweather laid down some medical science on them, insisting that they cook the fish because of the climate changes altering the ocean’s ecosystem; no one knew what kind of lethal bacteria were lurking in raw fish.

Gus knew where to get a decent-sized camping grill from the catering department and Fet helped him carry it up to the roof. Goodweather was sent to break off old car antennas for skewers. They built their fire on the Hudson side between two large roof fans, blocking the flame light from the street and obscuring it from most rooftops.

The fish blackened up nice. Crisp-skinned and warm pink on the inside. A few bites in, Gus immediately felt better. He was so hungry all the time, he was unable to see how malnutrition ran him down both mentally and physically. The protein feast recharged him. Already he was looking forward to heading out on another daylight raid.

“So,” said Gus, with the pleasure of warm food on his tongue, “what is the occasion of this feast?”

“We need your help,” said Fet. He told Gus what they knew about Nora, Fet’s manner turning grave, intense. “She’s got to be in the nearest blood camp, the one north of the city. We want to get her out.”

Gus checked Goodweather, who was supposed to be her boyfriend. Goodweather looked back at him, but strangely without the same fire that Fet had. “Tall order.”

“The tallest. We have to move as soon as possible. If they find out who she is, that she knows us . . . it will be bad for her and worse for us.”

“I’m all for combat, don’t get me wrong. But I try to be strategic, too, these days. My job is not only staying alive but dying human. We all know the risks. Is it worth going in to get her? And I’m just asking, homes.”

Fet nodded, looking at the flames licking at the skewered fish. “I get your point. At this stage, it’s like, what are we doing this for? Are we trying to save the world? World’s already gone. If the vampires disappeared tomorrow, what would we do? Rebuild? How? For whom?” He shrugged, looking to Goodweather for support. “Maybe someday. Until this sky clears, it’d be a fight for survival no matter who runs this planet.” Fet paused to wipe some tuna off the whiskers around his lips. “I could give you a lot of reasons. But, bottom line, I’m just tired of losing people. We’re gonna do this with or without you.”

Gus waved his hand. “Never said anything about doing it without me. Just wanted to get your thinking on it. I like the doc. My boys are due back soon; we can arm up then.” Gus picked off another hot chunk of tuna. “Always wanted to fuck up a farm. All I needed was a good reason.”

Fet was flush with gratitude. “You save some of this food for your guys, energize them.”

“Beats squirrel meat. Let’s put this fire out. I have something to show you.”

Gus wrapped the rest of the fish in paper to save for his hombres, then doused the flames with the melted ice. He led them down through the building and across the vacant campus to Buell Hall, into the basement. In a small side room, Gus had wired a stationary bicycle to a handful of battery chargers. A desk held a variety of devices scavenged from the university audiovisual department, including late-model digital cameras with long lenses, a media drive, and some small, portable high-def monitors—all the stuff they just didn’t make anymore.

“Some of my boys been recording our raids and recon. Good propaganda value, if we can get it out there some way. Also been doing some recon work. You know about the castle in Central Park?”

“Of course,” said Fet. “The Master’s nest. Surrounded by an army of vamps.”

Goodweather was intrigued now, moving to the seven-inch monitor as Gus fed it a waiting battery pack and wired in a camera.

The screen came to life, soupy green and black.

“Night-vision lens. Found a couple dozen in collector’s boxes of a shooter video game. They fit on the end of a telephoto. Not a perfect match—and the quality is basically shit, I know. But keep watching.”

Fet and Goodweather bent forward to better view the small screen. After a few moments of deep concentration, the ghostly dark figures in the image started to come together for them.

“The castle, right?” said Gus, outlining it with his finger. “Stone foundation, the lake. Over here, your army of vamps.”

Fet asked, “Where’d you take this from?”

“Roof of the Museum of Natural History. Close as I could get. Had it on a tripod like a sniper.”

The image of the castle parapet trembled mightily, the zoom setting maxed out.

“There we go,” said Gus. “See it?”

As the image stabilized again, a figure emerged onto the high ledge of the parapet. The army below turned their heads toward it in a mass gesture of complete allegiance.

“Holy shit,” said Fet. “Is that the Master?”

“It’s smaller,” said Goodweather. “Or is the perspective out of whack?”

“It’s the Master,” said Fet. “Look at the drones below, how they turn their heads toward him at once. Like flowers bending toward the sun.”

Eph said, “It changed. Jumped bodies.”

“It must have,” said Fet, bursting pride evident in his voice. “The professor did hurt it after all. He had to have. I knew it. Wounded it so that it had to take on a new form.” Fet straightened. “I wonder how he did it.”

Gus watched Goodweather concentrating hard on the muddy, trembling image of the new Master moving. “It’s Bolivar,” said Goodweather.

“What’s that?” asked Gus.

“Not what. Who. Gabriel Bolivar.”

“Bolivar?” said Gus, searching his memory. “The singer?”

“That’s him,” said Goodweather.

“Are you sure?” said Fet, knowing exactly who Goodweather was referring to. “It’s so dark, how can you tell?”

“The way he moves. Something about him. I’m telling you—he is the Master.”

Fet looked closely. “You’re right. Why him? Maybe the Master had no time to choose. Maybe the old man hit it so hard, it had to change immediately.”

As Goodweather stared at the image, another vague form joined the Master out on the high parapet. Goodweather seemed to freeze, then tremble as though suffering a chill.

“It’s Kelly,” he said.

Goodweather said this with authority, without any trace of doubt.

Fet pulled back a bit, having more trouble with the image than Goodweather. But Gus could tell that he too was convinced. “Jesus.”

Goodweather steadied himself with a hand on the table. His vampire wife was serving at the side of the Master.

And then a third figure emerged. Smaller, skinnier than the other two. Reading darker on the night-vision scale.

“See that there?” said Gus. “We got a human being living among the vampires. Not just the vampires—the Master. Want to guess?”

Fet stiffened. That was Gus’s first sign that something was wrong. Then Fet turned to look at Goodweather.

Goodweather let go of the table. His legs gave out and he slumped back into a sitting position on the floor. His eyes were still locked on the soupy image, his stomach burning, suddenly flushed with acid. His lower lip trembled, and tears welled up in his eyes.

“That’s my son.”

International Space Station

TAKE
IT
DOWN.

Astronaut Thalia Charles didn’t even turn her head anymore. When the voice came now, she just accepted it. She almost—yes, she could admit this—welcomed it. As alone as she was—indeed, she was one of the most alone human beings in the history of human beings—she was not alone with her thoughts.

She was isolated aboard the International Space Station, the massive research facility disabled and tumbling through Earth’s orbit. Its solar-powered thrusters firing sporadically, the man-made satellite continued to drift in an elliptical trajectory some two hundred miles above its home planet, passing from day into night roughly every three hours.

For nearly two calendar years now—racking up eight orbital days for every one calendar day—she had existed in this state of quarantined suspension. Zero gravity and zero exercise had taken a great toll on her wasting body. Most of her muscle was gone, her tendons atrophied. Her spine, arms, and legs had bent in odd, disturbing angles and most of her fingers were useless hooks, curled upon themselves. Her food rations—mainly freeze-dried borscht brought up on the last Russian transport before the cataclysm—had dwindled to almost nothing, but on the other hand her body required little nutrition. Her skin was brittle, and flakes of it floated about the cabin like dandelion snow. Much of her hair was gone, which was also for the best, as it only got in the way in zero gravity.

She had all but disintegrated, both in body and in mind.

The Russian commander had died just three weeks after the ISS began to malfunction. Massive nuclear explosions on Earth excited the atmosphere, leading to multiple impacts with orbiting space junk. They had taken shelter inside their emergency escape capsule, the Soyuz spacecraft, following procedure in the absence of any communiqué from Houston. Commander Demidov volunteered to don a space suit and venture bravely out into the main facility in an attempt to repair the oxygen tank leaks—and succeeded in restoring and rerouting one of them into the Soyuz, before apparently suffering a massive heart attack. His success allowed Thalia and the French engineer to survive much longer than anticipated, as well as redistribute one-third of their rations of food and water.

But the result had been as much a curse as a blessing.

Then, within a few months, Maigny, the engineer, began showing signs of dementia. As they watched the planet disappear behind a black, octopus-ink-like cloud of polluted atmosphere, he rapidly lost faith and began speaking in strange voices. Thalia fought to maintain her own sanity in part by attempting to restore his and believed she was making real progress, until she caught a reflection of him making bizarre faces when he thought she could not see him. That night, as she pretended to sleep, spinning slowly inside the tight cabin space with her eyes half-closed, she watched in gravity-free horror as Maigny quietly unpacked the survival kit located between two of the three seats. He removed the three-barreled pistol from inside, more like a shotgun than a simple handgun. Some years ago, a Russian space capsule had, upon reentry and descent, crash-landed in the Siberian wilderness. It was hours before they were located, during which time the cosmonauts had to fight off wolves with little more than stones and tree branches. Since that episode, the specially made oversized gun—complete with a machete inside its detachable buttstock—had been included as standard mission equipment inside the “Soyuz Portable Survival Kit.”

She watched him feel up the barrel of the weapon, exploring the trigger with his finger. He removed the machete and spun it in the air, watching the blade go around and around and catching a glint of the distant sun. She felt the blade pass near her and saw, like the glint of the sun, a hint of pleasure in his eyes.

She knew then what she would have to do in order to save herself. She continued to pursue her amateur therapy so as not to alert Maigny to her concern, all the while preparing for the inevitable. She did not like to think of it, even now.

Occasionally, depending on the rotation of the ISS, his corpse floated into view through the door to the station, like a macabre Jehovah’s Witness making a house call.

Again—one fewer person to consume food rations. One fewer set of lungs.

And more time endured trapped alone inside this incapacitated space can.

Take it down.

“Don’t tempt me,” she muttered. The voice was male, indistinct. Familiar, but she could not place it.

Not her husband. Not her late father. But somebody she knew . . .

She did feel something, a presence with her inside the Soyuz. Didn’t she? Or was it only a desire for companionship? A want, a need? What person’s voice was she using to fill up this blank space in her life?

She looked out through the windows as the ISS again crossed into sunlight.

As she stared out the window at the dawning sun, she saw colors come into the sky. She called it “the sky,” but it was not the sky up there; nor was it “night.” It was the universe and it wasn’t “black” either; it was absent of light. It was void. The purest nothingness. Except . . .

There it was again: colors. A spray of red and a burst of orange, just outside her peripheral vision. Something like the bright explosions one sees in one’s tightly shut eyes.

She tried this, shutting her eyes, pressing her lids with her dry, cracked thumbs. Again, an absence of light. The void of the inside of her head. A fountain of undulating colors and stars came into the nothingness—and then she opened her eyes again.

Blue brightened and disappeared in the distance. Then, in another area, a spray of green. And violet!

Signs. Even if they were purely fictions created in her mind, they were signs. Of something.

Take it down, dearie.

“Dearie?” Nobody ever called her “dearie.” Never her husband, not any of her teachers, nor the astronaut program administrators, nor her parents or grandparents.

Still, she didn’t question the voice’s identity too strongly. She was happy for the company. She was happy for the counsel.

“Why?” she asked.

No answer. The voice never answered on request. And yet she kept expecting that someday it would.

“How?” she asked.

No answer again, but as she drifted through the bell-shaped cabin, her boot caught on the survival kit between the seats.

“Really?” she said, addressing the kit itself as though it were the source of the voice.

She hadn’t touched the thing since she had last used it. She pulled it out now, opening the kit, the combination lock unclasped. (Had she left it that way?) She lifted out the TP-82, the long-barreled handgun. The machete was gone; she had tossed it out with Maigny. She raised the weapon to eye level, as though aiming it at the window . . . and then released it, watching it twist and float before her like a word or an idea hanging in the air.

She inventoried the rest of the kit. Twenty rifle rounds. Twenty flares. Ten shotgun shells.

“Tell me why,” she said, wiping away a rogue teardrop, watching the speck of moisture sail away. “After all this time—why now?”

She held still, her body barely rotating. She was certain an answer was going to come. A reason. An explanation.

Because it’s time . . .

The flaming light burst past her window with such silent alacrity that she choked on her own breath. She began to hyperventilate, grabbing the seat back and propelling herself to the window to watch the tail of the comet burn away into Earth’s atmosphere, snuffing itself out before reaching the tumorous lower atmosphere.

She whipped around, again feeling a presence. Something not human.

“Was that . . . ?” she started to ask, but could not complete the question.

Because obviously, it was.

A sign.

When she was a girl, a falling star streaking across the sky made her want to become an astronaut. That was the story she told whenever called upon to visit schools or do interviews in the months leading up to launch, and yet it was entirely true: her fate had been written across the sky in her youth.

Take it down.

Again, her breath got caught in her throat. The voice—at once she recognized it. Her dog at home in Connecticut, a Newfoundland named Ralphie. This was the voice she heard in her head whenever she would talk to him, when she would rough up his coat and engage him and he would nuzzle against her leg.

Want to go out?

Yes indeed I do I do.

Want a treat?

Do I! Do I!

Who’s a good boy?

I am I am I am.

I’ll miss you lots while I’m in space.

I’ll miss you back, dearie.

This was the voice with her now. The same one she had projected onto her Ralphie. Her and not her, the voice of companionship and trust and affection.

“Really?” she asked again.

Thalia thought about what it would be like, moving through the cabins, blowing out the thrusters until she breached the hull. This great scientific facility of conjoined capsules listing and plummeting from its orbit, catching fire as it entered the upper atmosphere, streaking downward like a flaming burr and penetrating the poisonous crust of the troposphere.

And then certainty filled her like an emotion. And even if she were merely insane, at least she could move without doubt now, without question. And—at the very, very least—she would not be going out like Maigny, hallucinating and foaming at the mouth.

The shotgun shells loaded in manually from the breach side.

She would scuttle the hull to let the airlessness in and then go down with the ship. In a way she had always suspected this was to be her destiny. This was a decision formed of beauty. Born of a falling star, Thalia Charles was about to become a falling star herself.

Camp Liberty

NORA
LOOKED
AT the shank.

She had been working on it all night long. She was exhausted but proud. The irony of a butter-knife shank was not lost on her. Such a dainty piece of cutlery, now sharpened into a jagged point and edge. Still a few more hours to go—she could sharpen it to perfection.

She had muffled the sound of the grinding—against a corner piece in the concrete—by covering it with her lumpy bed pillow. Her mother was asleep a few feet away. She didn’t wake up. Their reunion would be brief. The afternoon before, perhaps an hour after she had returned from seeing Barnes, they had been handed a processing order. In it was a request for Nora’s mother to leave the recreation courtyard at dawn.

Feeding time.

How would they “process” her? She didn’t know. But she would not allow it. She would call for Barnes, give in, get close to him, and then kill him. She would either save her mother or get him. If her hands were going to be empty they would be stained with his blood.

Her mother murmured something in her sleep and then lapsed back into the deep but gentle snoring that Nora knew so well. As a child Nora had been lulled to sleep by that sound and the rhythmic up-and-down of her chest. Her mother was, back then, a formidable woman. A force of nature. She worked, indefatigable, and raised Nora properly—always vigilant of her, always able to provide an education and a degree and the clothes and luxuries that go with them. Nora got a graduation dress and the expensive textbooks and not once had her mother complained.

But there was that one night right before Christmas, when Nora had been awakened by a soft sobbing. She was fourteen and had been particularly nasty about getting a quinceañera dress on her upcoming birthday . . .

She quietly climbed down the steps and stood at the kitchen door. Her mother was sitting alone, a half glass of milk by her side—reading glasses and bills all over the table.

Nora was paralyzed by this sight. Sort of like sneaking up on God crying. She was about to step in and ask her what was wrong when her mother’s sobbing became louder—a roar. She suffocated the noise by grotesquely covering her mouth with both hands, while her eyes exploded in tears. This terrified Nora. Made the blood freeze in her veins. They never spoke about the incident, but Nora had been imprinted with that image of pain. She changed. Perhaps forever. She took better care of her mother and of herself and always worked harder than anyone else.

As dementia settled in, Nora’s mother started to complain. About everything and all the time. Her resentments and anger, accumulated through the years and quieted by civility, came forth in torrents of incoherent nagging. And Nora took it all. She would never abandon her mother.

Three hours before dawn, Nora’s mother opened her eyes. And for a fleeting moment she was lucid. It happened now and then but less often than before. In a way, Nora thought, her mother, like the strigoi, was supplanted by another will and it was quite eerie whenever she snapped out of the trancelike disease and looked at Nora. At Nora as she was, right here, right now.

“Nora? Where are we?” she said.

“Shh, Mama. We are okay. Go back to sleep.”

“Are we in a hospital? Am I sick?” she asked, agitated.

“No, Mama. It’s all right. Everything is fine.” Nora’s mother held her daughter’s hand firmly and lay back down in her cot. She caressed her shaved head.

“What happened? Who did this to you?” she asked, mortified.

Nora kissed her mother’s hand. “Nobody, Mom. It will grow back. You’ll see.”

Nora’s mother looked at her with great lucidity, and after a long pause she asked, “Are we going to die?”

And Nora didn’t know what to say. She began to sob, and her mother hushed her now and hugged her and kissed her softly on the head. “Don’t cry, my dear. Don’t cry.”

She then held her head and looked her daughter straight in the eye and said, “Looking back on one’s life, you see that love was the answer to everything. I love you, Nora. I always will. And that we will have forever.”

They fell asleep together and Nora lost track of the time. She woke up and saw that the sky was clearing.

What now? They were trapped. Away from Fet, away from Eph. With no way out. Except the butter knife.

She took a final look at the shank. She would go to Barnes and use it and then . . . then maybe she would turn it on herself.

Suddenly it didn’t look sharp enough. She worked on the edge and the tip until dawn.

Sewage Processing Plant

THE STANFORD SEWAGE Processing Plant lay beneath a hexagonal red brick building on La Salle Street between Amsterdam and Broadway. Built in 1906, the plant was meant to keep up with the area’s demands and growth for at least a century. During its first decade, the plant processed thirty million gallons of raw sewage a day. But the influx of people delivered by two consecutive world wars soon made that rate insufficient. The neighbors also complained about shortness of breath, eye infections, and a general sulfurous smell emanating from the building 24/7. The plant shut down partially in 1947 and completely five years after that.

The inside of it was immense, even majestic. There was a nobility to industrial turn-of-the-century architecture that has since been lost. Twin wrought-iron staircases led to the catwalks above, and the cast-iron structures that filtered and processed the raw sewage had barely been vandalized over the years. Faded graffiti and a three-feet-deep deposit of silt, dry leaves, dog poop, and dead pigeons were the only signs of abandonment. A year before, Gus Elizalde had stumbled onto it and had cleaned one of the reservoirs by hand, turning it into his own personal armory.

The only access was through a tunnel, and only by using a massive iron valve locked with a heavy stainless steel chain.

Gus wanted to show off his weapons cache, so they could load up for the raid on the blood camp. Eph had stayed behind—needing some alone time after finally seeing his son, via video, after two long years, standing alongside the Master and his vampire mother. Fet had renewed understanding for Eph’s unique plight, the toll the vampire strain had taken on his life, and Fet sympathized completely. But still, on their way to the improvised armory, Fet discreetly complained about Eph, about how his focus was slipping. He complained in only practical terms, without malice, without rancor. Maybe with just a touch of jealousy, since Goodweather’s presence still could get in the way of him and Nora.

“I don’t like him,” said Gus. “Never did. Guy bitches about what he doesn’t have, loses sight of what he does have, and is never happy. He’s what you call a—what’s that word?”

“Pessimist?” said Fet.

“Asshole,” said Gus.

“He’s gone through a lot,” said Fet.

“Oh, really. Oh, I’m so fucking sorry. I always wanted my mother to stand naked in a cell with a fucking helmet glued to her fucking cabeza.”

Fet almost smiled. Gus was ultimately right. No man should ever have to go through what Eph was going through. But still, Fet needed him functional and battle-ready. Their corps was shrinking, and getting everyone’s best effort was critical.

“He’s never fucking happy. His wife nags him too much? Bam!! She is gone!! Now, boo-hoo-boo, if only I could get her back . . . Bam!! She’s undead, boo-hoo-boo, poor me, my wife is a fucking vampire . . . Bam!! They take his son. Boo-hoo-fucking-boo, if only I could have him back . . . It never fucking ends with him. Who you love or who you protect is all there is, man. Fucked-up as it may be. If my mother looks like the ugliest porno Power Ranger, I don’t care, man. That’s what I have. I have my mama. See? I don’t give up,” said Gus. “And I don’t give a fuck. When I go, I wanna go fighting those fuckers. Maybe because I’m a fire sign.”

“You’re a what?” said Fet.

“Gemini,” said Gus. “In the zodiac. A fire sign.”

“Gemini is an air sign, Gus,” said Fet.

“Whatever. I still don’t give a fuck,” said Gus. Then after a long pause, he added, “If we still had the old man here, we’d be on top by now.”

“I believe that,” said Fet.

Gus slowed in the darkened underground tunnel and started to unlock the padlock.

“So, about Nora,” he said. “Have you . . . ?”

“No—no,” said Fet, blushing. “I . . . no.”

Gus smiled in the dark. “She doesn’t even know, huh?”

“She knows,” said Fet. “At least—I think she does. But we haven’t done much about it.”

“You will, big boy,” said Gus as he opened the access valve to the armory. “Bienvenido a Casa Elizalde!” he said, extending his arms and showing a wide array of automatic weapons and swords and ammo of all calibers.

Fet patted him on the back while nodding. He eyed a box of hand grenades. “Where the fuck did you get these?”

“Pfft. A boy needs his toys, man. And the bigger, the better.”

Fet said, “Any specific uses in mind?”

“Too many. I’m saving ’em for something special. Why, you got any ideas?”

Fet said, “How about detonating a nuclear bomb?”

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

“I’m glad you think so. Because I didn’t come back from Iceland completely empty-handed.”

Fet told Gus about the Russian bomb he had bought with silver.

“No mames?” Gus said. “You have a nuclear bomb?”

“But no detonator. That’s where I was hoping you could help me out.”

“You’re serious?” Gus asked. He hadn’t moved past the previous exchange. “A nuclear bomb?”

Fet nodded modestly.

“Much respect, Fet,” said Gus. “Much respect. Let’s take out the island. Like—right fucking now!”

“Whatever we do with it . . . we get one shot. We need to be sure.”

“I know who can get us the detonator, man. The only asshole that is still capable of getting anything dirty, anything crooked on the whole East Coast. Alfonso Creem.”

“How would you go about contacting him? Crossing to Jersey is like going into East Germany.”

“I have my ways,” said Gus. “You just leave it to Gusto. How you think I got the fucking grenades?”

Fet went silent, pensive, and then looked back at Gus.

“Would you trust Quinlan? With the book?”

“The old man’s book? The Silver whatever?”

Fet nodded. “Would you share it with him?”

“I don’t know, man,” said Gus. “I mean, sure—it’s just a book.”

“The Master wants the book for a reason. Setrakian sacrificed his life for it. Whatever is inside must be real. Your friend Quinlan thinks as much . . .”

“What about you?” asked Gus.

“Me?” Fet said. “I have the book—but I can’t do much with it myself. You know that saying ‘He’s so dumb, he couldn’t find a prayer in the Bible’? Well, I can’t find much. There’s some trick to it, maybe. We should be so close.”

“I’ve seen him, man—Quinlan. Shit, I’ve recorded that motherfucker cleaning a nest in a New York minute. Two, three dozen vampires.”

Gus smiled, cherishing his memories. Fet liked Gus even more when he smiled.

“In jail you learn that there are two kinds of guys in this world—and I don’t care if they’re human or bloodsuckers—there’s the ones that take it and the ones that hand it out. And this guy, man—this guy gives it out like fucking candy . . . He wants the hunt, man. He wants the hunt. And he’s maybe the one other orphan out here who hates the Master as much as we do.”

Fet nodded. In his heart the matter was resolved.

Quinlan would get the book. And Fet would get some answers.

Extract from the Diary of Ephraim Goodweather

Most midlife crises are not this bad. In the past, it used to be that people would watch their youth fade, their marriage break, or their careers grow stagnant. Those were the breaks, usually eased by a new car, a dab of Just for Men, or a big Mont Blanc pen, depending on your budget. But what I have lost cannot be compensated for. My heart races every time I think of it, every time I sense it. It is over. Or it will be over soon enough. Whatever I had, I have squandered—and what I hoped for will never be. Things around me have taken their permanent, horrible final form. All the promise in my life—youngest graduate in my class, the big move east, meeting the perfect girl—all that is gone. The evenings of cold pizza and a movie. Of feeling like a giant in my son’s eyes . . .

When I was a kid, there was this guy on TV called Mr. Rogers, and he used to sing: “You can never go down / can never go down / can never go down the drain.” What a fucking lie.

Once, I might have gathered my past in order to present it as a CV or a list of accomplishments, but now . . . now it seems like an inventory of trivialities, of things that could have been but are not. As a young man I felt the world and my place in it was all part of a plan. That success, whatever that is, was something to be gained simply by focusing on my work—on being good at “What I did.” As a workaholic father, I felt that the day-to-day grind was a way to provide, to see us through while life took its final shape. And now . . . now that the world around me has become an unbearable place, and all I have is the nausea of wrong turns taken and things lost. Now I know this is the real me. The permanent me. The solidified disappointment of that young man’s life—the subtraction of all those achievements of youth—the minus of a plus that was never tallied. This is me: weak, infirm, fading. Not giving up, because I never do . . . but living without faith in myself or my circumstance.

My heart flutters at the notion of never finding Zack—at the idea that he is gone forever. This I cannot accept. I will not accept.

Not thinking straight. But I will find him, I know I will. I have seen him in my dreams. His eyes looking at me, making of me that giant once again, calling me by the truest name a man can ever aspire to: “Dad.”

I have seen a light surrounding us. Purging us. Absolving me—of the booze and the pills and the blind spots of my heart. I have seen this light. I long for it again in a world this dark.

Beneath Columbia University

EPH
WANDERED
AWAY through the subterranean tunnels of the former insane asylum beneath the former Columbia University. All he wanted to do was walk. Seeing Zack atop Belvedere Castle with Kelly and the Master had shaken Eph to the core. Of all the fates he had dreaded for his son—Zack murdered or starving in a locked cage somewhere—standing at the Master’s side had never occurred to him.

Was it the demon Kelly who had drawn their son into the fold? Or was it the Master who wanted Zack with him, and if so, why?

Perhaps the Master had threatened Kelly, and Zack had no choice but to play along. Eph wanted to cling to this hypothesis. Because the idea that the boy would freely align himself with the Master was unimaginable. The corruption of one’s child is a parent’s worst fear. Eph needed to believe in Zack as a little lost boy, not a wayward son.

But his fear wouldn’t let him slip into this fantasy. Eph had walked away from the video screen feeling like a ghost.

He dug into his coat pocket, finding two white Vicodin tablets. They glowed in his palm, made brilliant by the light of his battery-powered headlamp. He thrust them into his mouth, dry-swallowing them. One of them lodged at the base of his esophagus, and he had to jump up and down a few times in order to force it down.

He is mine.

Eph looked up fast. Kelly’s voice—muffled and distant, but distinctly hers. He turned around twice but found himself quite alone in the underground passage.

He has always been mine.

Eph drew his sword a few inches out of its sheath. He started forward, toward a short flight of stairs heading down. The voice was in his head, but some sixth sense was showing him the way.

He sits at the right hand of the Father.

Eph running now, furious, the light from his headlamp shaking, turning down another dim corridor, turning into . . .

The dungeon room. Gus’s caged mother.

Eph swept the room. It was otherwise empty. Slowly he turned to the helmeted vampire standing still in the center of its cage. Gus’s vampire mother stood very still, Eph’s light casting a grid shadow onto her body.

Kelly’s voice said, Zack believes you are dead.

Eph drew his sword fully from its sheath. “Shut up,” he said.

He is starting to forget. The old world and all its ways. It’s gone now, a dream of youth.

“Quiet!” Eph said.

He is attentive to the Master. He is respectful. He is learning.

Eph thrust his sword in between two bars. Gus’s mother flinched, repelled by the presence of silver, her pendulous breasts swinging in the half light. “Learning what?” said Eph. “Answer me!”

Kelly’s voice did not.

“You’re brainwashing him,” said Eph. The boy was in isolation, mentally vulnerable. “Are you brainwashing him?”

We are parenting him.

Eph winced as though cut by her words. “No. No . . . what can you know about that? What can you know about love—about being a father or being a son . . . ?”

We are the fertile blood. We have birthed many sons . . . Join us.

“No.”

It is the only way you will be reunited with him.

Eph’s arm lowered a bit. “Fuck you. I will kill you—”

Join us and be with him forever.

Eph froze there a moment, paralyzed by despair. She wanted something from him. The Master wanted something. He made himself pull back. Deny them. Stop talking. Walk away.

Shut the fuck up—! he thought, his rage louder than his voice. He held tightly to his silver blade at his side. He ran back out of the room and into the passageways, Kelly’s voice staying in his head.

Come to us.

He turned a corner, thrusting open a rusty door.

Come to Zack.

He kept running. With each step, he grew angrier, becoming enraged.

You know you want to.

And then her laughter. Not her human laugh, high and light and infectious, but a taunting laugh, meant to provoke him. Meant to turn him back.

But on he ran. And the laughter melted away, fading with distance.

Eph went on blindly, his sword blade clanging into the legs of discarded chairs and scraping against the floor. The Vikes had kicked in, and he was swimming a bit, his body numb but not his head. In walking away, he had turned a corner in his own mind. Now more than ever he wanted to free Nora from the blood camp. To deliver her from the clutches of the vampires. He wanted to show the Master—show it that even in a fucked-up time such as this, it could be done: a human could be saved. That Zack was not lost to Eph, and that the Master’s hold on him was not as secure as it might think.

Eph stopped to catch his breath. His headlamp was dimming, and he tapped it, the light flickering. He needed to figure out where he was and surface, or else be lost in this dark labyrinth. He was anxious to let the others know that he was ready to go to the camp and fight.

He turned the next corner, and at the end of the long, dark corridor, Eph saw a figure. Something about its stance—low-armed, knees lightly flexed—said “vampire.”

Eph’s sword came up. He went a few steps forward, hoping to light the creature better.

It remained still. The narrow corridor walls drifted a bit in Eph’s vision, wobbling thanks to the Vikes. Maybe he was seeing things—seeing what he wanted to see. He had wanted a fight.

Convinced now that it was a figment of his imagination, Eph grew more emboldened, approaching the ghost.

“Come here,” he said, his rage at Kelly and the Master still brimming. “Come and get it.”

The creature stood its ground, allowing Eph a better look. A sweatshirt hood formed a triangular cotton point over its head, shadowing its face and obscuring its eyes. Boots and jeans. One arm hung low at its side, the other hand just hidden behind its back.

Eph strode toward the figure with angry determination, like that of a man crossing a room to slam a door shut. The figure never moved. Eph planted his back leg and delivered a two-handed baseball swing aimed at the neck.

To Eph’s surprise, his sword clanged and his arms kicked back, the handle almost springing loose from his grip. A burst of sparks briefly lit the corridor.

It took Eph a moment to realize that the vampire had parried his blow with a length of steel.

Eph regripped his sword with his stinging palms and rattled knuckles and reared back to swing again. The vampire wielded his steel bar one-handedly, easily deflecting the attack. A sudden boot thrust into Eph’s chest sent him sprawling, tripping over his own feet as he collapsed to the floor.

Eph stared up at the shadowy figure. Entirely real, but . . . also different. Not one of the semi-intelligent drones he was used to facing. This vamp had a stillness, a self-composure, that set him apart from the seething masses.

Eph scrambled back up onto his feet. The challenge stoked the fire burning inside him. He didn’t know what this vampire was, and he didn’t care. “Come on!” he shouted, beckoning the vamp. Again, the creature did not move. Eph evened out his blade, showing the vamp the sharp silver point. He feigned a stab, spinning quickly, one of his best moves, slashing with enough force to cut the creature in two. But the vamp foresaw the move, raising his steel to parry, and Eph countered again, dodging, coming back around the other way and going straight for its neck.

The vamp was ready for him. Its hand grabbed Eph’s forearm, closing on it like a hot clamp. It twisted Eph’s arm with such force that Eph had to arch backward to keep his elbow and shoulder from snapping under pressure. Eph howled in pain, unable to keep his grip on the sword. It popped from his hand and clattered to the floor. With his free hand, Eph went to his belt for his hip dagger, slashing at the vampire’s face.

Surprised, the thing shoved Eph to the floor, reeling back.

Eph crawled away, his elbow burning with pain. Two more figures came running from his end of the hallway, two humans. Fet and Gus.

Just in time. Eph turned toward the outnumbered vamp, expecting it to hiss and charge.

Instead, the creature reached down to the floor, lifting Eph’s sword by its leather-wrapped handle. It turned the silver-bladed weapon this way and that, as though judging its weight and construction.

Eph had never seen a vampire willingly get that close to silver before—much less take a weapon into its hands.

Fet had drawn his sword, but Gus stopped him with a hand, walking past Eph without offering to help him up. The vampire tossed Eph’s sword to Gus, casually, grip first. Gus caught it easily and lowered the blade.

“Of all the things you taught me,” said Gus, “you left out the part about making these great fucking entrances.”

The vampire’s response was telepathic and exclusive to Gus. It pushed back its black hood, revealing a perfectly bald and earless head, preternaturally smooth, almost in the way that thieves appear with nylons stretched over their faces.

Except for its eyes. They glowed fiercely red, like those of a rat.

Eph stood up, rubbing his elbow. This thing was obviously strigoi, and yet Gus stood near it. Stood with it.

Fet, his hand still on his own sword grip, said, “You again.”

“What the hell is this?” said Eph, apparently the last one to this party.

Gus tossed Eph’s sword back at him, harder than was necessary. “You should remember Mr. Quinlan,” said Gus. “The Ancients’ top hunter. And currently the baddest man in the whole damn town.” Gus then turned back to Mr. Quinlan. “A friend of ours got herself thrown into a blood camp. We want her back.”

Mr. Quinlan regarded Eph with eyes informed by centuries of existence. His voice, when it entered Eph’s mind, was a smooth, measured baritone.

Dr. Goodweather, I presume.

Eph locked eyes with him. Barely nodded. Mr. Quinlan looked at Fet:

I’m here in the hopes that we can reach an arrangement.

Low Memorial Library, Columbia University

INSIDE
THE COLUMBIA University library, in a research room off the cavernous rotunda—once, and still, the largest all-granite dome in the country—Mr. Quinlan sat at a reading table across from Fet.

“You help us break into the camp—you get to read the book,” said Fet. “There is no further negotiation . . .”

I will do that. But you know that you will be vastly outnumbered by both strigoi and human guards?

“We know,” said Fet. “Will you help us in? That’s the price.”

I will.

The burly exterminator unzipped a hidden pocket in his backpack and pulled out a large bundle of rags.

You had it on you? asked the Born, incredulous.

“Can’t think of a safer place,” said Fet, smiling. “Hidden in plain sight. You want the book, you go through me.”

A daunting task, to be sure.

Fet shrugged. “Daunting enough.” He unwrapped a volume lying within the rags. “The Lumen,” said Fet.

Quinlan felt a wave of cold travel up his neck. A rare sensation in one so old. He studied the book as Fet turned to face him. The cover was ragged leather and fabric.

“I pulled off the silver cover. Ruined the spine a little bit, but too bad. It looks humble and unimportant, doesn’t it?”

Where’s the silver cover?

“I have it socked away. Easy to retrieve.”

Quinlan looked at him. You’re full of surprises, aren’t you, exterminator?

Felt shrugged off the compliment.

The old man chose well, Mr. Fet. Your heart is uncomplicated. It knows what it knows and acts accordingly. Greater wisdom is hard to find.

The Born sat with his black cotton hood sloughed off his immaculately smooth, white head. Before him, open to one of the illuminated pages, lay the Occido Lumen. Because its silver edging was repellent to his vampiric nature, he carefully turned the pages using the eraser top of a pencil. Now, at once, he touched the interior of the page with his fingertip, almost in the way a blind man would search a loved one’s face.

This document was holy. It contained the creation and history of the world’s vampire race, and as such included several references to Borns. Imagine a human allowed access to a book outlining human creation and answers to most if not all of life’s mysteries. Mr. Quinlan’s deeply red eyes scanned the pages with intense interest.

The reading is slow. The language is dense.

Fet said, “You’re telling me.”

Also, there is much that is hidden. In images and in the watermarks. They appear much clearer to my eyes than yours—but this is going to require some time.

“Which is exactly what we do not have. How much time will it take?”

The Born’s eyes continued scanning back and forth.

Impossible to say.

Fet was aware that his anxiety was a distraction to Mr. Quinlan.

“We are loading the weapons. You have an hour or so—then you’ll come with us. We are getting Nora back . . .”

Fet turned around and walked away. Three steps later, the Lumen, the Master, and the apocalypse evaporated. There was only Nora in his mind.

Mr. Quinlan returned his attention to the pages of the Lumen and started to read.

INTERLUDE
II
OCCIDO LUMEN:
THE
MASTER’S
TALE

THERE
WAS
A
THIRD.

Each of the holy books, the Torah, the Bible, and the Koran, tells the tale of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. So, in a way, does the Lumen.

In Genesis 18, three archangels appear before Abraham in human form. Two are said to proceed from there to the doomed cities of the plain, where they reside with Lot, enjoy a feast, and are later surrounded by the men of Sodom, whom they blind before destroying their city.

The third archangel is deliberately omitted. Hidden. Lost.

This is his story.

Five cities shared the vast, lush plain of the Yarden River, near what is today the Dead Sea. And out of all of these Sodom was the proudest, the most beautiful. It rose from its fertile surroundings as a landmark, a monument to wealth and prosperity.

Irrigated by a complex canal system, it had grown randomly through the centuries, radiating outward from the waterways and ending up in a shape that vaguely resembled a dove in flight. Its ten-acre contours crystallized in that form when the surrounding walls were erected around 2024 BC. The walls were over forty feet tall and six feet thick, constructed of baked mud brick and plastered in gypsum to make them shine brightly in the sun. Within them, mud-brick buildings were built so close together as to be almost on top of one another, the tallest of which was a temple erected to honor the Canaanite god Moloch. The population of Sodom fluctuated around two thousand. Fruits, spices, and grains were abundant, driving the city’s prosperity. The glass and gilded bronze tiles of a dozen palaces were visible at once, glinting in the dying sunlight.

Such wealth was guarded by the enormous gates that gave entrance into the city. Six irregular stones of enormous size and heft created a monumental archway with gates fashioned from iron and hardwoods impervious to fire or battering rams.

It was at these gates that Lot, son of Haran, nephew of Abram, was when the three creatures of light arrived.

Pale they were, and radiant and remote. Part of the essence of God and, as such, void of any blemish. From each of their backs, four long appendages emerged, suffused with feathery light, easily confused with luminous wings. The four jutting limbs fused in the back of the creatures and flapped softly with their every step, as naturally as one would compensate for forward movement by swaying one’s arms. With each step they acquired form and mass, until they stood there, naked and somewhat lost. Their skin was radiant like the purest alabaster and their beauty was a painful reminder of Lot’s mortal imperfection.

They were sent there to punish the pride, decadence, and brutality that had bred within the prosperous walls of the city. Gabriel, Michael, and Ozryel were God’s emissaries—His most trusted, most cherished creations and His most ruthless soldiers.

And among them it was Ozryel who held His greatest favor. He was intent upon visiting the town square that night, where they had been instructed to go—but Lot beseeched them to stay with him at his residence instead. Gabriel and Michael agreed, and so Ozryel, the third, who was most interested in the wicked ways of these cities, was made to acquiesce to his brothers’ wishes. Of the three, it was Ozryel who held the voice of God within himself, the power of destruction that would erase the two sinful cities from the earth. He was, as it is told in every tale, God’s favorite: His most protected, His most beautiful creation.

Lot had been blessed aplenty, with land and cattle and a pious wife. So the feast at his home was abundant and varied. And the three archangels feasted as men, and Lot’s two virginal daughters washed their feet. These physical sensations were new to all three of the angels, but for Ozryel the sensations were overwhelming, achieving a profundity that escaped the other two. This represented Ozryel’s first experience of individuality, of apartness from the energy of the deity. God is an energy, rather than an anthropomorphic being, and God’s language is biology. Red blood cells, the principle of magnetic attraction, neurological synapse: each is a miracle, and in each is the presence and flow of God. When Lot’s wife cut herself while preparing the herbs and oil for the bath, Ozryel beheld her blood with great curiosity; the smell of it excited him. Tempted him. And its color was precious, lush . . . like liquid rubies glinting in the candlelight. The woman—who had protested the men’s presence from the start—recoiled when she discovered the archangel staring at her wound, enraptured.

Ozryel had come to earth many times. He had been there when Adam died at the age of nine hundred thirty and he had been there when the men who laughed at Noah drowned in the raging dark waters of the Flood. But he had always traversed this plane in spirit form, his essence still connected to the Lord, never having been made flesh.

So Ozryel had never before experienced hunger. Never before experienced pain. And now a flood of sensations besieged him. Having now felt the crust of the earth beneath his feet . . . felt the cold night air caress his arms . . . tasted food grown of the land and carved from its lower mammals, what he thought he would be able to appreciate at a remove, with the detachment of a tourist, he instead found drawing him closer to humankind, closer to the land itself. Closer to this breed of animal. Cool water cascading over his feet. Digested food breaking down inside his mouth, his throat. The physical experiences became addictive, and Ozryel’s curiosity got the best of him.

When the men of the city converged upon Lot’s house, having heard that he was harboring mysterious strangers, Ozryel was enthralled by their shouts. The men, brandishing torches and weapons, demanded to be shown the visitors, so that they might know them. So aroused were they by the rumored beauty of these travelers, they desired to possess them sexually. The brute carnality of the mob fascinated Ozryel, reminded him of his own hunger, and when Lot went to bargain with them—offering his virginal daughters instead, only to be refused—Ozryel used his power to slip outside of the house, unseen.

He shadowed the crowd, briefly. He kept a few feet away, hidden in an alley, feeling the delirious energy of the mass movement—an energy so unlike God’s. Yet they were filled with the same beauty and glory that were gifts of the divine. These undulating sacs of flesh—their faces never at rest—raved as one, seeking communion with the unknown in the most animalistic manner possible. Their lust was so pure—and so intoxicating.

Much has been made of the vices in Sodom and Gomorrah but little could be seen as Ozryel walked the streets of that city, lit by a complex system of bronze oil lamps and paved in raw alabaster. Gold and silver door frames adorned the porticos of every door within its three concentric plazas.

A gold portico announced wares of the flesh and a silver one announced darker pleasures. Those who crossed the silver doorways would seek cruel or violent sensations. It was this very cruelty that God could not forgive. Not the abundance and not the abandon but the rank sadism the citizens of Sodom and Gomorrah would show to travelers and slaves. Inhospitable cities they were, and uncaring. Slaves and captured enemies were bought from caravans to please the patrons of the silver porticos.

And, whether by design or by accident, it was a silver threshold Ozryel crossed. His hostess was a stocky woman of light olive skin. Unrefined, ungroomed—the wife of a slave driver and interested only in commerce. But that night, when the hostess looked up from her post at the vestibule of the pleasure house, she saw the most beautiful, benevolent human-appearing creature standing before her by the golden light of the burning oil. The archangels were perfect, sexless vessels. No hair on their bodies or faces and immaculate, opalescent skin and pearlescent eyes. Their gums were as pale as the ivory of their teeth and the grace of their elongated limbs came from perfect proportions. They had no trace of genitalia: a biological detail that would be echoed obliquely in the horror that would spawn.

Such was the beauty—the benign magnificence—of Ozryel that the woman felt like weeping and asking for forgiveness. But years at the trade gave her the fortitude to peddle her services. As Ozryel witnessed the refined violence within the walls of the establishment, the archangel sensed his primal grace wane—abandoning him as desire arose—and even though he did not know exactly what he was looking for, he found it.

On impulse, Ozryel gripped the hostess’s neck, walking her back against a low stone wall, watching the woman’s expression change into fear. Ozryel felt the strong yet delicate tendons around the woman’s throat, then kissed them, licked them, tasting her salty rancid sweat. And then, on an impulse, he bit, deep and hard, and tore open her flesh, plucking her arteries like harp strings with his teeth—ping-ping—and savagely drinking of the blood essence that poured forth. Ozryel slayed this woman, not as an offering to his almighty Lord but simply in order to know Him. To know. To possess. To dominate and conquer.

And the taste of the blood, and the death of the burly woman, and the fluidity of the exchange of power, was sheer ecstasy. To consume the blood, made of the essence and glory of the divine—and, in doing so, disrupting the flow that was the presence of God—put Ozryel into a frenzy. He wanted more. Why had God denied him, His favorite, this? The ambrosia hidden in these imperfect creatures.

It was said that wine fermented from the worst berries tasted sweetest.

But now Ozryel wondered: what about wine from the richest berries of all?

Left with the limp body at his feet, the spilled blood shining silvery in the high light of the moon, Ozryel was left with one thought only:

Do angels have blood?

Low Memorial Library, Columbia University

MR. QUINLAN
CLOSED the pages of the Lumen and looked up to meet Fet and Gus, fully armed and ready to go. Much was left to learn about the Master’s origins, but already his head was swimming with the information that the book held. He jotted down a few notes, circled a few transcriptions, and rose. Fet took the book and wrapped it up again, put it in his backpack, and then handed it to Mr. Quinlan.

“I will not take it with us,” he said to Mr. Quinlan. “And if we don’t make it, you should be the one to know where the book is hidden. If they catch us and they try to get it out of us . . . well, even if you bleed, you cannot talk about what you don’t know . . . right?”

Mr. Quinlan nodded gently, accepting the honor.

“Glad to get rid of it, actually . . .”

If you say so.

“I say so. Now—if we don’t make it . . . ,” Fet said. “You have the most necessary tool. Finish the fight. Kill the Master.”

New Jersey

ALFONSO CREEM
SAT in a plush, eggshell-white La-Z-Boy recliner, his untied Pumas up on the leg rest, a hard rubber chew toy in his hand. Ambassador and Skill, his two wolf-dog hybrids, lay on the dining room floor, leashed to the broad wooden legs of the heavy table, their silvery eyes watching the red-and-white-striped ball.

Creem squeezed the toy and the dogs growled. For some reason, this amused him and thus he repeated the process over and over again.

Royal, Creem’s first lieutenant—of the battle-worn Jersey Sapphires—sat on the bottom step of the staircase, spitting coffee into a mug. Nicotine, ganja, and the like were getting harder and harder to find, so Royal had jerry-rigged a delivery system for the only reliably available new-world vice: caffeine. He would tear off a small section of coffee filter, form a pouch for sprinkling ground coffee inside, then tuck it up against his gum like chaw. It was bitter, but it kept him fired up.

Malvo sat by the front window, keeping an eye on the street, watching for truck convoys. The Sapphires had resorted to hijacking in order to keep themselves alive. The bloodsuckers varied their routes, but Creem himself had witnessed a food shipment go by a few days ago and figured they were due.

Feeding himself and his crew was Creem’s first priority. It was no surprise that starvation was bad for morale. Feeding Ambassador and Skill was Creem’s second priority. The wolf-hounds’ keen noses and innate survival skills had more than once alerted the Sapphires to an impending night attack from the bloodsuckers. Feeding their women came third. The women were nothing very special, a few desperate strays they had picked up along the way—but they were women and they were warm and alive. “Alive” was very sexy these days. Food kept them quiet, grateful, and close, and that was good for his crew. Besides, Creem didn’t go for sickly-looking, skinny women. He liked his plump.

For months now, he had been mixing it up with bloodsuckers on his old turf, just fighting to stay alive and free. It was impossible for a human to gain a foothold in this new blood economy. Cash and property meant nothing; even gold was worthless. Silver was the only black-market item worth trafficking in, besides food. The Stoneheart humans had been confiscating all the silver they could get their dirty hands on, sealing it up inside unused bank vaults. Silver was a threat to the bloodsuckers, though first you had to fashion it into a weapon, and there weren’t many silversmiths around these days.

So food was the new currency. (Water was still plentiful, so long as you boiled it and filtered it.) Stoneheart Industries, after transforming their meatpacking slaughterhouses into blood camps, had left in place their basic food-transportation apparatus. The bloodsuckers, by seizing the entire organization, now controlled the spigot. Food was farmed by the humans who slaved in the camps. They supplemented the brief, two-to-three-hour window of pale sunlight each day with massive indoor ultraviolet lamp farms: glowing greenhouses for fruits and vegetables; vast warehouses for chicken, pigs, and cattle. The UV lamps were fatal for bloodsuckers, and so they were the sole human-only areas of the camps.

All this Creem had learned from hijacked Stoneheart truck drivers.

Outside the camp, food could be obtained with ration cards earned through work. You had to be a documented worker to get a ration card: you had to do the bloodsuckers’ bidding in order to eat. You had to obey.

The bloodsuckers were essentially psychic cops. Jersey was a police state, with every stinger watching everything, reporting automatically, so that you never knew you had been fingered until it was too late. The suckers just worked, fed, and, for those few sunny hours each day, lay in their dirt. In general, these drones were disciplined, and—like the slave humans—ate what and when they were told: usually these packs of blood that came from the camps. Though Creem had seen a few go off the reservation. You could walk the streets at night among the bloodsuckers if you looked like you were working, but humans were expected to defer to them like the second-class citizens they were. But that just wasn’t Creem’s style. Not in Jersey, no sir.

He heard a little bell and collapsed the recliner, pushing himself to his feet. The bell meant a message had arrived from New York. From Gus.

Atop Gus’s hideaway, the Mexican had fashioned a small coop for pigeons and some chickens. From the chickens, every once in a while he got a fresh egg packed with protein, fat, vitamins, and minerals—as valuable as a pearl from an oyster. From the pigeons, he got a way to connect to the world outside Manhattan. Safe, uncompromised, and undetected by the bloodsuckers. Some days Gus used the pigeons to set a delivery from Creem: weapons, ammo, a little porn. Creem could get almost anything for the right price.

Today was one such day. The pigeon—Harry, “the New Jersey Express,” as Gus called him—had landed in a little perch by the window and was pecking at the bell, knowing that Creem would give him some food.

Creem unfastened the elastic band from its leg and removed the small plastic capsule and took out the thin roll of paper. Harry cooed softly.

“Cool it, you little shit,” said Creem as he unsealed a small Tupperware container of precious corn feed and spilled some into a cup for the pigeon’s reward, popping some into his own mouth before recapping it.

Creem read Gus’s request. “A detonator?” He snickered. “You gotta be fucking shitting me . . .”

Malvo made a snick-snick noise with his tongue against his teeth. “Scout car coming,” he said.

The wolf-hounds sprang up, but Creem waved at them to keep quiet. He undid their leashes from the table leg, pulling back sharply on the chain chokers to keep them silent and at his heels. “Signal the others.”

Royal led the way to the attached garage. Creem was still a huge presence, despite having lost sixty pounds. His short, powerful arms were still too broad to cross over his nearly square midsection. While at home, he sported all his silver, his knuckle bling and his tooth-capping grille. Creem was into silver back when it was just shiny shit, before it became the mark of a warrior and an outlaw.

Creem watched the others slide into the Tahoe with their weapons. The transports usually traveled in a three-vehicle military convoy, bloodsuckers in the lead and the rear, with the bread truck driven by humans in the middle. Creem wanted to see some grains this time: cereal, rolls, butter loaves. Carbohydrates filled them up and lasted for days, sometimes weeks. Protein was a rare gift, and meat even rarer, but difficult to keep fresh. Peanut butter was the organic kind with oil on top—because no foods were processed anymore, ever—which Creem couldn’t stand, but both Royal and the wolf-hounds loved it.

The vamps showed no fear of the wolf-hounds, but the human drivers sure did. They saw the silver glint in their lupine-canine eyes and routinely shit themselves. Creem had trained the animals only as well as he cared to train them, meaning that they always heeded him, the one who fed them. But they were not creatures meant to be domesticated or tamed, which was why Creem identified with them and kept them close at his side.

Ambassador strained at his choker; Skill’s paw nails scratched at the garage floor. They knew what was coming. They were about to earn their meal. In that, they were even more motivated than the rest of the Sapphires, because for a wolf-hound, the economy had never changed. Food, food, food.

The garage door went up. Creem heard the trucks rumbling around the corner, nice and loud because there was no other traffic noise to compete with. This would be a typical jam-up. They had, idling between two houses across the street, a tow truck ready to smash the lead vehicle. Backup cars would cut off the bloodsuckers in the rear, bottlenecking the convoy in this residential street.

Keeping their cars running was another of Creem’s priorities. He had guys good at that. Gasoline was at a premium, as were car batteries. The Sapphires used two garages in Jersey for chopping up food trucks for parts and fuel.

The lead truck rounded the corner fast. Creem picked up on an extra vehicle in the convoy, a fourth, but this didn’t trouble him too much. Right on time, the tow truck came screeching out from across the street, tearing across the muddy front yard and bumping off the curb—ramming the rear quarter of the lead truck, putting it into a backspin hard enough that it was facing the wrong way when it came to rest. Support cars closed in fast, bumper-locking the rear truck. The middle vehicles in the convoy braked hard, veering off to the curb. Two soft-sided transports—maybe a double haul.

Royal drove the Tahoe straight at the food truck, stopping just inches from its grille. Creem released Ambassador and Skill, who went racing over the muddy yard toward the scene. Royal and Malvo jumped out, each bearing a long silver sword and a silver knife. They went right at the bloodsuckers emptying out of the lead vehicle. Royal was especially vicious. He had bolted silver spikes to the toes of his boots. The hijacking looked to be over in less than one minute.

The first thing Creem noticed that was wrong was the food truck. The human operators remained inside the cab, rather than jumping out and running. Ambassador leaped up at the driver’s-side door, his choppers snapping at the closed window, the man inside looking down into the wolf-hound’s angry mouth and bared teeth.

Then the soft canvas sides of the twin army trucks were pulled up like curtains. Instead of food, some twenty or thirty bloodsucker vampires came tearing out, their fury, speed, and intensity matching the wolf-hounds’. Malvo slashed off three of them hard before one got up in his face, knocking him back. Malvo twisted and fell—and they were on him.

Royal backed off, retreating like a kid with a sand pail in his hand facing an incoming tidal wave. He bumped up against his own vehicle, delaying his escape.

Creem could not see what was happening in the rear . . . but he heard the screams. And if there was one thing he had learned, it was that . . .

Vampires don’t scream.

Creem ran—as much as a man of his size can run—toward his boy Royal, who was backed up against the front of the Tahoe by a gang of six bloodsuckers. Royal was all but done for, but Creem could not let him go out like that. Creem carried a .44 Magnum on his hip, and the rounds weren’t made of silver, but he liked the weapon anyway. He drew it and capped off two vampires’ heads, blam, blam, the white, acid-like vamp blood spraying into Royal’s face, blinding him.

Creem saw, beyond Royal, Skill with its fangs clamped on the elbow of one of the marauding bloodsuckers. The sucker, oblivious to pain, slashed at Skill’s furry throat with the hardened nail of its talonlike middle finger, opening up the wolf-hound’s neck in a mess of silver-gray fur and rich, red blood.

Creem blasted the bloodsucker, opening up two holes in its throat. The sucker went down right next to the whimpering Skill in a mess of carnage.

Another pair of bloodsuckers had fallen upon Ambassador, their vampire strength overpowering the fierce animal. Creem fired away, taking chunks of head and shoulder and arm, but the silverless bullets failed to stop the suckers from ripping apart the wolf-hound.

What the gunfire did achieve was that it attracted attention to Creem. Royal was gone already, two suckers with their stingers in his neck, feeding on him right there in the middle of the street. The humans remained locked inside the cab of the decoy truck, watching, their eyes wide, with not horror but excitement. Creem got off two rounds in their direction and heard glass breaking but could not slow to see if he had hit them.

He squeezed himself through the open driver’s door of the Tahoe, his bulk pushed up against the steering wheel. He threw the vehicle in reverse, the engine still running, and chewed up some yard mud as he backed away. He slammed on the brakes, tearing up more yard, then twisted the wheel to the left. Two bloodsuckers leaped into his way, and Creem hit the gas hard, the Tahoe bursting forward and running them down, its tires grinding them into the sidewalk. Creem fishtailed into the road, gunning the engine but forgetting that it had been a while since he’d operated an automobile.

He skidded sideways, grinding up against the opposite curb, blowing one of the tires off its rim. He swung the other way, overcorrecting. Creem stomped the pedal flat to the floor, got a burst of speed out of the Tahoe—and then the engine sputtered and quit.

Creem checked the dashboard panel. The gas gauge glowed “E.” His crew had poured in just enough fuel for the job. The getaway van, the one with the half-full tank, was in the rear.

Creem threw open his door. He grabbed the frame and pulled himself from the vehicle, seeing the bloodsuckers running toward him. Dirty-pale, barefoot, naked, bloodthirsty. Creem reloaded his .44 from the only other clip on his belt, blasting holes in the bastards, who, as in nightmares, kept coming. When the gun clicked empty, Creem threw it aside and went at the suckers with his silver-covered fists, his bling punches packing extra force and pain. He yanked off one of his chains and started strangling a bloodsucker with it, swinging the creature’s body around to block the other ghouls’ clutching, battering hands.

But he was weak from malnutrition, and, big as he was, he tired easily. They overtook him, but rather than go right at his throat, they locked his big arms in their own and with preternatural strength dragged the sweat-drenched gang leader off the street. They hauled him up two steps into a looted convenience store, bracing him there in a seated position on the floor. Gassed, Creem unleashed a string of curses until heavy breathing dizzied him, and he started to black out. As the store spun in his vision, he wondered what the hell they were waiting for. He wanted them to choke on his blood. He had no worries about being turned into a vampire; that was one of the distinct advantages to having a mouth full of repellent silver.

Two humans stepped inside, Stoneheart employees in neat black suits like the undertakers they were. Creem thought they had arrived to strip him of his silver, and he rallied, fighting with all he had left. The bloodsuckers kneeled into his arms, twisting them in pain. But the Stonehearts merely watched over him as he slumped on the floor, gasping for air.

Then the atmosphere inside the store changed. The only way to describe it is the way things get so still outside right before a storm. Creem’s hair stood up on the back of his neck. Something was about to happen. This was like the moment when two hands go rushing toward each other, the instant before the clap.

A humming entered Creem’s brain like the rumble of a dentist’s drill, only without the vibration. Like the roar of an approaching helicopter without the wind. Like the droning chant of a thousand monks—only without the song.

The bloodsuckers stiffened up like soldiers awaiting inspection. The two Stonehearts stepped to the side, against an empty aisle rack. The suckers on either side of Creem relinquished their grip on him, pulling away, leaving him sitting alone in the middle of the dirty linoleum . . .

. . . as a dark figure entered the store.

Camp Liberty

THE
TRANSPORT JEEP was a repurposed military vehicle with an expanded cargo bed and no roof. Mr. Quinlan drove at breakneck speed through the lashing rain and inky darkness; his vampire vision required no headlights. Eph and the others bumped along in the back, getting soaked as they hurtled blindly through the night. Eph closed his eyes against the rain and the rocking, feeling like a small boat caught in a typhoon, battered but determined to ride it out.

They stopped finally, and Eph lifted his head and looked up at the immense gate, dark against the dark sky. No light was necessary. Mr. Quinlan cut the Jeep’s engine, and there were no sounds or voices, other than the rain and the mechanical rumble of a distant generator somewhere inside.

The camp was enormous and all around it a featureless concrete wall was being erected. At least twenty feet high, it had crews working on it day and night, raising rebar, pouring concrete by stadium quartz lights. It would be ready very soon, but for the time being, a gate constructed of chain link backed by wooden planks gave access to the camp.

For some reason, Eph had imagined he would hear children crying, adults screaming, or some other form of audible anguish, being near so much human suffering. The darkly quiet exterior of the camp spoke to an oppressive efficiency that was almost as shocking.

No doubt they were being watched by unseen strigoi. Mr. Quinlan’s body registered bright and hot in the vampires’ heat-sensitive vision, with the five other beings in the back of the Jeep reading as cooler humans.

Mr. Quinlan lifted a baseball equipment bag from the passenger seat and lay it across his shoulder as he exited the Jeep. Eph stood dutifully, his wrists, waist, and ankles bound by nylon rope. The five of them were knotted together with only a few feet of slack between them, like members of a chain gang. Eph was in the middle, Gus in front of him, Fet in back. First and last were Bruno and Joaquin. One by one they hopped down from the back of the vehicle, landing in the mud.

Eph could smell the strigoi, their feverlike earthiness and their ammoniac waste. Mr. Quinlan walked alongside Eph, accompanying his prisoners into the camp.

Eph felt as though he were walking into the mouth of the whale and feared being swallowed. He knew going in that the odds were no better than even that he would ever emerge from this slaughterhouse again.

Communication was handled wordlessly. Mr. Quinlan was not exactly on the other vampires’ wavelength, telepathically, but the existence of his psychic signal was enough to pass first inspection. Physically, he appeared less gaunt than the rank-and-file vampires, his pale flesh more lily-petal smooth than dead and plastic, his eyes a brighter red with an independent spark. They shuffled down a narrow canvas tunnel beneath a roof constructed of chicken fencing. Eph looked up through the wire into the falling rain and the sheer blackness of the starless sky.

They arrived at a quarantine station. A few battery-powered work lamps illuminated the room, as this area was manned by humans. With the low-wattage light casting shadows against the walls, and the relentless rain outside, and the palpable sense of being surrounded by hundreds of malevolent beings, the quarantine station resembled a scared little tent in the middle of a vast jungle.

The staff’s heads were all shaved. Their eyes were dry and tired-looking, and they wore slate-gray prison-grade jumpsuits and perforated rubber clogs.

The five were asked to provide their names, and each man lied. Eph signed a scribble next to his pseudonym with a dull pencil. Mr. Quinlan stood in the background, before a canvas wall thumping with rain, while four strigoi stood golemlike, one pair of sentries at either flap door.

Mr. Quinlan’s story was that he had captured five outliers squatting in a cellar beneath a Korean market on 129th Street. A blow to the head, suffered in the act of subduing his cargo, explained his glitchy telepathy—whereas, in fact, Quinlan was actively blocking the vampires from accessing his true thoughts. He had shed his oversized pack, laying it down on the damp canvas floor near his boots.

The humans first tried to untie the binding knots, in hopes of preserving the rope for reuse. But the wet nylon would not budge and had to be cut. Under the watchful eyes of the vampire guards, Eph remained standing with his eyes down, rubbing his raw wrists. It was impossible for him to look a vampire in the eye without showing hatred. Also, he was concerned about being recognized by the strigoi hive mind.

He was aware of a disturbance brewing inside the tent. The quiet was awkward, the sentries directing their attention at Mr. Quinlan. The strigoi had picked up on something different about him.

Fet noticed this too, because he suddenly started talking, trying to direct attention away from Quinlan. “When do we eat?” he asked.

The human with the clipboard looked up from his note-taking. “Whenever they feed you.”

“Hope it’s not too rich,” he said. “I don’t do well with rich foods.”

They stopped what they were doing, staring at Fet as though he were insane. The lead man said, “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Good,” said Fet.

One of the strigoi noticed that Mr. Quinlan’s pack remained on the floor in the corner of the room. The vampire reached for the long, heavy bag.

Fet stiffened near Eph. One of the human personnel grasped Eph’s chin, using a penlight to examine the interior of his mouth. The man had bags beneath his eyes the color of black tea. Eph said, “Were you a doctor?”

“Sort of,” said the man, looking at Eph’s teeth.

“How ‘sort of’?”

“Well, I was a veterinarian,” he said.

Eph closed his mouth. The man flicked the light beam in and out of Eph’s eyes, intrigued by what he saw.

“You’ve been taking some medication?” asked the vet.

Eph didn’t like the vet’s tone. “Sort of,” he answered.

“You’re in pretty bad shape. Kinda tainted,” said the vet. Eph saw the vampire drawing the zipper back on the pack. The nylon shell was lined with lead from the X-ray aprons of a midtown dentist’s office. Once the strigoi felt the disruptive properties of the silver blades, he dropped the pack as though scalded.

Mr. Quinlan rushed for the pack. Eph pushed the veterinarian, knocking the man all the way across the tent. Mr. Quinlan shoved past the strigoi and pulled a sword quickly from the pack, turning, holding it out. The vampires were at first too stunned to move as the surprise presence of silver, in the form of a weapon, held them back. Mr. Quinlan advanced slowly in order to give Fet, Gus, and the others time to grab their weapons. Eph felt a hell of a lot better once he got a sword into his hands. The weapon Mr. Quinlan brandished was actually Eph’s blade, but there was no time to quibble.

The vampires did not react as humans would. None of them ran out the door to escape or warn others. The alarm went out psychically. Their attack, after the initial shock, came swiftly.

Mr. Quinlan cut one down with a blow to the neck. Gus rushed forward, meeting a charging vampire and running his blade straight through its throat. Decapitation was difficult in close quarters because the broad slashing required to sever the neck risked wounding others, and the blood spray was caustic, laden with infectious worm parasites. Close-quarters combat with strigoi was always a last resort, and so the five of them fought their way out of the quarantine intake room as quickly as possible.

Eph, the last to arm himself, was set upon not by vampires but by humans. The veterinarian and one other. He was so startled, he reacted to the attack as though they were strigoi and stabbed the vet through the base of his neck. Red arterial spray spritzed the wooden supporting pole in the center of the room as both Eph and the veterinarian stared at one another with wide eyes. “What the hell are you doing!” yelled Eph. The veterinarian sank to his knees, and the second man turned his attention to his wounded friend.

Eph backed away slowly from the dying man, pulled on his shoulder by one of the others. He was shaken; he had killed a man.

They stepped out of the tent, emerging into the open air inside the camp. The rain had slowed to a misty drizzle. A canvas-roofed path lay before them, but the night prevented Eph from taking in the camp as a whole. No strigoi yet, but they knew that the alarm had gone out. It took their eyes a few moments to adjust to the darkness—out of which the vampires came running.

The five of them fanned out in an arc, taking on all comers. Here there was room to swing the blade freely, to plant one’s rear foot and drive the sword with enough force to lift the head from the shoulders. Eph hacked hard, moving and slashing and checking constantly behind him.

In this way, they repelled the initial wave. They continued ahead, though without any intelligence as to the organization of the camp. They looked for some indication of where the general population was located. Another pair of vampires came at them from the left, and Mr. Quinlan, protecting his flank, cut them down, then led the others in that general direction.

Ahead, silhouetted against the darkness, was a tall, narrow structure: a lookout post in the center of a stone circle. More vampires came running at top speed and the five men tightened up, moving as a unit, five silver blades cutting together almost as one wide one.

They needed to kill fast. The strigoi had been known to sacrifice one or more of their number in an attempt at improving their chances of capturing and turning a human aggressor. Their strategy was such that one or three or even ten vampires were worth sacrificing for the elimination of one human slayer.

Eph curled back behind the others, taking the rear, walking backward as they formed a moving oval, a ring of silver to hold the swarming vampires at bay. His eyes becoming more acclimated to the dark, Eph perceived other strigoi slowing in the distance, congregating, holding back. Tracking without attacking. Planning some more coordinated assault.

“They’re massing,” he told the others. “I think we’re being pushed this way.”

He heard the wet cut of a sword, then Fet’s voice. “A building up ahead. Our only hope is to go zone by zone.”

We broke out into the camp too early, said Mr. Quinlan.

The sky as yet was showing no sign of brightening. Everything hinged upon that unreliable window of sunlight. The trick now was to last inside enemy territory until the uncertain dawn.

Gus swore and cut down another creature. “Stay tight,” said Fet.

Eph continued his slow walk backward. He could just make out the faces of the first line of vampires pursuing them, staring intently. Staring—it seemed—at him.

Was it just his imagination? Eph slowed, then stopped altogether, allowing the others to progress a few yards without him.

The pursuing vampires stopped as well.

“Ah, shit,” said Eph.

They had recognized him. The equivalent of an all-points bulletin on the vampire psychic network was a hit. The hive was alerted to his presence, which meant only one thing.

The Master knew that Eph was there. Watching this through its drones.

“Hey!” said Fet, doubling back to Eph. “What the hell are you doing stopping . . . ?” He saw the strigoi, maybe two dozen of them, staring. “Jesus. What are they, starstruck?”

Awaiting orders.

“Christ, let’s just—”

The camp whistle went off—jolting them—a shrill steam scream followed by four more in quick succession. Then silence again.

Eph understood the alarm’s purpose: to alert not just the vampires but also the humans. A call to take shelter, perhaps.

Fet looked to the nearest building. He again checked the sky for light. “If you can lead them away from here, from us—we can get in and out of this place that much more quickly.”

Eph had no desire to be a bouncing red chew toy for this pack of bloodsuckers, but he saw the logic in Fet’s plan. “Just do me a favor,” he said. “Make it fast.”

Fet called back, “Gus! Stay with Eph.”

“No way,” said Gus. “I’m going in. Bruno, get with him.”

Eph smiled at Gus’s obvious distaste for him. He caught Mr. Quinlan’s arm and pulled him back, trading the sword he carried for his own.

I will take care of the human guards, Mr. Quinlan said, and disappeared in a flash.

Eph regripped the familiar leather handle, then waited for Bruno to come up at his side. “You okay with this?”

“Better than okay,” said Bruno, out of breath but smiling wide, like a kid. His super-white teeth looked great against his light-brown skin.

Eph lowered his sword, jogging off to the left and away from the structure. The vamps hesitated a moment before following. Eph and Bruno rounded the corner of a long, shedlike outbuilding, all dark. Beyond it, light shone from inside a window.

Lights meant humans.

“This way!” said Eph, breaking into a run. Bruno kept pace, panting. Eph looked back and, sure enough, the vampires were charging around the corner after them. Eph ran toward the light, seeing a vampire standing near the door to the building.

He was a big male, backlit by the faint window light. On his large chest and the sides of his trunklike neck, Eph saw fading tattoo ink, turned green by the white blood and multiple stretch marks.

At once, like a traumatic memory forcing its way back into his consciousness, the Master’s voice was inside Eph’s head.

What are you here for, Goodweather?

Eph stopped and pointed his sword at the big vamp. Bruno spun around next to him, keeping an eye on the drones behind them.

What is it you came here to get?

Bruno roared next to Eph, hacking down two charging vampires. Eph turned, momentarily distracted, seeing the others bunched up just a few yards away—respecting the silver—and then, realizing he had allowed himself to become distracted, turned back fast with his sword up.

The tip of his sword caught the charging vampire in the right breast, entering skin and muscle but not running him through. Eph withdrew quickly and stabbed at the vampire’s throat, just as the thing’s jaw was beginning to drop, baring its stinger. The tattooed vampire shivered and dropped to the ground.

“Fuckers!” yelled Bruno.

They were all coming now. Eph wheeled and readied his sword. But there were just too many, and all moving at once. He started backpedaling—

You are here searching for someone, Goodweather.

—and felt stones beneath his feet as he neared the building. Bruno kept hacking and slaying as Eph backed up three steps, feeling for the door handle, opening the latch, the door giving way.

You are mine now, Goodweather.

The voice boomed, disorienting him. Eph pulled on Bruno’s shoulder, motioning to the gangbanger to follow him inside. They ran past makeshift cages on either side of the narrow walkway, containing humans in various stages of distress. A madhouse of sorts. The people howled at Eph and Bruno as they hurried through.

Dead end, Goodweather.

Eph shook his head hard, trying to chase the Master’s voice from his mind. Its presence was addling, like the voice of madness itself. Add to that the people clawing at the cages as he passed, and Eph was caught in a cyclone of confusion and terror.

The first of the pursuing vampires entered the other end. Eph tried one door, leading to an office of sorts, with a dentist-style chair whose headrest, and the floor beneath it, was crusted with dry, red human blood. Another door led outside, Eph jumping down three steps. More vampires awaited him, having gone around the building rather than through it, and Eph swung and chopped, turning just in time to catch one female leaping at him from the roof.

Why did you come here, Goodweather?

Eph leaped back from the slain female. He and Bruno backed away, side by side, heading toward an unlit, windowless structure set against the high perimeter fence. Perhaps the vampires’ quarters? The camp strigoi’s nest?

Eph and Bruno angled themselves, only to find that the fence turned sharply and ended at another unlit structure.

Dead end. I told you.

Eph stood up to the vampires coming toward them in the dark.

“Undead end,” Eph muttered. “You bastard.”

Bruno glanced over at him. “Bastard? You the one who ran us into this trap!”

Once I catch you and turn you, I will know all your secrets.

That turned Eph cold. “Here they come,” he said to Bruno—and got ready for them.

Nora had arrived at Barnes’s office inside the administrative building ready to agree to anything, including giving herself to Barnes, in order to save her mother and get close to him. She despised her former boss even more than the vampire oppressors. His immorality sickened her—but the fact that he believed she was weak enough to simply bend to his will made her nauseous.

Killing him would show him that. If his fantasy was her submission, her plan was to drive the shank into his heart. Death by butter knife: how fitting!

She would do it as he lay in bed or in the middle of his dinner patter, so hideously civilized. He was more evil than the strigoi: his corruption was not a disease, was not something inflicted upon him. His corruption was opportunistic. A choice.

Worst of all was his perception of her as a potential victim. He had fatally misread Nora, and all that was left was for her to show him the error of his ways. In steel.

He made her wait out in the hallway, where there was no chair or bathroom, for three hours. Twice he left his office, resplendent in his crisp, white admiral’s uniform, strolling past Nora carrying some papers but never acknowledging her, passing without a word, disappearing behind another door. And so she waited, stewing, even when the single camp whistle signaled the rations call, one hand across her grumbling stomach—her mind squarely focused on her mother and murder.

Finally, Barnes’s assistant—a young female with clean, shoulder-length auburn hair, wearing a laundered gray jumpsuit—opened the door, admitting Nora without a word. The assistant remained in the doorway as Nora passed through. Perfumed skin and minty breath. Nora returned the assistant’s look of disapproval, imagining just how the woman had secured such a plum position in Barnes’s world.

The assistant sat behind her desk, leaving Nora to try the next door, which was locked. Nora turned and retreated to one of the two hard folding chairs against the wall facing the assistant. The assistant made busy noises in an effort to ignore Nora while simultaneously asserting her superiority. Her telephone buzzed and she lifted the receiver, answering it quietly. The room, save for the unfinished wooden walls and the laptop computer, resembled a low-tech 1940s-era office: corded telephone, a pen and paper set, blotter. On the near corner of the desk, just off the blotter, sat a thick chocolate brownie on a small paper plate. The assistant hung up after a few whispered words and noticed Nora staring at the treat. She reached for the plate, taking just a nibble of the dessert cake, a few stray crumbs sprinkling down into her lap.

Nora heard a click in the doorknob, followed by Barnes’s voice.

“Come in!”

The assistant moved her treat to the other side of her desk, out of Nora’s reach, before waving her through. Nora again walked to the door and turned the knob, which, this time, gave way.

Barnes was standing behind his desk, stuffing files into an open attaché case, preparing to leave for the day. “Good morning, Carly. Is the car ready?”

“Yes, sir, Dr. Barnes,” sang the assistant. “They just called up from the gate.”

“Call down and make sure the heat is on in the back.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nora?” said Barnes, still stuffing, not looking up. His demeanor was much changed from their previous encounter at his palatial home. “You have something you wish to discuss with me?”

“You win.”

“I win? Wonderful. Now tell me, what is it I have won?”

“Your way. With me.”

He hesitated just a moment before closing the case, snapping the clasps. He looked at her and nodded slightly to himself, as though having trouble remembering his original offer. “Very good,” he said, then went rooting in a drawer for some other nearly forgotten thing.

Nora waited. “So?” she said.

“So,” he said.

“Now what?”

“Now I am in a very great rush. But I will let you know.”

“I thought . . . I’m not going back to your house now?”

“Soon. Another time. Busy day and all.”

“But—I’m ready now.”

“Yes. I thought you would grow a bit more eager. Camp life doesn’t agree with you? No, I didn’t think so.” He took up the handle of his case. “I’ll soon call for you.”

Nora understood: he was making her wait on purpose. Prolonging her agony as payback for not immediately falling into bed with him that day at his house. A dirty old man on a power trip.

“And please note for future reference that I am not a man to be kept waiting. I trust that is clear to you now. Carly?”

The assistant appeared in the open doorway. “Yes, Dr. Barnes?”

“Carly, I can’t find the ledger. Maybe you can search around and bring it by the house later.”

“Yes, Dr. Barnes.”

“Say, around nine thirty?”

Nora saw in assistant Carly’s face not the satisfied swagger she was anticipating but instead a hint of distaste.

They stepped out into the anteroom, whispering. Ridiculous, as if Nora were Barnes’s wife.

Nora took the opportunity to rush to Barnes’s desk, searching it for anything that might help her cause, any bit of information she was not supposed to see. But he had taken most everything with him. Sliding out the center drawer, she saw a computer-generated map of the camp with each zone color-coded. Beyond the birthing area she had already visited, and in the same general direction as where she understood the “retirement” section of camp was established, was a zone named “Letting.” This zone contained a shaded area labeled “Sunshine.” Nora tried to rip up the map in order to take it with her, but it was glued to the bottom of the drawer. She scanned it again, quickly memorizing it, then shut the drawer just as Barnes returned.

Nora worked hard to mask the fury in her face, to regard him with a smile. “What about my mother? You promised me—”

“And if indeed you hold up your end of the bargain, I shall of course hold up mine. Scout’s honor.”

It was clear he wanted her to beg, which was something she simply could not bring herself to do.

“I want to know that she is safe.”

Barnes nodded, grinning a little. “You want to make demands, is what you want. I alone dictate the timing of this and everything else that occurs inside the walls of this camp.”

Nora nodded, but her mind was elsewhere now, her wrist already wriggling behind her back, pushing the shank forward.

“If your mother is to be processed, she will be. You have no say in the matter. They probably picked her up already and she is on her way to be cleaned up. Your life, however, is still a bargaining chip. Hope you cash it in.”

Now she had the shank in her hand. She gripped it.

“Is that understood?” he said.

“Understood,” she said through gritted teeth.

“You will need to come with a much more agreeable attitude when I do call for you, so please be ready. And smile.”

She wanted to fucking kill him where he stood.

From the outer office, his assistant’s panicked voice broke the mood. “Sir?”

Barnes stepped away before Nora could act, returning to the anteroom alone.

Nora heard the footsteps charging up the stairs. Slapping at the floor: bare feet.

Vampire feet.

A team of four large-framed, once-male vampires burst into the office. These undead goons wore tribal prison-style tattoos on their sagging flesh. The assistant gasped and backed away into her corner as the four went right after Barnes.

“What is it?” he said.

They told him, telepathically—and fast. Barnes barely had time to react before they grabbed his arms and practically picked him up, running him out the door and away down the hall. Then the camp whistle started shrieking.

Shouting outside. Something was happening. Nora heard and felt the vibration of doors slamming downstairs.

The assistant remained in the corner, behind her desk, the phone to her ear. Nora heard hard footsteps charging up the stairs. Boots equaled humans. The assistant cowered while Nora moved to the door—just in time to see Fet rushing inside.

Nora was struck speechless. He carried his sword but no other weapons. His face was wild with the look of the hunt. A grateful, openmouthed smile appeared on her face.

Fet glanced at Nora and then at the assistant in the corner, then turned to leave. He was back out the door and almost out of sight around the corner before he stopped, straightened, and looked back.

“Nora?” he said.

Her baldness. Her jumpsuit. He hadn’t recognized her at first.

“V,” she said.

He gripped her, and she clawed at his back, burying her face in his smelly, unwashed shoulder. He pulled her off him for a second look, at once exulting in his great luck in finding her and trying to make sense of her shaved head.

“It’s you,” he said, touching her scalp. Then he looked over the rest of her. “You . . .”

“And you,” she said, tears springing from the corners of her eyes. Not Eph, again. Not Eph. You.

He embraced her again. More bodies followed behind him. Gus and another Mexican. Gus slowed when he saw Fet hugging a bald camp member. It was a long moment before he said, “Dr. Martinez?”

“It’s me, Gus. Is it really you?”

“A guevo! You better believe it,” he said.

“What is this building?” asked Fet. “Administration or something? What are you doing here?”

For a moment, she couldn’t remember. “Barnes!” she said. “From the CDC. He runs the camp—runs all the camps!”

“Where the hell is he?”

“Four big vampires just came and got him. His own security force. He went that way.”

Fet stepped out into the empty hall. “This way?”

“He has a car out by the gate.” Nora stepped into the hallway. “Is Eph with you?”

A pang of jealousy. “He’s outside holding them off. I’d go after this guy Barnes for you, but we have to get back to Eph.”

“And my mother.” Nora gripped Fet’s shirt. “My mother. I’m not leaving without her.”

“Your mother?” said Fet. “She’s still here?”

“I think so.” She held Fet’s face. “I can’t believe you’re here. For me.”

He could’ve kissed her. He could have. Amid the chaos and the turmoil and the danger—he could’ve. The world had vanished around them. It was her—only her in front of him.

“For you?” said Gus. “Hell, we like this killing shit. Right, Fet?” His grin undercut his words. “We gotta get back to my homeboy Bruno.”

Nora followed them out the door, then abruptly stopped. She turned back to Carly, the assistant, still standing behind her desk in the far corner of the anteroom, the telephone in her hand hanging low at her side. Nora rushed back toward her, Carly’s eyes widening with fright. Nora reached across her desk, grabbing the rest of the brownie off its paper plate. She took a big bite and threw the rest at the wall next to the assistant’s head.

But in her moment of triumph, Nora felt only pity for the young woman. And the brownie didn’t taste anywhere near as good as Nora thought it would.

Out in the open yard, Eph hacked and swung, clearing as much space around himself as possible. Six feet was the outside limit for vampire stingers; the combined length of his arm and his sword gave him about that distance. So he kept slashing, carving out a six-foot-wide radius of silver.

But Bruno did not share Eph’s strategy. He instead took on each individual threat as it appeared, and, because he was a brutally efficient killer, he had gotten away with it thus far. But he was also tiring. He went after a pair of vampires threatening from his blind side, but it was a ruse. When he took the bait, the strigoi separated him from Eph, filling in the gap between them. Eph tried to slice his way back over to Bruno, but the vampires stuck to their strategy: separate and destroy.

Eph felt the building at his back. His circle of silver became a semicircle, his sword like a burning torch keeping the darkness of vampirism at bay. A few of them dropped to all fours, trying to dart underneath his reach and pull him down by the legs, but he managed to strike at them, and strike hard, the mud at his feet turning white. But as the bodies piled up, Eph’s radius of safety continued to contract.

He heard Bruno grunt, then howl. Bruno was backed up against the high perimeter fence. Eph watched him slice off a stinger with his sword, but too late. Bruno had been stung. Just a moment of contact, of penetration, but the damage had been done: the worm implanted, the vampire pathogen entering his bloodstream. But Bruno had not been drained of blood, and he continued to battle, in fact with renewed vigor. He fought on, knowing that, even if he were to survive this onslaught, he was doomed. Dozens of worms wriggled under the skin of his face and neck.

The other strigoi around Eph, psychically apprised of this success, sensed victory and surged toward Eph with abandon. A few came off Bruno to shove the encroaching vampires from behind, further shrinking Eph’s zone of safety. Elbows tucked at his sides, he swung and cut at their wild faces, their swaying crimson wattles and open mouths. A stinger shot out at him, striking the wall near his ear with an arrow-like thump. He sliced it down, but there were more. Eph tried to keep up a wall of silver, his arms and shoulders screaming in pain. All it took was for one stinger to get through. He felt the force of the vampire mob closing in on him. Mr. Quinlan landed in the middle of the fight and joined instantly. He made a difference but they all knew they were just holding back the tide. Eph was about to be overrun.

It would be over soon.

A flare of light opened in the sky above them. Eph believed it was in fact a flare or some other pyrotechnic device sent up by the vampires as an alert signal or even a deliberate distraction. One moment of inattention and Eph was done for.

But the flare light kept shining, intensifying, expanding overhead. It was moving, higher than he realized.

Most important, the vampire attack slowed. Their bodies stiffened as their openmouthed heads turned toward the dark sky.

Eph could not believe his good fortune. He readied his sword to cut a swath through the strigoi in a last-gasp gambit to kill his way to safety . . .

But even he couldn’t resist. The sky-fire was too seductive. He too had to risk a peek at the polluted sky.

Across the black sackcloth of planet-smothering ash, a fierce flame was falling, cutting like the blaze from an acetylene torch. It burned through the darkness like a comet, a head of pure flame leading a narrowing tail. A searing teardrop of red-orange fire unzipping the false night.

It could only have been a satellite—or something even bigger—plummeting from the outer orbit, reentering Earth’s atmosphere like a fiery cannonball launched from the defeated sun.

The vampires backed away. With their red eyes locked on the streak of flame, they stumbled over one another with a rare lack of coordination. This was fear, thought Eph—or something like it. The sign in the sky reached their elemental selves, and they possessed no mechanism to express this terror other than a squealing noise and a clumsy retreat.

Even Mr. Quinlan retreated a bit. Overwhelmed by the light and the spectacle.

As the falling satellite burned bright in the sky, it parted the dense ash cloud and a brutal shaft of daylight penetrated the air like the finger of God, burning it all, falling over a three-mile radius that included the outer edges of the farm.

As the vampires burned and squealed, Fet and Gus and Joaquin met them coming the other way. The three of them ran into the panicked mob, cutting down the outliers before their attack triggered a full-blown riot, the vampires running off in every direction.

For a moment, the majestic column of light revealed the camp around them. The high wall, the dour buildings, the mucky ground. Plain verging on ugly, but only menacing in its ordinariness. This was like the back lot behind the showroom or the dirty restaurant kitchen: the place without artifice, where the real work gets done.

Eph watched the streak burn across the sky with increasing intensity, its head flaming thicker and brighter until it finally consumed itself and the angry trail of fire thinned to a wisp of flame—and then nothing.

Behind it, the much anticipated daylight had finally begun brightening the sky, as though heralded by that timely streak of flame. The pale outline of the sun was barely visible behind the ash cloud, a few of its rays filtering down through seams and weaknesses in the pollution cocoon. It was barely enough light for early dawn in the former world—but it was enough. Enough to drive the fleeing creatures underground for an hour or two.

Eph saw a camp prisoner following Fet and Gus, and despite her bald head and shapeless jumpsuit, he instantly recognized her as Nora. A jarring mix of emotions struck him. It seemed as though years instead of weeks had passed since they’d last met. But right now there were more pressing issues.

Mr. Quinlan retreated into the shadows. His tolerance to UV had been tested to its limit.

I will meet you . . . back at Columbia . . . I wish you all good luck.

With that, he bolted up the walls and out of the camp, effortlessly. In the blink of an eye, he was gone.

Gus noticed Bruno gripping his neck and went to him. “Qué pasó, vato?”

“Fucker’s in me,” said Bruno. The gangbanger grimaced, wetting his dry lips, then spitting onto the ground. His posture was open and strange, as though he could feel the worms already crawling inside him. “I’m damned, homes.”

The others all went silent. Gus, in his shock, reached for Bruno’s face, examining his throat. Then he pulled him into a hard hug. “Bruno,” he said.

“Fucking savages,” said Bruno. “Lucky fucking shot.”

“Goddamn it!” yelled Gus, pulling away from him. He didn’t know what to do. No one did. Gus stepped away and launched a ferocious howl.

Joaquin went toward Bruno with tears in his eyes. “This place,” he said, jabbing the point of his sword into the ground. “This is fucking hell on earth.” Then he raised his sword toward the sky, bellowing, “I am gonna slay every last one of these bloodsuckers in your name!”

Gus came back fast. He pointed at Eph. “You made it okay, though. Huh? How’s that? You were supposed to stay together. What happened to my boy?”

Fet stepped between them. “It’s not his fault.”

“How you know that?” said Gus, hurt burning in his eyes. “You was with me!” Gus spun around, went back to Bruno. “Tell me it was this motherfucker’s fault, Bruno, I’ll kill him right here, right now. Tell me!”

But Bruno, if he even heard Gus, didn’t answer. He was examining his hands and arms, as though looking for the worms infesting him.

Fet said, “It’s the vampires who are to blame, Gus. Stay focused.”

“Oh, I’m focused,” said Gus. He moved toward Fet threateningly, but Fet let him come up on him, knowing he had to vent his despair. “Like a laser fucking beam. I’m the Silver Ninja.” Gus pointed at Eph. “I’m focused.”

Eph started to defend himself but held his tongue, realizing that Gus wasn’t interested in what really happened. Anger was the only way the young gangbanger could express his pain.

Fet turned to Eph. “What was that thing in the sky?”

Eph shrugged. “I don’t know. I was done for, like Bruno. They were on me—it was over. And then that thing streaked across the sky. Something falling to earth. Spooked the strigoi. Extraordinary dumb luck.”

“That wasn’t luck,” said Nora. “That was something else.”

Eph stared, thrown off by Nora’s bald appearance. “Something else like what?”

“You can deny it,” said Nora, “or maybe you don’t want to know. Maybe you don’t even care. But that didn’t just happen, Ephraim. That happened to you. To us.” She eyed Fet and clarified. “To all of us . . .”

Eph was confused. A thing burning up in the atmosphere happened because of them?

“Let’s get you out of here,” he said. “And Bruno. Before anyone else gets hurt.”

“No way,” said Gus. “I’m tearing this place down. I want to find the fucker who did my boy.”

“No,” said Nora, stepping forward, the smallest among them. “We’re going to get my mother first.”

Eph was stunned. “But, Nora . . . you don’t really think she’s still here, do you?”

“She is still alive. And you of all people are not going to believe who told me this.”

Nora told Eph about Everett Barnes. Eph was mystified at first, wondering why she would joke about something like that. Then he was flat-out flabbergasted. “Everett Barnes, in charge of a blood camp?”

“In charge of all the blood camps,” said Nora.

Eph resisted it a moment more, only to see how right it was. The worst thing about this news was how much sense it made. “That son of a bitch.”

“She’s here,” said Nora. “He said she was. And I think I know where.”

“Okay,” said Eph, exhausted and wondering how far he could push this delicate matter. “But you remember what Barnes tried to do to us before.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Nora.” Eph did not want to spend any more time than was necessary inside this death trap. “Don’t you think Barnes would have told you anything—”

“We need to go get her,” Nora said, half turning away from him.

Fet came to her defense. “We have sun-time,” he said. “Before the cloud of ashes closes again. We’re going to look.”

Eph looked at the big exterminator, then back at Nora. They were making decisions together. Eph was outvoted.

“Fine,” said Eph. “Let’s make it quick.”

With the sky glow allowing a bit of light into the world—like a dimmer slowly rotated from the lowest to the second-to-lowest setting—the camp appeared as a dingy, military-style outpost and prison. The high fence ringing the perimeter was topped with tangles of concertina wire. Most of the buildings were cheaply constructed and caked with grime from the polluted rain—with the notable exception of the administration building, on the side of which was displayed the old Stoneheart corporate symbol: a black orb bisected laterally by a steel-blue ray, like an eye blinking shut.

Nora quickly led them under the canvas-covered path running deeper into the camp, passing other interior gates and buildings.

“The birthing area,” she told them, pointing out the high gate. “They isolate pregnant women. Wall them off from the vampires.”

“Maybe superstition?”

Nora said, “It looked more like quarantine to me. I don’t know. What would happen to an unborn fetus if the mother were turned?”

Fet said, “I don’t know. Never thought about that.”

“They have,” said Nora. “Seems like they’ve taken careful precautions against it ever happening.”

They continued past the front gate, along the interior wall. Eph kept checking behind them. “Where are all the humans?” he asked.

“The pregnant women live in trailers back there. The bleeders live in barracks to the west. It’s like a concentration camp. I think they will process my mother in that area farther ahead.”

She pointed at two dark buildings beyond the birthing zone, neither of which looked promising. They hurried farther along to the entrance to a large warehouse. Guard stations set up outside were empty at the moment.

“Is this it?” asked Fet.

Nora looked around, trying to get her bearings. “I saw a map . . . I don’t know. This isn’t what I envisioned.”

Fet checked the guard stations first. Inside was a bank of small-screen monitors, all dark. No on/off switches, no chairs.

“Vamps guard this place,” said Fet. “To keep humans out— or in?”

The entrance was not locked. The first room inside, which would have been the office or reception area, was stocked with rakes, shovels, hoes, hose trolleys, tillers, and wheelbarrows. The floor was dirt.

They heard grunts and squeals coming from inside. A nauseating shudder rippled through Eph, as he at first thought they were human noises. But no.

“Animals,” said Nora, moving to the door.

The vast warehouse was a humming brightness. Three stories tall, and twice the size of a football field or a soccer pitch, it was essentially an indoor farmstead and impossible to take in all at once. Suspended from the rafters high above were great lamps, with more lighting rigs erected over large garden plots and an orchard. The heat inside the warehouse was extreme but mitigated by a manufactured breeze that circulated via large vent fans.

Pigs congregated in a muddy enclosure outside an unroofed sty. A high-screened henhouse sat opposite, near what sounded like a cowshed and a sheep shelter. The smell of manure carried on the ventilating breeze.

Eph had to shield his eyes at first, with the lights pouring down from above, all but eliminating any surface shadows. They started down along one of the lanes, following a perforated irrigation pipe set on two-foot-high legs.

“Food factory,” said Fet. He pointed out cameras on the buildings. “People work it. Vamps keep an eye on them.” He squinted up into the lights. “Maybe there’s UV lights mixed in with the regular lamps up there, mimicking the range of light offered by the sun.”

Nora said, “Humans need light too.”

“Vamps can’t come inside. So people are left alone in here to tend the flock and harvest produce.”

Eph said, “I doubt they are left alone.”

Gus made a hissing noise to get their attention. “Rafters,” he said.

Eph looked up. He turned around, taking in a three-hundred-sixty-degree view until he saw the figure moving along a catwalk maybe two-thirds of the way up the long wall.

It was a man, wearing a long, drab, duster-style coat and a wide-brimmed rain hat. He was moving as fast as he could along the narrow, railed walkway.

“Stoneheart,” said Fet. Eldritch Palmer’s league of fellow travelers, who since his demise had transferred their allegiance to the Master when the Master assumed control of Palmer’s corporation’s vast industrial infrastructure. Strigoi sympathizers and—in terms of the new food-and-shelter-based economy—profiteers.

“Hey!” yelled Fet. The man did not respond but only lowered his head and moved more quickly.

Eph ran his eyes along the walkway to the corner. Mounted on a wide, triangular platform—both an observation post and a sniper’s perch—was the long barrel of a machine gun, tipped toward the ceiling, awaiting an operator.

“Get low!” said Fet, and they scattered, Gus and Bruno running back toward the entrance, Fet grabbing Nora and running her to the corner of the henhouse, Eph hustling toward the sheep shelter, Joaquin heading for the gardens.

Eph ducked and ran along the fence, this bottleneck being the very thing he had feared. He wasn’t going to perish by human hands, though. That much he had decided long ago. They were open targets down here in the serene, brightly lit interior farmstead—but Eph could do something about that.

The sheep were agitated, bleating too loudly for Eph to hear anything else. He glanced back at the corner and saw Gus and Bruno racing toward a ladder to the side. The Stoneheart reached the perch and was fooling with the mounted repeater, turning the muzzle end down toward the ground. He lashed out first at Gus, strafing the ground behind him until he lost the angle. Gus and Bruno started up the left-side wall, but the ladder did not run directly beneath; the Stoneheart might have another chance at them before they reached the catwalk.

Eph threw off the wire loops holding the sheep inside their shelter. The gate door banged open and they went bleating into the enclosure. Eph found the hinged section of fence and vaulted over it, working the outside catch. He grabbed the fence and raised his feet just in time, riding it open in order to avoid being trampled by the escaping sheep.

He heard gunfire but didn’t look back, running to the cowshed and doing the same, throwing up the rolling door and turning the herd loose. These were not fat Holsteins but rather cows in the dictionary definition of the term only: thin, loose-hided, walleyed, and fast. They went every which way, a number of them galumphing into the orchard and knocking into the weak-trunked apple trees.

Eph went around the dairy, looking for the others. He saw Joaquin far right, behind one of the garden lamps with a tool in his hand, using it to aim the hot lamp up at the corner shooter. A genius idea, it worked perfectly, distracting the Stoneheart so that Gus and Bruno could charge up the exposed section of ladder. Joaquin dove for cover as the Stoneheart ripped at the lamp, exploding the bulb in a shower of sparks.

Fet was up and running, using one wayward heifer as a partial shield as he broke for a ladder on the near wall, to the right of the shooter’s perch. Eph edged around the corner of the dairy, thinking about making a run for the wall himself, when the dirt started popping before his feet. He bolted backward just as the rounds chewed the wooden corner where his head had been.

The ladder shivered under his weight as Fet climbed hand-over-hand toward the catwalk. The Stoneheart was swung all the way around, trying to angle his fire at Gus and Bruno, but they were low on the walkway, his rounds clanking off the intervening iron slats. Someone below turned another lamp on the Stoneheart, and Fet could see the man’s face locked in a grimace, as though he knew he was going to lose. Who were these people who would willingly do the vampires’ bidding?

Inhuman, he thought.

And that thought powered Fet up the last few rungs. The Stoneheart was still unaware of his blind-side approach but could turn at any time. Imagining the long barrel of the gun swinging his way made him run faster, drawing his sword from his pack.

Inhuman motherfuckers.

The Stoneheart heard or felt Fet’s pounding boots. He swung around, wide-eyed, firing the gun before he had completed the sweep, but too late. Fet was too close. He ran his sword through the Stoneheart’s belly, then pulled it back.

Bewildered, the man slumped to his knees, appearing as shocked by Fet’s betrayal of the new vampiric order as Fet was by the Stoneheart’s betrayal of his own kind. Out of this offended expression vomited bile and blood, bursting onto the barrel of the smoking weapon.

The man’s agonal suffering was wholly unlike any vampire’s. Fet was not used to killing fellow humans. The silver sword was well suited for vampire killing but completely inefficient for dispatching humans.

Bruno came charging from the other catwalk, seizing the man before Fet could react, grabbing him up and dumping him over the low edge of the perch. The Stoneheart twisted in the air, trailing gore, landing headfirst.

Gus grabbed the trigger end of the hot weapon. He swung it around, surveilling the artificial farmstead below them. He tipped it up, aiming it at the multitude of lights beaming down on the farm like cooking lamps.

Fet heard yelling and recognized Nora’s voice, finding her below, waving her arms and pointing at the gun as sheep trotted past.

Fet grabbed the tops of Gus’s arms, just below his shoulders. Not restraining him, just getting his attention. “Don’t,” he said, referring to the lamps. “This food is for humans.”

Gus winced. He wanted to light up the place. Instead, he pulled away from the bright lamps and fired straight out across the cavernous building, rounds punching holes in the far wall, ejected cartridges raining onto the perch.

Nora was the first one out of the indoor farm. She could feel the others pulling on her to leave; the pale light would fade from the sky soon. She grew more frantic with each step, until she was running.

The next building was surrounded by a fence covered with opaque black netting. She could see the building inside, an older structure, original to the former food-processing plant, not vast like the farmstead. A faceless, industrial-appearing building that fairly screamed “slaughterhouse.”

“Is this it?” asked Fet.

Beyond it, Nora could see a turn in the perimeter fence. “Unless . . . unless they changed it from the map.”

She clung to hope. This was obviously not the entrance to a retirement community or any sort of hospitable environment.

Fet stopped her. “Let me go in first,” he said. “You wait here.”

She watched him start away, the others closing around her like doubts in her mind. “No,” she said at once, and caught up with him. Her breath was short, her words coming quietly. “I’m going too.”

Fet rolled back the gate just wide enough for them to enter. The others followed to a side doorway apart from the main entrance, where the door was unlocked.

Inside, machinery hummed. A heavy odor permeated the air inside, difficult to place at first.

The metallic smell of old coins warmed in a sweaty fist. Human blood.

Nora shut down a little then. She knew what she was going to see even before she reached the first pens.

Inside rooms no larger than a handicapped restroom stall, high-backed wheelchairs were reclined beneath coiled plastic tubes dangling from longer feeder tubes overhead. Flushed clean, the tubes were meant to carry human blood into larger vessels suspended from tracks. The pens were empty now.

Farther ahead, they passed a refrigeration room where the product collected from this terrible blood drive was packed and stored. Forty-two days was the natural limit for viability, but as vampire sustenance—as pure food—maybe the window of time was shorter.

Nora imagined seniors being brought here, sitting slumped in the wheelchairs, tubes taking blood from their necks. She saw them with their eyes rolling back in their sockets, perhaps guided here by the Master’s control of their older, fragile minds.

She grew more frantic and kept moving, knowing the truth but unable to accept it. She tried calling her mother’s name, and the silence that answered was awful, leaving her own voice echoing in her ears, ringing with desperation.

They came to a wide room with walls tiled three-quarters of the way to the ceiling and multiple drains in the red-stained floor. An abattoir. Wrinkled bodies sagged on hooks, flayed skin lying like pelts piled upon the floor.

Nora gagged, but there was nothing in her stomach to come up. She gripped Fet’s arm, and he helped her stay on her feet.

Barnes, she thought. That uniform-wearing butcher and liar. “I am going to kill him,” she said.

Eph appeared at Fet’s side. “We have to go.”

Nora, her head buried in his chest, felt Fet nod.

Eph said, “They’ll send helicopters. Police, with regular guns.”

Fet wrapped Nora in his arm and walked her to the nearest door. Nora didn’t want to see any more. She wanted to leave this camp for good.

Outside, the dying sky glowed a jaundiced yellow. Gus climbed into the cab of a backhoe parked across the dirt roadway, near the fence. He fooled with the controls, and the engine started.

Nora felt Fet stiffen, and she looked up. A dozen or so ghostlike humans in jumpsuits stood near, having wandered over from the barracks in violation of curfew. Drawn by the machine gun fire, no doubt, and curiosity over the cause of the alarms. Or perhaps these dozen had drawn the short straws.

Gus came down from the backhoe to yell at them, berating them for being so passive and cowardly. But Nora called on him to stop.

“They’re not cowards,” she said. “They’re malnourished, they have low blood pressure, hypotension . . . We have to help them help themselves.”

Fet left Nora to climb into the cab of the backhoe, trying out the controls.

“Gus,” said Bruno. “I’m staying here.”

“What?” said Gus.

“I’m staying here to fuck up this sick shit. Time for a little revenge. Show them they bit the wrong motherfucker.”

Gus got it. Immediately, he understood. “You’re one fucking badass hero, hombre.”

“The baddest. Badder than you.”

Gus smiled, the pride he felt for his friend choking him up. They gripped hands, pulling each other in for a tight bro-hug. Joaquin did the same.

“We’ll never forget you, man,” said Joaquin.

Bruno’s face was set angry to hide his softer emotions. He looked back at the bloodletting building. “Neither will these fuckers. I guarantee it.”

Fet had turned the backhoe around and now drove it forward, ramming straight into the high perimeter fence, the tractor’s wide treads riding up and over it.

Police sirens were audible now. Many of them, growing closer.

Bruno went to Nora. “Lady?” he said. “I’m going to burn down this place. For you and for me. Know that.”

Nora nodded, still inconsolable.

“Now go,” said Bruno, turning and starting back into the slaughterhouse with his sword in hand. “All of you!” he yelled at the humans wearing camp jumpsuits, scaring them away. “I need every minute I got.”

Eph offered Nora his hand, but Fet had returned for her, and she left under Fet’s arm, moving past Eph—who, after a moment, followed them over the downed razor wire.

Bruno, raging with pain, felt the worms move inside of him. The enemy was inside his circulatory system, spreading throughout his organs and wriggling inside his brain. He worked quickly to transport the stand-alone UV lamps from the farmstead garden to the bloodletting factory, setting them inside the doors to delay the incursion of the vampires. Then he set about severing the tubes and dismantling the blood-collecting apparatus as though he were tearing apart his own infected arteries. He stabbed and sliced the refrigerated packs of blood, leaving the floor and his clothes awash in scarlet. It splattered everywhere, drenching him, but not before he made sure he wasted every last unit. Then he went about destroying the equipment itself, the vacuums and pumps.

The vampires trying to enter were getting fried by the UV light. Bruno tore down the carcasses and human pelts but did not know what else to do with them. He wished for gasoline and a source of flame. He started up the machinery and then hacked at the wiring, hoping to short-circuit the electrical system.

When the first policeman broke through, he found a wild-eyed, bloody-red Bruno trashing the place. Without any warning he fired upon Bruno. Two rounds broke his collarbone and snapped his left shoulder, shattering it to pieces.

He heard more entering and climbed up a ladder alongside storage shelves, ascending to the highest point in the building. He hung one-handed over the approaching cops and vampires driven wild both by the destruction he had wrought and by the blood soaking his body, dripping to the floor. As vampires ran up the ladder, bounding toward him, Bruno arched his neck over the hungry creatures below, pressing his sword to his throat, and—Fuck you!—wasted the very last vessel of human blood remaining in the building.

New Jersey

THE MASTER
LAY still within the loam-filled coffin—long ago handcrafted by the infidel Abraham Setrakian—loaded into the cargo hold of a blacked-out van. The van was part of a four-vehicle convoy crossing from New Jersey back into Manhattan.

The many eyes of the Master had seen the bright trace of the burning spaceship blazing across the dark sky, ripping open the night like God’s own fingernail. And then the column of light and the unfortunate but not surprising return of the Born . . .

The timing of the brilliant streak in the sky coincided exactly with Ephraim Goodweather’s moment of crisis. The fiery bolt had spared his life. The Master knew: there were no coincidences, only omens.

Which meant what? What did this incident portend? What was it about Goodweather that had provoked the agencies of nature to come to his rescue?

A challenge. A true and direct challenge—one that the Master welcomed. For victory is only as great as one’s enemy.

That the unnatural comet burned the skies over New York confirmed the Master’s intuition that the site of its origin, still unknown, was somewhere within that geographic region.

This knowledge engaged the Master. In a way, it echoed the comet that had announced the birthing site of another god walking the earth two thousand years ago.

Night was about to fall, the vampires about to rise. Their king reached out, readying them for battle, mobilizing them with its mind.

Every last one of them.

JACOB
AND
THE ANGEL

Saint Paul’s Chapel, Columbia University

ACID
RAIN
HAD continued to fall abundantly and steadily, staining everything, soiling the city.

Atop the exterior domed structure on Saint Paul’s Chapel, Mr. Quinlan observed as the column of daylight started to close and lightning detonated within the dark clouds. Sirens were audible now. Police cars were visible heading toward the camp. Human police would soon be there. He hoped Fet and the others could evacuate soon.

He found the small maintenance niche at the base of the dome. There he retrieved the book: the Lumen. He crawled deeper into the niche and found refuge in a structural alcove—away from the rain and the incipient daylight. It was a cramped place beneath the granite roof structure and Mr. Quinlan fit snugly. In a notebook he had jotted some observations, annotated some clues. Safe and dry, he carefully laid down the book.

And he began to read again.

INTERLUDE
III
OCCIDO LUMEN:
SADUM
AND
AMURAH

THE ANGEL
OF DEATH
SANG
WITH
THE
VOICE
OF GOD
AS
THE cities were destroyed in a rain of sulfur and fire. God’s face was revealed and His light burned it all in a flash.

The exquisite violence of the immolation was, however, nothing to Ozryel—not any longer. He yearned for more personal destruction. He longed to violate the order, and in doing so, achieve mastery over it.

As Lot’s family fled, his wife turned back and gazed into God’s face, ever changing, impossibly radiant. Brighter than the sun, it burned everything around her and turned her into a pillar of white, crystalline ashes.

The explosion transformed the sand within a five-mile radius of the valley into pure glass. And over it the archangels walked on, their mission accomplished, ordered to return to the ether. Their time as men on earth was at an end.

Ozryel felt the warm smooth glass beneath his soles and felt the sun upon his face and felt an evil impulse rising within him. With the flimsiest of excuses, he lured Michael away from Gabriel, leading him up a rocky bluff, where he cajoled Michael into spreading his silver wings and feeling the heat of the sun upon them. Thus aroused, Ozryel could not control his impulses any longer and fell upon his brother with extraordinary strength, tearing open the archangel’s throat and drinking his luminous, silvery blood.

The sensation was beyond belief. Transcendent perversion. Gabriel came upon him in the throes of violent ecstasy, Ozryel’s brilliant wings open to their full expanse, and was appalled. The order was to return immediately, but Ozryel, still in the grip of mad lust, refused and tried to turn Gabriel away from God.

Let us be Him, here on earth. Let us become gods and walk among these men and let them worship us. Have you not tasted the power? Does it not command you?

But Gabriel held fast, summoning Raphael, who arrived in human form on an arrow of light. The beam paralyzed Ozryel, fixing him to the earth he so loved. He was held between two rivers. The very rivers that fed the canals in Sadum. God’s vengeance was swift: the archangels were ordered to rend their brother to pieces and scatter his limbs around the material world.

Ozryel was torn asunder, into seven pieces, his legs, arms, and wings cast to distant corners of the earth, buried deep, until only his head and throat remained. As Ozryel’s mind and mouth were most offensive to God, this seventh piece was flung far into the ocean, submerged many leagues deep. Buried in the darkest silt and blackest sand at the bottom. No one could ever touch the remains. No one could remove them. There they would stay until the day of judgment at the end of days when all life on earth would be called forth before the Creator.

But, through the ages, tendrils of blood seeped out of the interred pieces and gave birth to new entities. The Ancients. Silver, the closest substance to the blood they drank, would forever have an ill effect on them. The sun, the closest thing to God’s face on earth, would always purge them and burn them away, and as in their very origin, they would remain trapped between moving bodies of water and could never cross them unassisted.

They would know no love and could breed only by taking life. Never giving it. And, should the pestilence of their blood ever spread without control, their demise would come from the famine of their kind.

Columbia University

MR. QUINLAN
SAW the different glyphs and the coordinates that signaled the location of the internments.

All the sites of origin.

Hastily, he wrote them down. They corresponded perfectly to the sites the Born had visited, gathering the dusty remains of the Ancients. Most of them had a nuclear plant built above them and had been sabotaged by the Stoneheart Group. The Master had of course prepared this coup very carefully.

But the seventh site, the most important of them all, appeared as a dark spot on the page. A negative form in the northeastern Atlantic Ocean. With it, two words in Latin: Oscura. Aeterna.

Another, odd shape was visible in the watermark.

A falling star.

The Master had sent helicopters. They had seen them from the windows of their cars on the slow drive south, back to Manhattan. They crossed the Harlem River from Marble Hill, staying off the parkways, abandoning their vehicles near Grant’s Tomb and then making their way through the steady night rain like regular citizens, slipping onto the abandoned campus of Columbia University.

While the others went below to regroup, Gus crossed Low Plaza to Buell Hall and rode the service dumbwaiter to the roof. He had his coop up there, for the messenger pigeons.

His “Jersey Express” was back, squatting underneath the perch gutter Gus had fashioned.

“You’re a good boy, Harry,” said Gus as he unfurled the message, scrawled in red pen on a strip of notebook paper. Gus immediately recognized Creem’s all-capitals handwriting, as well as his former rival’s habit of crossing out his O’s like null signs.

HEY MEX.

BAD HERE—ALWAYS HUNGRY. MIGHT CøøK

BIRD WHEN IT FLY BACK.

GøT YR MESSAGE ABøUT DETøNATøR. GøT IDEA

4 U. GIMME YR LøCATIøN AND PUT øUT SøME

DAMN FøøD. CREEM CøMIN 2 TøWN. SET MEET.

Gus ate the note and found the carpenter’s pencil he stowed with the corn feed and shreds of paper. He wrote back to Creem, okaying the meet, giving him a surface address on the edge of campus. He didn’t like Creem, and he didn’t trust him, but the fat Colombian was running the black market in Jersey, and maybe, just maybe, he could come through for them.

Nora was exhausted but could not rest. She cried for long bouts. Shuddering, howling, her abs hurting from the intense sobbing.

And when silence finally came she kept running her palm over her bare head, her scalp tingling. In a way, she thought, her old life, her old self—the one that had been born that night in the kitchen, the one birthed out of tears—was now gone. Born to tears, died by tears.

She felt jittery, empty, alone . . . and yet somehow renewed. The nightmare of their current existence, of course, paled in comparison to imprisonment in the camp.

Fet sat at her side constantly, listened attentively. Joaquin sat near the door, leaning against the wall, resting a sore knee. Eph leaned against the far wall, his arms crossed, watching her try to make sense of what she had seen.

Nora thought that Eph had to suspect her feelings for Fet by now; this was clear from his posture and his location across the room from them. No one had spoken of it yet, but the truth hung over the room like a storm cloud.

All this energy and these overlapping emotions kept her talking fast. Nora was still most hung up on the pregnant campers in the birthing zone. Even more so than on her mother’s death.

“They’re mating women in there. Trying to produce B-positive offspring. And rewarding them with food, with comfort. And they . . . they seem to have adjusted to it. I don’t know why that part of it haunts me so. Maybe I’m too hard on them. Maybe the survival instinct isn’t this purely noble thing we make it out to be. Maybe it’s more complicated than that. Sometimes surviving means compromise. Big compromise. Rebellion is hard enough when you’re fighting for yourself. But once you have another life growing in your belly . . . or even a young child . . .” She looked at Eph. “I understand it better now, is what I’m trying to say. I know how torn you are.”

Eph nodded once, accepting her apology.

“That said,” said Nora, “I wish you had met me at the medical examiner’s office when you were supposed to. My mother would still be here today.”

“I was late,” said Eph, “I admit that. I got hung up—”

“At your ex-wife’s house. Don’t deny it.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“But?”

“Just that you being found here wasn’t my fault.”

Nora turned toward him, surprised by the challenge. “How do you figure that?”

“I should have been there. Things would have been different had I been there on time. But I didn’t lead the strigoi to you.”

“No? Who did?”

“You did.”

“I . . . ?” She could not believe what she was hearing.

“Computer use. The Internet. You were using it to message Fet.”

There. It was out. Nora stiffened at first, a wave of guilt, but quickly shook it off. “Is that right?”

Fet rose to defend her. All six feet plus of him. “You shouldn’t talk to her like that.”

Eph did not back up. “Oh, I shouldn’t—? I’ve been in that building for months with almost no problem. They’re monitoring the Net. You know that.”

“So I brought this on myself.” Nora slipped her hand underneath Fet’s. “My punishment was a just punishment—in your eyes.”

Fet shuddered at the touch of her hand. And as her fingers wrapped around his thick digits, he felt as if he could cry. Eph saw the gesture—small under any other circumstances—as an eloquent public expression of the end of his and Nora’s relationship.

“Nonsense,” Eph said. “That’s not what I meant.”

“That is what you are implying.”

“What I am implying—”

“You know what, Eph? It fits your pattern.” Fet squeezed her hand to slow her down, but she blew past that stop sign. “You’re always showing up just after the fact. And by ‘showing up,’ I mean ‘getting it.’ You finally figured out how much you loved Kelly . . . after the breakup. You realized how important being an involved father was . . . after you weren’t living with Zack anymore. Okay? And now . . . I think maybe you’re going to start realizing how much you needed me. ’Cause you don’t have me anymore.” It shocked her to hear herself saying these things out loud, in front of the others—but there it was. “You’re always just a little too late. You’ve spent half your life battling regrets. Making up for the past rather than getting it done in the present. I think the worst thing that ever happened to you was all your early success. The ‘young genius’ tag. You think if you work hard enough, you can fix the precious things you’ve broken—rather than being careful with them in the first place.” She was slowing down now, feeling Fet pulling her back—but her tears were flowing, her voice hoarse and full of pain. “If there’s one thing you should have learned since this terrible thing started, it’s that nothing is guaranteed. Nothing. Especially other human beings . . .”

Eph remained still across the room. Pinned to the floor, actually. So still that Nora wasn’t sure her words had gotten through to him. Until, after an appropriate amount of silence, when what Nora said appeared to be the last word, Eph stood off the wall and slowly walked out the door.

Eph walked the ancient corridor system, feeling numb. His feet made no impact upon the floor.

Twin impulses had torn at him in there. At first, he wanted to remind Nora how many times her mother had nearly gotten them captured or turned. How badly Mrs. Martinez’s dementia had slowed all of them down over the past many months. Evidently, it didn’t matter now that Nora had, numerous times, directly expressed her wish that her mother be taken from them. No. Everything that went wrong was Eph’s fault.

Second, he was stunned to see how close she seemed to Fet now. If anything, her abduction and ultimate rescue had brought them closer together. Had strengthened their new bond. This twisted most sharply in his side, because he had seen saving Nora as a dry run for saving Zack, but all it had done was expose his deepest fear: that he might save Zack and still find him changed forever. Lost to Eph—forever.

Part of him said it was already much too late. That part of him was the depressive part, the part he tried to stave off constantly. The part he medicated with pills. He felt around for the pack on his back and unzipped the small compartment meant for keys or loose change. His last Vicodin. He placed it on his tongue and then held it there as he walked, waiting to work up enough saliva to swallow it.

Eph conjured up the video image of the Master overlooking its legion in Central Park, standing high upon Belvedere Castle with Kelly and Zack at its side. This green-tinted image haunted him, ate at him as he kept walking, only half-aware of his direction.

I knew you would return.

Kelly’s voice and the words were like a shot of adrenaline, straight to his heart. Eph turned into a familiar-looking corridor and found the door, heavy wood and iron-hinged, not locked.

Inside the asylum chamber, in the center of the corner cage, stood the vampire that was once Gus’s mother. The dented motorcycle helmet tilted ever so slightly, acknowledging Eph’s entrance. Her arms remained bound behind her back.

Eph approached the cage door. The iron bars were spaced six inches apart. Vinyl-sleeved, braided steel-cable bicycle locks secured the door at the top, bottom, and through the old padlock clasp in the middle.

Eph waited for Kelly’s voice. The creature stood still, its helmet steady—perhaps it was expecting its daily blood feed. He wanted to hear her. Eph grew frustrated and stepped back, looking around the room.

On the rear wall, hanging from a rusty nail, was a small ring containing a single, silver key.

He retrieved the key, bringing it to the cell door. No movement from the creature. He fit the key into the top lock and it opened. Then the bottom, and then the middle lock. Still no indication of awareness from the vampire that was Gus’s mother. Eph unwound the cables from the iron bars and slowly pulled open the door.

The door scraped against its frame, but the hinges were oiled. Eph pulled the door wide and stood in the opening.

The vampire did not move from her spot in the center of the cell.

You can never go down / can never go down . . .

Eph drew his sword and stepped inside. Closer now, he saw his dim reflection in the black-tinted face shield, his sword low at his side.

The creature’s silence pulled him nearer to his reflection.

He waited. A vampiric hum in his head, but slight.

This thing was reading him.

You have lost another. Now you have no one. No one but me.

Eph saw his expressionless face reflected in the visor. “I know who you are,” he said.

Who am I?

“You have Kelly’s voice. But these are the Master’s words.”

You came to me. You came to listen.

“I don’t know why I came.”

You came to hear your wife’s voice again. It is as much a narcotic as those pills you take. You really need it. You really miss it. Don’t you?

Eph did not ask how the Master knew about that. He only knew that he had to be on his guard at all times—even mentally.

You want to come home. To return home.

“Home? Meaning, to you? To the disembodied voice of my former wife? Never.”

Now it is time to listen. Now is not the time to be obstinate. Now is the time to open your mind.

Eph said nothing.

I can give you back your boy.
And I can give you back your wife. You can release her. Start anew with Zack by your side.

Eph held his breath in his mouth before exhaling, hoping to slow his rising heart rate. The Master knew how desperate Eph was for Zack’s release and return, but it was important to Eph that he not appear desperate.

He is unturned, and will remain that way, a lesser being, as you wish.

And then, out of his mouth came the words he never thought he would utter: “What is it you want in return?”

The book. The Lumen. And your partners. Including the Born.

“The what?”

Mr. Quinlan, I think you call him.

Eph frowned at his reflection in the helmet visor. “I can’t do that.”

Certainly you can.

“I won’t do that.”

Certainly you will.

Eph closed his eyes and tried to clear his head, reopening them a moment later. “And if I refuse?”

I will proceed as planned. The transformation of your boy will happen immediately.

“Transformation?” Eph trembled, sickened, but fought to suppress his emotions. “What does that mean?”

Submit while you still have something with which to bargain. Give yourself to me in your son’s stead. Get the book and bring it to me. I will take the information contained in the book . . . and the information contained in your mind. I will know all. You can even return the book. No one will know.

“You would give Zack to me?”

I will give him his freedom. The freedom to be a weak human, just like his father.

Eph tried to hold back. He knew better than to allow himself to be drawn into this conversation, to be lulled into an exchange with the monster. The Master continued to poke around his mind, looking for a way in.

“Your word means nothing.”

You are correct, in that I have no moral code. There is nothing to compel me to uphold my end of the bargain. But you might consider the fact that I keep my word more often than not.

Eph stared at his reflection. He fought, relying on his own moral code. And yet . . . Eph was indeed tempted. A straight-up trade—his soul for Zack’s—was one he would make in a minute. The thought of Zack falling prey to this monster—either as a vampire or as an acolyte—was so abhorrent, Eph would have agreed to nearly anything.

But the price was far greater than his own tarnished soul. It meant the souls of the others as well. And the fate, more or less, of the entire human race, in that Eph’s capitulation would give the Master final and lasting stewardship of the planet.

Could he trade Zack for everything? Could his decision be the right one? One he wouldn’t look back at with the greatest regret?

“Even if I were to consider this,” said Eph, talking as much to his reflected self as he was to the Master, “there is one problem. I don’t know the location of the book.”

You see? They are keeping it from you. They don’t trust you.

Eph saw that the Master was right. “I know they don’t. Not anymore.”

Because it would be safer for you to know where it was, as a fail-safe.

“There is a transcription—some notes I have seen. Good ones. I can deliver you a copy.”

Yes. Very good. And I will deliver to you a copy of your boy. Would you like that? I require possession of the original. There is no substitute. You must find out its location from the exterminator.

Eph suppressed his alarm at the Master knowing about Fet. Did the Master get it from Eph’s mind? Was he raiding Eph’s knowledge as they spoke here?

No. Setrakian. The Master must have turned him before the old man destroyed himself. The Master had seized all of Setrakian’s knowledge just as he now wanted to seize all of Eph’s: through possession.

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

THE
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 . . .

“Kelly Goodweather,” said Barnes, so stunned he uttered her name out loud. Barnes, who had believed himself inured to any further new-world shocks, felt his breath go out a bit. She lurked behind the Master, a slinky, pantherlike presence.

Report.

Barnes nodded quickly, having anticipated this. He related the details of the rebels’ break-in exactly the way he had practiced, perfunctorily, aiming to minimize the incursion. “They timed it to occur in the hour before the meridiem. And they had assistance from one who was not human, who escaped before the sun appeared.”

The Born.

This surprised Barnes. He had heard some stories and had been directed to structure the camps with segregated quarters for pregnant women. But before this moment he had never been made aware that any actually existed. Barnes’s mercenary mind saw immediately that this was good for him, in that it removed much of the blame for the disruption from him and his security procedures at Camp Liberty.

“Yes, so they had help entering. Once inside, they took the quarantine crew by surprise. They went on to do great damage to the letting facilities, as I reported. We are working hard to resume production and could be back up to twenty percent capacity within a week or ten days. We did claim one of theirs, as you know. He was turned but self-destroyed a few minutes after sundown. Oh, and I believe I have uncovered the true reason for their attack.”

Dr. Nora Martinez.

Barnes swallowed. The Master knew so much.

“Yes, I had just recently discovered that she had been placed inside the camp.”

Recently? I see . . . How recently?

“Moments before the upheaval, sir. In any event, I was actively engaged in trying to derive information from her pertaining to Dr. Goodweather’s location and his resistance partners. I thought a less formal, more congenial exchange might be advantageous. As opposed to direct confrontation, which I believe would only have given her the opportunity to prove her fidelity to her friends. I hope you agree. Unfortunately, it was at that time that the marauders entered the main camp, and the alarm was given, and security arrived to evacuate me.”

Barnes could not help but glance at the former Kelly Goodweather now and then, standing in the distance behind the Master, her arms hanging slack. So strange to be talking about her husband and yet see no reaction from her.

You located a member of their group and failed to inform me immediately?

“As I said, I barely had any time to react and . . . I . . . I was quite surprised, you understand, caught off guard. I thought I might get farther using a personal approach—she used to work for me, you realize. I had hoped I might be able to leverage my personal relationship with her to derive some helpful information before turning her over to you.”

Barnes maintained a smile, even the fake confidence behind it, as he felt the Master’s presence inside his mind, like a thief rummaging through an attic. Barnes was certain that human prevarication was a concern well beneath the vampire lord.

The head within the hood lifted a moment, and Barnes realized the Master was regarding the religious fresco.

You lie. And you are terrible at it. So—why don’t you try telling me the truth and see if you’re any better at that?

Barnes shuddered and before he realized it, he had explained all the details of his clumsy attempts at seduction and his relationship to both Nora and Eph. The Master said nothing for a moment, then turned.

You killed her mother. They will seek you. For revenge. And I will keep you available for them . . . that will bring them to me. From this time forward, you may commit your attention fully to your assigned duty. The resistance is nearly at an end.

“It is?” Barnes quickly closed his mouth; he certainly had not meant to question or doubt. If the Master said it was so, then it was so. “Good, then. We have the other camps coming into production, and as I say, repairs on the letting facility at Camp Liberty are ongoing—”

Say no more. Your life is safe for now. But never lie to me again. Never hide from me again. You are neither brave nor smart. Efficient extraction and packaging of human blood is your mission. I recommend that you excel at it.

“I plan to. I mean—I will, sir. I am.”

Central Park

ZACHARY GOODWEATHER
WAITED until Belvedere Castle was quiet and still. He emerged from his room into the sickly sunlight of the meridiem. He walked to the edge of the stone plaza at the top of the rise and looked out at the vacant land below. The vampire guards had retreated from the wan light into caves specially blasted into the schist that formed the foundation of the castle. Zachary returned inside the castle to retrieve his black parka before jogging down the walk into the park in violation of the human curfew.

The Master enjoyed watching the boy break rules, test boundaries. The Master never slumbered in the castle, deeming it too vulnerable to attack during the two-hour sun window. The Master preferred his hidden crypt at the Cloisters, buried in a cool bed of old soil. During the downtime of the daylight slumber, the Master had taken to seeing the surface world through Zachary’s eyes, exploiting their bond formed by the Master’s blood treatment of Zachary’s asthma.

The boy unplugged his all-terrain Segway Personal Transporter and rode silently along the park path south to his zoo. At the entrance, he made three circles before opening the front gate, part of his developing obsessive-compulsive disorder. Inside, he rode to the locked case his rifle was kept in, producing the key he had stolen months before. He touched the key to his lips seven times and, properly reassured, undid the lock and pulled out the rifle. He checked the four-round load, double- and triple-checking it until his compulsion was satisfied, and then set off through the zoo with the weapon at his side.

His interest did not lie with the zoo anymore. He had created for himself a secret exit in the wall behind the Tropic Zone and now got off the Segway and emerged into the park, walking west. He stayed off the trails, preferring the tree cover as he walked past the skating rink and the old baseball fields, now mud fields, counting his steps in multiples of seventy-seven until he reached the far side of Central Park South.

He emerged from the trees, venturing out as far as the old Merchant’s Gate entrance, remaining on the sidewalk behind the USS Maine monument. Columbus Circle stood before him, only half of the fountain shoots working, the rest clogged with sediment from the polluted rain. Beyond it, the high-rise towers stood like the smokestacks of a closed factory. Zachary sighted the figure of Columbus atop the fountain statue, blinking his eyes and smacking his lips in unison seven times before he was comfortable.

He saw movement across the wide traffic circle. People, humans, striding across the far sidewalk. Zachary could only make out their long coats and backpacks at that distance. Curfew breakers. Zachary ducked behind the monument at first, flushed with the danger of being discovered, then crept to the other edge of the monument base, peering around it.

The group of four people continued, unaware of him. Zachary sighted them with his weapon, blinking and lip-smacking, using what he had learned about shooting to gauge trajectory and distance. They were tightly grouped, and Zachary thought he had a clear shot, a good chance.

He wanted to fire. He wanted to open up on them.

And so he did, but purposefully pulled his aim high at the last second before squeezing the trigger. A moment later the group stopped, looking his way. Zack remained low and still next to the monument base, certain he would blend in with the backdrop.

He fired three more times: Crack! Crack! Crack! He got one! One was down! Zack quickly reloaded.

The targets ran, turning down the avenue and out of Zack’s view. He drew aim on a traffic light they had passed, just able to make out a sign indicating one of the old police security cameras posted there. He turned and ran back into the cover of the park trees, chased only by the sensation of his secret thrill.

This city in daylight was the domain of Zachary Goodweather! Let all trespassers be warned!

On the street, bleeding from the bullet wound—being dragged away—was Vasily Fet, the rat exterminator.

One Hour Earlier

THEY
HAD
DESCENDED into the subway at 116th Street a full hour before daylight, in order to give themselves plenty of time. Gus showed them where to wait, near a sidewalk grate through which they could hear the approach of a 1 train, minimizing the amount of time they would have to spend on the platform below.

Eph stood against the nearest building, his eyes closed, asleep on his feet in the pissing rain. And even in those brief intervals he dreamed of light and fire.

Fet and Nora whispered occasionally, while Gus paced and said nothing. Joaquin declined to accompany them, needing to vent his frustration over Bruno’s passing by continuing their program of sabotage. Gus had tried to dissuade him from going out into the city on a bad knee, but Joaquin’s mind was set.

Eph was roused to consciousness by the subterranean shriek of the approaching train, and they bustled down the station steps like the other commuters rushing to get off the streets before the sunlight curfew. They boarded a silver-colored subway car and shook the rain from their coats. The doors closed and a quick glance up and down the length of the car told Eph that there were no vampires on board. He relaxed a bit, closing his eyes as the subway took them fifty-five blocks south beneath the city.

At Fifty-ninth Street and Columbus Circle, they disembarked, rising up the steps to the street. They ducked inside one of the large apartment buildings and found a place to wait behind the lobby, until the dark shroud of night lifted just enough, the sky becoming merely overcast.

When the streets were empty, they emerged into the faded glory of day. The orb of the sun was visible through the dark cloud cover like a flashlight pressed against a charcoal-gray blanket. Street-level windows of certain cafés and shops remained smashed since the initial days of panic and looting, while glass in the upper-story windows largely remained intact. They walked around the southern curve of the immense traffic circle, long since cleared of abandoned cars, the central fountain spewing black water out of every second or third nozzle. The city, during curfew, had a perpetual early-Sunday-morning feel to it, as though most of the residents were sleeping in, the day slow to start. In that sense, it gave Eph a feeling of hope that he tried to savor, even though he knew it to be false.

Then a sizzling sound creased the air overhead.

“What the . . . ?”

The loud crack followed, a gunshot report, sound traveling more slowly than the round itself. The delay said the shot had been fired from a distance, seemingly from somewhere inside the trees of Central Park.

“Shooter!” said Fet. They ran across Eighth Avenue, quickly but not panicked. Gunshots at daylight meant humans. There had been a lot more insanity in the months following the takeover. Humans driven crazy by the fall of their kind and the rise of the new order. Violent suicides. Mass murders. After those died out, Eph would still see people out during the meridiem especially, ranting, wandering the streets. Rarely would he see any people out during the curfew now. The crazies had been killed or otherwise dispatched, and the rest behaved.

Three more shots were fired, crack, crack, crack—

Two of the bullets hit a mailbox, but the third one hit Vasiliy Fet squarely in the left shoulder. It made him twirl, leaving behind a ribbon of blood. The bullet traveled clean through his body, tearing muscle and flesh but miraculously missing the lungs and the heart.

Eph and Nora grabbed Fet as he fell and, with the help of Mr. Quinlan, dragged him away.

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.

Mr. 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.”

Fet said, “Cool down, everyone. If we blow this chance, it’s over. Nobody would ever get close to the Master again.”

Fet looked to Mr. Quinlan, whose silence and stillness communicated his agreement.

Gus frowned but didn’t argue the point. He respected Fet, and more so, he respected Mr. Quinlan. “You say we can blow a hole in the ground and the Master disappears. I’m down with that, if it works. And if it doesn’t? We just give up?”

He had a point. The others’ silence confirmed it.

“Not me,” said Gus. “No fucking way.”

Eph felt the hairs go up on the back of his neck. He had an idea. He started talking before he could think himself out of it.

“There might be one way,” he said.

“One way to what?” said Fet.

“To get close to the Master. Not by laying siege to his castle. Without endangering Zack. What if instead we draw it to us?”

“What is this shit?” said Gus. “Suddenly you have a plan, hombre?” Gus smiled at the others. “This ought to be good.”

Eph swallowed to keep his voice in check. “The Master is keyed in on me for some reason. It’s got my son. What if I offer it something to trade?”

Fet said, “The Lumen.”

“This is bullshit,” said Gus. “What are you selling?”

Eph put out his hands and patted the air, asking for patience and consideration for what he was about to suggest. “Hear me out. First of all, we dummy up a fake book in its place. I say I stole it from you and want to exchange it. For Zack.”

Nora said, “Isn’t that pretty dangerous? What if something happens to Zack?”

“It’s a huge risk, but I can’t see getting him back by doing nothing. But if we destroy the Master . . . it’s all over.”

Gus wasn’t buying it. Fet looked concerned, and Mr. Quinlan gave no indication of his opinion.

But Nora was nodding. “I think this could work.”

Fet looked at her. “What? Maybe we should talk alone about this first.”

“Let your lady speak,” said Gus, never missing an opportunity to twist the knife in Eph’s side. “Let’s hear this.”

Nora said, “I think Eph could lure him in. He’s right—there is something about him, something the Master wants or fears. I keep going back to that light in the sky. Something’s going on there.”

Eph felt a burning sensation ride up from his back to his neck.

“It could work,” said Nora. “Eph double-crossing us makes sense. Draw the Master out with Eph and the fake Lumen. Leave it vulnerable to ambush.” She looked at Eph. “If you’re sure you’re up for such a thing.”

“If we have no other choice,” he said.

Nora went on. “It’s crazy dangerous. Because if we blow it, and the Master gets you . . . then it’s over. It would know everything you know—where we are, how to find us. We would be finished.”

Eph remained still while the others mulled it over. The baritone voice spoke inside his head: The Master is immeasurably more cunning than you are giving it credit for.

“I don’t doubt that the Master is devious,” said Nora, turning to Mr. Quinlan. “But isn’t this kind of an offer it cannot refuse?”

The Born’s quietness signaled his acceptance, if not his full agreement.

Eph felt Mr. Quinlan’s eyes on him. Eph was torn. He felt now that this gave him flexibility: he could potentially carry out this double-cross or stick to the plan if indeed it appeared it would succeed. But there was another question troubling him now.

He searched the face of his former lover, illuminated by night vision. He was looking for some sign of treachery. Was she the traitor? Had they gotten to her during her brief stay inside the blood camp?

Nonsense. They had killed her mother. Her duplicity would make no sense.

In the end, he prayed that they both possessed the integrity he hoped they’d always had.

“I want to do this,” said Eph. “We proceed on both fronts simultaneously.”

They all were aware that a dangerous first step had just been taken. Gus looked doubtful, but even he seemed willing to go along with it. The plan represented direct action, and, at the same time, he was eager to give Eph just enough rope to hang himself with.

The Born began encasing each wooden receptacle inside a protective plastic sleeve and setting them inside a leather sack.

“Wait,” said Fet. “We’re forgetting one very important thing.”

Gus said, “What’s that?”

“How the hell do we make this offer to the Master? How do we get in touch with it at all?”

Nora touched Fet on his unbandaged shoulder and said, “I know of just the way.”

Spanish Harlem

SUPPLY
TRUCKS
ENTERING Manhattan from Queens traveled the cleared middle inbound lane on the Queensboro Bridge across the East River, turning either south on Second Avenue or north on Third.

Mr. Quinlan stood on the sidewalk outside the George Washington Houses between Ninety-seventh and Ninety-eighth, forty blocks north of the bridge. The Born vampire waited in the spitting rain with his hood covering his head, watching the occasional vehicle pass. Convoys were ignored. Also Stoneheart trucks or vehicles. Mr. Quinlan’s first concern was alerting the Master in any way.

Fet and Eph stood in the shadows of a doorway in the first block of the houses. In the past forty-five minutes, they had seen one vehicle every ten minutes or so. Headlights raised their hopes; Mr. Quinlan’s disinterest dashed them. And so they remained in the darkened doorway, safe from the rain but not from the new awkwardness that was their relationship.

Fet was running their audacious new plan through his head, trying to convince himself that it might work. Success seemed like an incredible long shot—but then again, it wasn’t as though they had dozens of other prospects lined up and ready to go.

Kill the Master. They had tried once, by exposing the creature to the sun, and failed. When the dying Setrakian apparently poisoned its blood, using Fet’s anticoagulant rodent poison, the Master had merely sloughed off its human host, assuming the form of another healthy being. The creature seemed invincible.

And yet, they had hurt it. Both times. No matter what the creature’s original form was, it apparently needed to exist in possession of a human. And humans could be destroyed.

Fet said, “We can’t miss this time. We’ll never get a better chance.”

Eph nodded, looking out into the street. Waiting for Mr. Quinlan’s signal.

He seemed guarded. Maybe he was having second thoughts about the plan, or maybe it was something else. Eph’s unreliability had caused a rift in their relationship—but the Nora situation had driven home a permanent wedge.

Fet’s main concern now was that Eph’s irritation with Fet not negatively impact their efforts.

“Nothing has happened,” Fet said, “between Nora and me.”

“I know,” said Eph. “But everything has happened between her and me. It’s over. And I know it. And there will be a time when you and I will talk about it and maybe even have a fistfight over it. But now it’s not that time. This has to be our focus now. All personal feelings aside . . . Look, Fet, we are paired. It was you and me or Gus and me. I’d rather take you.”

“Glad we’re all on the same page again,” said Fet.

Eph was about to respond when headlights appeared once more. This time, Mr. Quinlan moved into the street. The truck was too far away for any human to make out the operator, but Mr. Quinlan knew. He stood right in the truck’s path, headlights brightening him.

One of the rules of the road was that any vampire could commandeer a vehicle operated by a human, in the same manner as a soldier or a cop could a civilian’s in the old United States. Mr. Quinlan raised his hand, his elongated middle finger evident, as were his red eyes. The truck stopped, and its driver, a Stoneheart member wearing a dark suit underneath a warm duster, opened the driver’s-side door with the engine still running.

Mr. Quinlan approached the driver, obscured from Fet’s view by the passenger side of the truck. Fet watched as the driver jerked suddenly inside the cab. Mr. Quinlan leaped up into the doorway. Through the rain-smeared windows, they appeared to be grappling.

“Go,” said Fet, and he and Eph both ran out from their hiding spot, into the rain. They splashed off the curb and across to the driver’s side of the truck. Fet almost ran up into Mr. Quinlan, pulling back only at the last moment when he saw that Mr. Quinlan wasn’t the one struggling. Only the driver was.

Mr. Quinlan’s stinger was engorged, jutting out from the base of his throat at his unhinged jaw, tapering to its tip, which was firmly inserted in the neck of the human driver.

Fet pulled back sharply. Eph came around and saw it too, and there was a moment of bonding between them, of shared disgust. Mr. Quinlan fed quickly, his eyes locked on those of the driver, the driver’s face a mask of paralysis and shock.

For Fet, it served as a reminder of how easily Mr. Quinlan could turn on them—any of them—in an instant.

Fet did not look back until he was certain the feeding was over. He caught sight of Mr. Quinlan’s retracted stinger, its narrow end lolling out of his mouth like the hairless tail of some animal he had otherwise swallowed. Flush with energy, Mr. Quinlan lifted the limp Stoneheart driver out of the truck and carried him, as easily as a bundle of clothes, off the street. Half in the shadows of the doorway, in a gesture of both mercy and convenience, Mr. Quinlan snapped the man’s neck with a firm rotation.

Mr. Quinlan left the destroyed corpse in the doorway before rejoining them on the street. They needed to get moving before another vehicle happened along. Fet and Eph met him at the rear of the truck, where Fet opened the unlocked clasp, raising the sliding door.

A refrigerated truck. “Damn the luck,” said Fet. They had a good hour’s ride ahead of them, maybe two, and for Fet and Eph it was going to be a cold one, because they could not be seen riding in the front. “Not even any decent food,” said Fet, climbing inside and rustling through the scraps of cardboard.

Mr. Quinlan pulled on the rubber strap that lowered the door, closing Fet and Eph in darkness. Fet made certain there were vents for airflow, and there were. They heard the driver’s door close, and the truck slipped into gear, jerking them as the vehicle lurched forward.

Fet found an extra fleece sweatshirt from his pack, pulled it on, and buttoned his coat over it. He laid out some cardboard and set the soft part of his pack behind his head, trying to get comfortable. From the sound of it, Eph was doing the same. The rattling of the truck, both noise and vibration, precluded conversation, which was just as well.

Fet crossed his arms, trying to let go of his mind. He focused on Nora. He knew he would likely never have attracted a woman of her caliber under normal circumstances. Times of war bring men and women together, sometimes for necessity’s sake, sometimes for convenience, but occasionally because of fate. Fet was confident that their attraction was a result of the latter. Wartime is also when people find themselves. Fet had discovered his best self here in this worst situation, whereas Eph, on the other hand, at times appeared to have lost himself completely.

Nora had wanted to come along with them, but Fet convinced her that she needed to remain behind with Gus, not only to conserve her energy but because he knew that she would not be able to stop herself from attacking Barnes if she saw him again, thereby threatening their plan. Besides, Gus needed assistance with his own important errand.

“What do you think?” she had asked Fet, rubbing her bald head in a quieter moment.

Fet missed her long hair, but there was something beautiful and spare about her unadorned face. He liked the fine slope of the back of her head, the graceful line moving across the nape of her neck to the beginning of her shoulders.

“You look reborn,” he said.

She frowned. “Not freakish?”

“If anything, a little more delicate. More vulnerable.”

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You want me to be more vulnerable?”

“Well—only with me,” he said frankly.

That made her smile, and him. Rare things, smiles. Rationed like food in these dark days.

“I like this plan,” Fet said, “in that it represents possibility. But I’m also worried.”

“About Eph,” Nora said, understanding and agreeing with him. “This is make-or-break time. Either he falls apart, and we deal with that, or he rises to the occasion.”

“I think he’ll rise. He has to. He just has to.”

Nora admired Fet’s faith in Eph, even if she wasn’t convinced.

“Once it starts growing back in,” she said, feeling her cooling scalp again, “I’ll have a butchy-looking crew cut for a while.”

He shrugged, picturing her like that. “I can deal with it.”

“Or maybe I’ll shave it, keep it like this. I wear a hat most times anyway.”

“All or nothing,” said Fet. “That’s you.”

She found her knit cap, pulling it down tight over her scalp. “You wouldn’t mind?”

The only thing Fet cared about was that she wanted his opinion. That he was a part of her plans.

Inside the cold, rumbling truck, Fet drifted off with his arms crossed tight as if he were holding on to her.

Staatsburg, New York

THE
DOOR
ROLLED open and Mr. Quinlan stood there, watching them get to their feet. Fet hopped down, his knees stiff and his legs cold, shuffling around to get his circulation up. Eph climbed down and stood there with his pack on his back like a hitchhiker with a long way still to go.

The truck was parked on the shoulder of a dirt road, or perhaps the edge of a long, private driveway, far enough in from the street to be obscured by the trunks of the bare trees. The rain had let up, and the ground was damp but not muddy. Mr. Quinlan abruptly jogged off without explanation. Fet wondered if they were meant to follow him but decided he had to warm up first.

Near him, Eph looked wide-awake. Almost eager. Fet wondered briefly if Eph’s apparent zeal had some pharmaceutical source. But no, his eyes looked clear.

“You look ready,” said Fet.

“I am,” said Eph.

Mr. Quinlan returned moments later. An eerie sight, still: steam came thickly from his scalp and within his hoodie, but none came from his mouth.

A few gate guards, more at the doors. I see no way to prevent the Master from being alerted. But perhaps, in light of the plan, that is not an unfortunate thing.

“What do you think?” asked Fet. “Of the plan. Honestly. Do we even have a chance?”

Mr. Quinlan looked up through the leafless branches to the black sky. It is a gambit worth pursuing. Drawing out the Master is half the battle.

“The other half is defeating it,” said Fet. He eyed the Born vampire’s face, still upturned, impossible to read. “What about you? What chance would you have against the Master?”

History has shown me to be unsuccessful. I have been unable to destroy the Master, and the Master has been unable to destroy me. The Master wants me dead, just as he wants Dr. Goodweather dead. This we have in common. Of course, any lure I put out there on my behalf would be transparent as a ploy.

“You can’t be destroyed by man. But you could be destroyed by the Master. So maybe the monster is vulnerable to you.”

All I can say with absolute certainty is that I have never before tried to kill it with a nuclear weapon.

Eph had fixed his night-vision scope on his head, anxious to get going. “I’m ready,” he said. “Let’s do this before I talk myself out of it.”

Fet nodded, tightening up his straps, fixing his pack high on his back. They followed Mr. Quinlan through the trees, the Born vampire following some instinctual sense of direction. Fet could discern no path himself, but it was easy—too easy—to trust Mr. Quinlan. Fet did not believe he would ever be able to lower his guard around a vampire, Born or not.

He heard a whirring somewhere ahead of them. The tree density began to thin out, and they came to the edge of a clearing. The whirring noise was a generator—maybe two—powering the estate that Barnes apparently occupied. The house was massive, the grounds considerable. They were just right of the rear of the property, facing a wide horse fence ringing the backyard and, within that, a riding course.

The generators would mask much of the noise they might make, but the vampires’ heat-registering night sight was all but impossible to evade. Mr. Quinlan’s flat hand signal held Fet and Eph back as the Born vampire slipped through the trees, darting fluidly from trunk to trunk around the perimeter of the property. Fet quickly lost sight of him, and then, just as suddenly, Mr. Quinlan broke from the trees almost a quarter of the way around the wide clearing. He emerged striding quickly and confidently but not running. Nearby guards left their post at the side door, spotting Mr. Quinlan and going to meet him.

Fet knew a distraction when he saw one. “Now or never,” he whispered to Eph.

They ducked out from the branches into the silvery darkness of the clearing. He did not dare to pull out his sword yet, for fear that the vampires could sense the nearness of silver. Mr. Quinlan was evidently communicating with the guards somehow, keeping their backs to Fet and Eph as they ran up over the soft, dead, gray grass.

The guards picked up on the threat behind them when Fet was twenty feet off. They turned and Fet drew his sword out of his backpack—held it with his good arm—but it was Mr. Quinlan who overpowered them, his strong arms a blur as they came around to choke and quickly crush the muscles and bones of the vampire guards’ necks.

Fet, without hesitating, closed the gap and finished both creatures with his sword. Quinlan knew that the alarm had not been raised telepathically, but there was not a moment to lose.

Mr. Quinlan set off in search of other guards, Fet right on his tail, leaving Eph to head for the unsecured side door.

Barnes liked the second-floor sitting room the best. Book-lined walls, a tiled fireplace with a broad oak mantel, a comfortable chair, an amber-shaded floor lamp, and a side table upon which his brandy snifter was set like a perfect glass balloon.

He unfastened the top three buttons of his uniform shirt and took in the last of his third brandy Alexander. Fresh cream, such a luxury now, was the secret to the thick, sweet richness of this decadent concoction.

Barnes exhaled deeply before rising from his chair. He took a moment to steady himself, his hand on the plush arm. He was possessed by the spirits he had imbibed. Now the entire world was a delicate glass balloon, and Barnes floated around it on a gently swirling bed of brandy.

This house had once belonged to Bolivar, the rock star. His genteel country getaway. Eight figures, this manor had once been worth. Barnes vaguely recalled the media stink when Bolivar first purchased it from the old-money family that had fallen on hard times. The event was a bona fide curiosity because it had seemed so out of character for the goth showman. But that was how the world had become before it all went to hell: rock stars were scratch golfers, rappers played polo, and comedians collected modern art.

Barnes moved to the high shelves, weaving gently before Bolivar’s collection of vintage erotica. Barnes selected a large, thin, handsomely bound edition of The Pearl and opened it upon a nearby reading stand. Ah, the Victorians. So much spanking. He next retrieved a hand-bound text, more of an illustrated scrapbook than a properly published book, consisting of early photographic prints glued onto thick paper pages. The prints retained some silver emulsion, which Barnes was careful to keep off his fingers. He was a traditionalist, partial to the early male-dominated arrangements and poses. He fancied the subservient female.

And then it was time for his fourth and final brandy. He reached for the house phone and dialed the kitchen. Which of his attractive domestics would be bringing him his notorious fourth brandy Alexander tonight? As master of the house, he had the means—and, when properly inebriated, the gumption—to make his fantasies come true.

The phone rang unanswered. Impertinence! Barnes frowned, then hung up and redialed, fearing he might have pressed the wrong button. As it rang a second time, he heard a loud thump somewhere in the house. Perhaps, he imagined, his request had been anticipated and its fulfillment was on its pretty way to him right now. He grinned a brandy smile and replaced the receiver in its old-fashioned cradle, making his way across the thick rug to the large door.

The wide hallway was empty. Barnes stepped out, his polished white shoes creaking just a bit.

Voices downstairs. Vague and muffled, reaching his ears as little more than echoes.

Not answering his phone call and making noise downstairs were clear enough grounds for Barnes to personally inspect the help and select who should bring him his brandy.

He put one shoe in front of the other along the center of the hallway, impressed at his ability to follow a straight line. At the head of the landing leading downstairs, he pressed the button to call for the elevator. It rose to him from the foyer, a gilded cage, and he opened the door and slid the gate aside and entered, closing it, pulling down on the handle. The cage descended, transporting him to the first floor like Zeus upon a cloud.

He emerged from the elevator, pausing to regard himself in a gilded mirror. The top half of his uniform shirt was flapped down, hidden medals hanging heavy. He licked his lips and fixed his hair to look more full upon his head, smoothing out his goatee and generally assuming a look of inebriated dignity before venturing into the kitchen.

The wide, L-shaped room was empty. A pan of cookies lay cooling on a rack on the long central island, a pair of red oven mitts next to them. In front of the liquor cabinet, a bottle of cognac and an unsealed pitcher of cream stood next to measuring cups and an open jar of nutmeg. The phone receiver hung on its wall-mounted cradle.

“Hello?” Barnes called.

First came a rattling sound, like a shelf being bumped.

Then two female voices at once: “In here.”

Intrigued, Barnes continued along the center island to the corner. Rounding it, he saw five of his staff of female domestics—all well-fed, comely, and with full heads of hair—restrained to the end poles of a shelving unit of gourmet cooking tools with flexible zip ties.

His mind-set was such that his first impulse, upon seeing their wrists bound and their full, imploring eyes, was pleasure. His brandy-steeped mind processed the scene as an erogenous tableau.

Reality was slow to part the fog. It was a long, floundering moment before he realized that apparently someone had broken in and restrained his staff.

That someone was inside the house.

Barnes turned and ran. With the women calling after him, he slammed his hip into the island, the pain doubling him over as he groped his way along the counter to the doorway. He rushed out, moving blindly across the first-floor landing and around another corner, heading for the front entrance, his addled mind thinking, Escape! Then he saw, through the violet-tinged glass panes framing the double doors, a struggle outside, ending with one of his vampire guards being struck down by a dark, brute figure. A second figure closed in, slashing with a silver blade. Barnes backed away, stumbling over his own feet, watching more guards from other positions around the grounds moving to engage the raiding party.

He ran as best he could back to the landing. He panicked at the thought of becoming trapped inside the elevator cage and so mounted the curling staircase, pulling himself hand-over-hand along the broad banister. Adrenaline neutralized some of the alcohol in his blood.

The study. That was where the pistols were displayed. He threw himself down the long hallway toward the room—when a pair of hands grabbed him from the side, pulling him into the open doorway of the sitting room.

Barnes instinctively covered his head, expecting a beating. He fell sprawling, thrown into one of the chairs, where he remained, cowering in fear and bewilderment. He did not want to see the face of his attacker. Part of his hysterical fear came from a voice inside his head that most closely resembled that of his dearly departed mother, saying, You’re getting what you deserve.

“Look at me.”

The voice. That angry voice. Barnes relaxed his grip around his head. He knew the voice but could not place it. Something was off. The voice had become roughened over time, deeper.

Curiosity outstripped fear. Barnes removed his trembling arms from his head, raising his eyes.

Ephraim Goodweather. Or, more reflective of his personal appearance, Ephraim Goodweather’s evil twin. This was not the man he used to know, the esteemed epidemiologist. Dark circles raccooned his fugitive eyes. Hunger had drained his face of all cheer and turned his cheeks into crags, as though all the meat had been boiled off the bone. Mealy whiskers clung to his gray skin but failed to fill out the hollows. He wore fingerless gloves, a filthy coat, and faded boots under wet cuffs, laced with wire rather than string. The black knit cap crowning his head reflected the darkness of the mind beneath. A sword handle rose from the pack on his back. He looked like a vengeful hobo.

“Everett,” Eph said, his voice hoarse, possessed.

“Don’t,” said Barnes, terrified of him.

Eph picked up the snifter, its bottom still coated and chocolaty. He brought the mouth of the glass to his nose, drawing in the scent. “Nightcap, huh? Brandy Alexander? That’s a fucking prom drink, Barnes.” He placed the large glass in his former boss’s hand. Then he did exactly what Barnes feared he would do: he closed his fist over Barnes’s hand, crushing the glass between his ex-boss’s fingers. Closing them over the multiple shards of glass, cutting his flesh and tendons and slicing to the bone.

Barnes howled and fell on his knees, bleeding and sobbing. He cringed. “Please,” he said.

Eph said, “I want to stab you in the eye.”

“Please.”

“Step on your throat until you die. Then cremate you in that little tile hole in the wall.”

“I was saving her . . . I wanted to deliver Nora from the camp.”

“The way you delivered those pretty maids downstairs? Nora was right about you. Do you know what she would do to you if she were here?”

So she wasn’t. Thank God. “She would be reasonable,” Barnes said. “She would see what I had to offer to you. How I could be of service.”

“Goddamn you,” said Eph. “Goddamn your black soul.”

Eph punched Barnes. His hits were calculated, brutal.

“No,” whimpered Barnes. “No more . . . please . . .”

“So this is what absolute corruption looks like,” said Eph. He hit Barnes a few times more. “Commandant Barnes! You’re a goddamn piece of shit, sir—you know that? How could you turn on your own kind like this? You were a doctor—you were the fucking head of the CDC for Christ’s sake. You have no compassion?”

“No, please.” Barnes sat up a little, bleeding all over the floor, trying to ease this conversation into something productive and positive. But his PR skills were hampered by the growing inflammation of his mouth and the teeth that were missing. “This is a new world, Ephraim. Look what it’s done to you.”

“You let that admiral’s uniform go right to your fucking head.” Eph reached out and gripped Barnes’s thinning thatch of hair, yanking his face upward, baring his throat. Barnes smelled the decay of Eph’s body. “I should murder you right here,” he said. “Right now.” Eph drew out his sword and showed it to Barnes.

“You . . . you’re not a murderer,” gasped Barnes.

“Oh, but I am. I have become that. And unlike you, I don’t do it by pushing a button or signing an order. I do it like this. Up close. Personal.”

The silver blade touched Barnes’s throat over his windpipe. Barnes arched his neck farther.

“But,” said Eph, pulling the sword back a few inches, “luckily for you, you are still useful to me. I need you to do something for me, and you’re going to do it. Nod yes.”

Eph nodded Barnes’s head for him.

“Good. Listen closely. There are people outside waiting for me. Do you understand? Are you sober enough to remember this, brandy Alexander boy?”

Barnes nodded, this time under his own power. Of course, at that moment he would have agreed to anything.

“My reason for coming here is to make you an offer. It will actually make you look good. I am here to tell you to go to the Master and tell it I have agreed to trade the Occido Lumen for my son. Prove to me you understand this.”

“Double-crossing is something I understand, Eph,” said Barnes.

“You can even be the hero of this story. You can tell him that I came here to murder you, but now I am double-crossing my own people by offering you this deal. You can tell him you convinced me to take his offer and volunteered to take it back to the Master.”

“Do the others know about this . . . ?”

Emotions surged. Tears welled in Eph’s eyes. “They believe I am with them, and I am . . . but this is about my boy.”

Emotions swelled in Ephraim Goodweather’s heart. He was dizzy, lost . . .

“All you need to do is tell the Master that I accept. That this is no bluff.”

“You are going to deliver this book.”

“For my son . . .”

“Yes—yes . . . of course. Perfectly understandable . . .”

Eph grabbed Barnes by the hair and punched again. Twice in the mouth. Another tooth cracked.

“I don’t want your fucking sympathy, you monster. Just deliver my message. You got it? I am somehow going to get the real Lumen and get word to the Master, maybe through you again, when I am ready to deliver.”

Eph’s grip on Barnes’s hair had relaxed. Barnes realized he was not to be killed or even harmed any further. “I . . . I heard that the Master had a boy with him . . . a human boy. But I didn’t know why . . .”

Eph’s eyes blazed. “His name is Zachary. He was kidnapped two years ago.”

“By Kelly, your wife?” said Barnes. “I saw her. With the Master. She is . . . well, she is no longer herself. But I suppose none of us are.”

Eph said, “Some of us even became vampires without ever getting stung by anything . . .” Eph’s eyes grew glassy and damp. “You are a capitulator and a coward, and for me to join your ranks tears at my insides like a fatal disease, but I see no other way out, and I have to save my son. I have to.” His grip tightened on Barnes again. “This is the right choice, it is the only choice. For a father. My boy has been kidnapped and the ransom is my soul and the fate of the world, and I will pay it. I will pay it. Goddamn the Master, and goddamn you.”

Even Barnes, whose loyalty fell on the side of the vampires, wondered to himself how wise it would be to enter into any sort of agreement with the Master, a being marshaled by no morality or code. A virus, and a ravenous one at that.

But of course Barnes said nothing of the kind to Eph. The man holding a sword near Barnes’s throat was a creature worn down almost to the nub, like a pencil eraser with just enough pink rubber left to make one final correction.

“You will do this,” said Eph, not asking.

Barnes nodded. “You can count on me.” He attempted a smile but his mouth and gums were swollen to the point of disfiguration.

Eph stared at him another long moment, a look of pure disgust coming into his gaunt face. This is the kind of man you are now making deals with. Then he threw Barnes’s head back, turning with his sword and starting for the door.

Barnes gripped his spared neck but could not hold his bleeding tongue. “And I do understand, Ephraim,” he said, “perhaps better than you.” Eph stopped, turning beneath the handsome molding framing the doorway. “Everybody has their price. You believe your plight is more noble than mine because your price is the welfare of your son. But to the Master, Zack is nothing more than a coin in its pocket. I am sorry it has taken you so long to see this. That you should have borne all this suffering so unnecessarily.”

Eph stood snarling at the floor, his sword hanging heavily in his hand. “And I am only sorry that you haven’t suffered more . . .”

Service Garage, Columbia University

WHEN
THE
SUN backlit the ashen filter of the sky—what passed for daylight now—the city became eerily quiet. Vampire activity ceased, and the streets and buildings lit up with the ever-changing light of television sets. Reruns and rain; that was the norm. Acid, black rain dripped from the tortured sky in fat, oily drops. The ecological cycle was “rinse and repeat,” but dirty water never cleaned anything. It would take decades, if it ever self-cleansed at all. For now, the gloaming of the city was like a sunrise that would not turn over.

Gus waited outside the open door of the facility-services garage. Creem was an ally of convenience, and he had always been a squirrely motherfucker. It sounded like he was coming alone, which didn’t make much sense, so Gus didn’t trust it. Gus had taken a few extra precautions himself. Among them was the shiny Glock tucked into the small of his back, a handgun he had seized from a former drug den in the chaos of the first days. Another was setting the meet here and giving Creem no indication that Gus’s underground lair was nearby.

Creem drove up in a yellow Hummer. Bright color aside, this was just the sort of clumsy move Gus expected from him: driving a notorious gas guzzler in a time of very little available fuel. But Gus shrugged it off, because that was who Creem was. And predictability in one’s rival was a good thing.

Creem needed the big vehicle to fit his body in behind the steering wheel. Even given all their deprivations, he had managed to keep much of his size—only now there was not an ounce of loose fat on him. Somehow he was eating. He was sustaining. It told Gus that the Sapphires’ raids on the vampire establishment were succeeding.

Except he had no other Sapphires with him now. None Gus could see, anyway.

Creem rolled his Hummer into the garage, out of the rain. He killed the engine and worked his way out from the driver’s seat. He had a stick of jerky in his mouth, gnawing on it like a thick, meaty pick. His silver grille shone when he smiled. “Hey, Mex.”

“You made it in all right.”

Creem waved at the air with his short arms. “Your island here is going to shit.”

Gus agreed. “Fucking landlord’s a real prick.”

“Real bloodsucker, huh?”

Niceties aside, they exchanged a simple handshake grip, no gang stuff—while never losing eye contact. Gus said, “Running solo?”

“This trip,” said Creem, hiking up his pants. “Gotta keep an eye on things in Jersey. I don’t suppose you’re alone.”

“Never,” said Gus.

Creem looked around, nodding, not seeing anyone. “Hiding, eh? I’m cool,” he said.

“And I’m careful.”

That drew a smile from Creem. Then he bit off the end of the jerky. “Want some of this?”

“I’m good for now.” Best to let Creem think Gus was eating well and regularly.

Creem pulled out the jerky. “Doggie treat. We found a warehouse with a whole pet-supply shipment that never went out. I don’t know what’s in this thing, but it’s food, right? Will give me a lustrous pelt, clean my teeth and all that.” Creem barked a few times, then snickered. “Cat food cans keep for a good long time. Portable meal. Taste like fucking pâté.”

“Food is food,” said Gus.

“And breathing is breathing. Look at us here. Two bangers from the projects. Still hustling. Still representing. And everybody else, the ones who thought this city was theirs, the tender souls—they didn’t have no real fucking pride, no stake, no claim; where are they now? The walking dead.”

“The undead.”

“Like I always say, ‘Creem rises to the top.’ ” He laughed again, maybe too hard. “You like the ride?”

“How you fueling it?”

“Got some pumps still flowing in Jersey. Check out the grille? Just like my teeth. Silver.”

Gus looked. The front grille of the car was indeed plated in silver. “Now, that I like,” said Gus.

“Silver rims are next on my wish list,” said Creem. “So, you wanna get your backups out here now, so I don’t feel like I’m gonna be ripped off? I’m here in good faith.”

Gus whistled and Nora came out from behind a tool cart holding a Steyr semiauto. She lowered the weapon, stopping a safe thirty feet away.

Joaquin appeared from behind a door, his pistol at his side. He could not disguise his limp; his knee was still giving him grief.

Creem opened his stubby arms wide, welcoming them to the meet. “You wanna get to it? I gotta get back over that fucking bridge before the creeps come out.”

“Show and tell,” said Gus.

Creem went around and opened the rear door. Four open cardboard moving cartons fresh out of a U-Haul store, crammed full of silver. Gus slid one out for inspection, the box heavy with candlesticks, utensils, decorative urns, coins, and even a few dinged-up, mint-stamped silver bars.

Creem said, “All pure, Mex. No sterling shit. No copper base. There’s a test kit in there somewhere I’ll throw in for free.”

“How’d you score all this?”

“Picking up scrap for months, like a junk man, saving it. We got all the metal we need. I know you want this vamp-slaying shit. Me, I like guns.” He looked at Nora’s piece. “Big guns.”

Gus picked through the silver pieces. They’d have to melt them down, forge them, do their best. None of them were smiths. But the swords they had weren’t going to last forever.

“I can take all this off your hands,” said Gus. “You want firepower?”

“Is that all you sellin’?”

Creem was looking not only at Nora’s weapon but at Nora.

Gus said, “I got some batteries, shit like that. But that’s it.”

Creem didn’t take his eyes off Nora. “She got her head smooth like them camp workers.”

Nora said, “Why are you talking about me like I’m not here?”

Creem smiled silver. “Can I see the piece?”

Nora brought it forward, handed it to him. He accepted with an interested smile, then turned his attention to the Steyr. He released the bolt and the magazine, checking the load, then fed it back into the buttstock. He sighted a ceiling lamp and pretended to blow it away.

“More like this?” he asked.

“Like it,” confirmed Gus. “Not identical. I’ll need at least a day though. I got ’em stashed around town.”

“And ammo. Plenty of it.” He worked the safety off and on. “I’ll take this one as a down payment.”

Nora said, “Silver is so much more efficient.”

Creem smiled at her—eager, condescending. “I didn’t get here by being efficient, baldy. I like to make some fucking noise when I waste these bloodsuckers. That’s the fun of it.”

He reached for her shoulder and Nora batted his hand away, which only made him laugh.

She looked at Gus. “Get this dog-food-eating slob out of here.”

Gus said, “Not yet.” He turned to Creem. “What about that detonator?”

Creem opened his front door and laid the Steyr down across the front seat, then shut it again. “What about it?”

“Stop dicking around. Can you do it for me?”

Creem made like he was deciding. “Maybe. I have a lead—but I need to know more about this shit you’re trying to blow. You know I live just across the river there.”

“You don’t need to know anything. Just name your price.”

“Military-grade detonator?” said Creem. “There’s a place in northern Jersey I got my eye on. Military installation. I’m not saying much more than that right now. But you gotta come clean.”

Gus looked at Nora, not for her okay but to frown at being put in this position. “Pretty simple,” he said. “It’s a nuke.”

Creem smiled wide. “Where’d you get it?”

“Corner store. Book of coupons.”

Creem checked on Nora. “How big?”

“Big enough to do a half-mile of destruction. Shock wave, bent steel—you name it.”

Creem was enjoying this. “But you wound up with the floor model. Sold as-is.”

“Yes. We need a detonator.”

“’Cause I don’t know how stupid you think I am, but I am not in the habit of arming my next-door neighbor with a live nuclear bomb without laying down some fucking ground rules.”

“Really,” said Gus. “Such as?”

“Just that I don’t want you fucking up my prize.”

“What’s that?”

“I do for you, you do for me. So first, I need assurances that this thing is going off at least a few miles away from me. Not in Jersey or Manhattan, bottom line.”

“You’ll be warned beforehand.”

“Not good enough. ’Cause I think I know what the hell you’re looking to use this bad boy on. Only one thing worth blowing up in this world. And when the Master goes, that’s gonna free up some serious real estate. Which is my price.”

“Real estate?” said Gus.

“This city. I own Manhattan outright, after all is said and done. Take it or leave it, Mex.”

Gus shook hands with Creem. “Can I interest you in a bridge?”

New York Public Library Main Branch

ANOTHER
ROTATION
OF Earth, and they were back together again, the five humans, Fet, Nora, Gus, Joaquin, and Eph, with Mr. Quinlan having traveled ahead under cover of darkness. They came out of Grand Central Station and followed Forty-second Street to Fifth Avenue. There was no rain but an exceptional wind, strong enough to dislodge trash accumulated in doorways. Fast food wrappers, plastic bags, and other pieces of legacy refuse blew down the street like spirits dancing through a graveyard.

They walked up the front steps of the main branch of the New York Public Library, between the twin stone lions, Patience and Fortitude. The beaux arts landmark stood like a great mausoleum. They moved through the portico into the entrance, crossing Astor Hall. The massive reading room had suffered only minor damage: looters, in the brief period of anarchy after the Fall, didn’t care much for books. One of the grand chandeliers had come down onto a reading table below, but the ceiling was so high that it may have just been a random structural failing. Some books remained on the tables, some backpacks and their picked-over contents strewn about the tile floor. Chairs were overturned, and a few of the lamp heads were broken off. The silent emptiness of the immense, public room was chilling.

The arched windows high on either side admitted as much light as was available. The ammoniac smell of vampire waste, so omnipresent Eph barely noticed it anymore, registered with him here. It said something that the accumulated knowledge and art of a civilization could be shat upon so carelessly by a marauding force of nature.

“We have to go down?” asked Gus. “What about one of these books here?” The shelves on either side, on two levels along walls running the length of the room below and above the railed walkways, were filled with colored spines.

Fet said, “We need an ornate, old book to double for the Lumen. We gotta sell this thing, remember. I’ve been in here numerous times. Rats and mice are drawn to decaying paper. The ancient texts they keep down below.”

They took to the stairs, turning on flashlights and readying night-vision devices. The main branch had been constructed on the site of the Croton Reservoir, a man-made lake that provided water for the island, made obsolete by the beginning of the twentieth century. There were seven full floors beneath street level, and a recent renovation beneath the adjacent Bryant Park on the rear, west side of the library had added more miles of book stacks.

Fet led the way into the darkness. The figure awaiting them on the landing at the third floor was Mr. Quinlan. Gus’s flashlight briefly illuminated the Born’s face, an almost phosphorescent white, his eyes like red baubles. He and Gus had an exchange.

Gus drew his sword. “Bloodsuckers in the stacks,” he said. “We got some clearing to do.”

Nora said, “If they pick up on Eph, they’ll bounce it to the Master, and we’ll be trapped underground.”

Mr. Quinlan’s mouthless voice entered their heads.

Dr. Goodweather and I will wait inside. I can baffle any attempts at psychic intrusion.

“Good,” said Nora, readying her Luma lamp.

Gus was already moving down the stairs to the next floor, sword in hand, Joaquin limping down behind him. “Let’s have some fun.”

Nora and Fet paired off, following them, while Mr. Quinlan pushed through the nearest door, entering the third underground floor. Eph reluctantly followed him. Inside were wide storage cabinets of aged periodicals and stacked bins of obsolete audio recordings. Mr. Quinlan opened the door to a listening booth, and Eph was obliged to follow him inside.

Mr. Quinlan closed the soundproof door. Eph pulled off his night-vision scope, leaning against a near counter, standing together with the Born in darkness and in silence. Eph worried that the Born could read him and so turned up the white noise in his head by actively imagining and then naming the items surrounding him.

Eph did not want the hunter to detect his potential deceit. Eph was walking a fine line here, playing the same game with both sides. Telling each he was working to subvert the other. In the end, Eph’s only loyalty was to Zack. He suffered equally at the thought of potentially turning on his friends—or spending eternity in a world of horror.

I had a family once.

The Born’s voice shook a nervous Eph, but he recovered quickly.

The Master turned them all, leaving it to me to destroy them. Something else we share in common.

Eph nodded. “But there was a reason it was after you. A link. The Master and I have no past. No commonality. I fell into its path purely by accident of my profession as an epidemiologist.”

There is a reason. We just don’t know what it is.

Eph had devoted hours to this very thought. “My fear is that it has something to do with my son, Zack.”

The Born was quiet for a moment.

You must be aware of a similarity between myself and your son. I was turned in the womb of my mother. And through that, the Master became my surrogate father, supplanting my own human forebear. By corrupting the mind of your son in his formative years, the Master is seeking to supplant you, your influence upon your son’s maturation.

“You mean, this is a pattern with the Master.” Eph should have been discouraged, but instead he found reason to cheer. “Then there’s hope,” he said. “You turned against the Master. You rejected it. And it had much greater influence over you.” Eph stood off the counter, lifted by this theory. “Maybe Zack will too. If I can get to him in time, the way the Ancients got to you. Maybe it’s not too late. He is a good kid—I know it . . .”

So long as he remains unturned biologically, there is a chance.

“I have to get him away from the Master. Or, more accurately, get the Master away from him. Can we really destroy it? I mean, if God failed to do it so long ago.”

God succeeded. Ozryel was destroyed. It was the blood that rose.

“So, in a sense, we have to fix God’s mistake.”

God makes no mistakes. In the end, all the rivers go to the sea . . .

“No mistakes. You think that fiery mark in the sky appeared on purpose. Sent for me?”

For me, as well. So that I might know to protect you. To safeguard you from corruption. The elements are falling into place. The ashes are gathered. Fet has the weapon. Fire rained from the sky. Signs and portents—the very language of God. They all will rise and fall with the strength of our alliance.

Again, a pause that Eph could not decipher. Was the Born already inside his head? Had he softened Eph’s mind with conversation so that he could read Eph’s true intentions?

Mr. Fet and Ms. Martinez have cleared the sixth floor. Mr. Elizalde and Mr. Soto are still engaged on floor five.

Eph said, “I want to go to six.”

They went down the stairwell, passing one conspicuous puddle of white vampire blood. Passing the door to the fifth floor, Eph could hear Gus cursing loudly, almost joyously.

The sixth floor began with a map room. Through a heavy glass door, Eph passed into a long room that had once been carefully climate controlled. Panels featuring thermostats and humidity barometers dotted the walls, and the ceiling was spaced with vents, their ribbons hanging limp.

The stacks were long here. Mr. Quinlan fell back, and Eph knew he was somewhere deep beneath Bryant Park now. He proceeded quietly, listening for Fet and Nora, not wanting to surprise them or be surprised by them. He heard voices a few stacks over and moved through a break in the shelves.

They were using a flashlight. That allowed Eph to switch off his night-vision scope. He got close enough to see them through one stack of books. They were standing at a glass table with their backs to him. Above the table, inside a cabinet, were what looked to be the library’s most precious acquisitions.

Fet forced the locks and laid the other ancient texts out in front of him. He focused on one book: a Gutenberg Bible. It had the most potential as a fake. Silvering the page edges would not be difficult, and he could lightly paste in some illuminated pages from the other tomes. Defacing literary treasures was a small price to pay for overthrowing the Master and his clan.

“This,” said Fet. “The Gutenberg Bible. There were fewer than fifty in existence . . . Now? This may be the last one.” He examined it further, turning it around. “This is an incomplete copy, printed on paper, not vellum, and the binding is not original.”

Nora looked at him. “You’ve learned a lot about ancient texts.”

Involuntarily, Fet blushed at the compliment. He turned around and reached for an information card in a hard plastic sleeve and showed her he had been reading this information. She slapped him lightly on the arm.

“I’m taking it with us now, along with a handful of others to dummy up.”

Fet pulled down a few other illuminated texts, stacking them gently into a backpack.

“Wait!” Nora said. “You’re bleeding . . .”

It was true. Fet was bleeding profusely. Nora opened up his shirt and popped open a small bottle of peroxide taken from the kit.

She poured it on the bloodstained fabric. The blood bubbled up and fizzed upon contact. That would destroy the scent for the strigoi.

“You must rest,” Nora said. “I order it as your physician.”

“Oh, my physician,” said Fet. “Is that what you are?”

“I am,” said Nora with a smile. “I need to get you some antibiotics. Eph and I can find them. You go back with Quinlan . . .”

Delicately, she cleaned Fet’s wound and poured peroxide on it again. The liquid ran down the hairs on his massive chest. “You want to make me a blond, eh?” Vasiliy joked. And as terrible as his joke was, Nora laughed at it, rewarding the intent.

Vasiliy pulled off her cap. “Hey, give me that!” she said, and fought Vasiliy’s good arm for possession of the cap. Vasiliy gave her the cap but trapped her in an embrace.

“You’re still bleeding.”

He ran his hand over her bare scalp. “I’m so glad I have you back . . .”

And then, for the first time, Fet told her, in his own way, how he felt about her. “I don’t know where I’d be right now without you.”

In other circumstances, the burly exterminator’s confession would have been ambiguous and insufficient. Nora would have waited for a bit more. But now—here and now—this was enough. She kissed him softly on the lips and felt his massive arms surround her back, engulfing her, pulling her to his chest. And they both felt fear evaporate and time freeze. They were there, now. In fact it felt like they’d always been there. No memory of pain or loss.

As they embraced, the beam from the flashlight in Nora’s hand glided by the stacks, briefly illuminating Eph hiding there, before he faded back into the book stacks.

Belvedere Castle, Central Park

THIS
TIME, DR. Everett Barnes was able to wait until he was out of the helicopter before vomiting. When he was through disgorging his breakfast, he swiped at his mouth and chin with a handkerchief and looked around rather sheepishly. But the vampires showed no reaction to his becoming violently sick. Their expressions, or lack thereof, remained fixed and uncaring. Barnes could have laid a giant egg there in the muddy walkway near the Shakespeare Garden on the Seventy-ninth Street Transverse or had a third arm burst forth from his chest and not suffered any embarrassment in these drones’ eyes. His appearance was terrible, his face bloated and purple, his lips engorged with coagulated blood, and his injured hand bandaged and immobilized. But they paid no attention to any of this.

Barnes caught his breath and straightened a few yards free of the whirling helicopter rotors, ready to move along. The chopper lifted off, whipping rain at his back, and once it was away he opened his broad, black umbrella. His sexless undead guards took as little notice of the rain as they had his nausea, moving along at his side like pale, plastic automatons.

The bare heads of dead trees parted, and Belvedere Castle came into view, set high atop Vista Rock, framed against the contaminated sky.

Below, in a thick ring around the base of the stone, stood a legion of vampires. Their stillness was unnerving, their statuelike presence resembling some bizarre and stupefyingly ambitious art installation. And then, as Barnes and his two guards approached the outer edge of the vampire ring, the creatures parted—unbreathing, expressionless—for them, allowing their approach. Barnes stopped about ten rows in, approximately halfway through, looking at this respectful ring of vampires. He trembled a little, the umbrella vibrating such that dirty rain shook off the tips of the ribs. Here he experienced most deeply a sense of the uncanny: being in the middle of all these human predators, who by all rights should have drunk him or torn him to shreds—but instead stood idly as he passed, if not with respect then with enforced indifference. It was as though he had entered the zoo and gone walking past the lions, tigers, and bears without any reaction or interest. This was completely against their nature. Such was the depth of their enslavement to the Master.

Barnes encountered the former Kelly Goodweather at the door to the castle. She stood outside the door, her eyes meeting his, unlike the rest of the drones. He slowed, almost tempted to say something, like “Hello,” a courtesy left over from the old world. Instead, he simply passed, and her eyes followed him inside.

The clan lord appeared in his dark cloak, blood worms rippling beneath the skin covering his face as he regarded Barnes.

Goodweather has accepted.

“Yes,” Barnes said, thinking, If you knew that, then why did I have to get in a helicopter to come to this drafty castle to see you?

Barnes tried to explain the double-cross but became tangled up in the details himself. The Master did not appear particularly interested.

“He’s double-crossing his partners,” said Barnes, summing up. “He seemed sincere. I don’t know that I would trust him, though.”

I trust his pitiable need for his son.

“Yes. I see your point. And he trusts your need for the book.”

Once I have Goodweather, I have his partners. Once I have the book, I have all the answers.

“What I don’t understand is how he was able to overwhelm security at my house. Why others of your clan weren’t notified.”

It is the Born. He is created by me but not of my blood.

“So he’s not on the same wavelength?”

I do not have control over him as I do my others.

“And he’s with Goodweather now? Like a double agent? A defector?” The Master did not answer. “Such a being could be very dangerous.”

For you? Very. For myself? Not dangerous. Only elusive. The Born has allied himself with the gang member whom the Ancients recruited for day hunting and the rest of the scum that runs with him. I know where to find some information about them . . .

“If Goodweather surrenders himself to you . . . then you would have all the information to find him. The Born.”

Yes. Two fathers reuniting with two sons. There’s always symmetry in God’s plans. If he gives himself to me . . .

A ruckus behind Barnes then made him turn, startled. A teenager, with ragged hair falling over his eyes, stumbling down the spiral staircase. A human, holding one hand to his throat. The boy shook back some of his hair, just enough so that Barnes recognized Ephraim Goodweather in the boy’s face. Those same eyes, that same very serious expression—though now showing fear.

Zachary Goodweather. He was in obvious respiratory distress, wheezing and turning grayish blue.

Barnes stood, starting toward him instinctively. Later it would occur to Barnes that it had been a great while since he had acted on medical instinct. He intercepted the boy, holding him by his shoulder. “I am a doctor,” said Barnes.

The boy pushed Barnes away, pinwheeling his arm, going straight to the Master. Barnes rocked back a few steps, more shocked than anything. The floppy-haired boy fell to his knees before the Master, who looked down at his suffering face. The Master let the boy struggle a few moments longer, then raised its arm, the loose sleeve of its cloak sliding back. His thumb and elongated middle finger snapped together in a blur, pricking the skin. The Master held its thumb over the boy’s face, a single droplet of blood poised on the tip. Slowly, the bead elongated, dripping free, landing in the back of Zack’s open mouth.

Barnes himself swallowed dryly, sickened. He had already thrown up once that morning.

The boy closed his mouth as though having just ingested an eyedropper’s worth of medicine. He grimaced—either at the taste or at the pain of the swallow—and within a few moments his hand came away from his throat. His head hung low as he regained normal respiration, his airway opening, his lungs clearing miraculously. Almost instantly, his pallor returned to normal—the new normal, that is, meaning sallow and sun-hungry.

The boy blinked and looked around, seeing the room for the first time since entering in respiratory distress. His mother—or what remained of her—had entered from the doorway, perhaps summoned by her Dear One’s distress. Yet her blank face showed neither concern nor relief. Barnes wondered how often this healing ritual was performed. Once every week? Once every day?

The boy looked at Barnes as though for the first time, the white-goateed man he had shoved away just moments before.

“Why is there another human here?” asked Zack Goodweather.

The boy’s supercilious manner surprised Barnes, who remembered Goodweather’s son as a thoughtful, curious, well-mannered child. Barnes ran his fingers through his own hair, summoning some dignity.

“Zachary, do you remember me?”

The boy’s lips curled as though he resented being asked to study Barnes’s face. “Vaguely,” he said, his tone harsh, his manner haughty.

Barnes remained patient, upbeat. “I was your father’s boss. In the old world.”

Again, Barnes saw the father in the son—but less so now. Just as the Eph who visited him had changed, so had the boy. His young eyes were distant, distrusting. He had the attitude of a boy-prince.

Zachary Goodweather said, “My father is dead.”

Barnes started to speak, then wisely held back his words. He glanced at the Master, and there was no change of expression in the creature’s rippling face—but Barnes knew somehow not to contradict. For an instant, as he perceived the big picture and saw everyone’s play and position in this particular drama, he felt bad for Eph. His own son . . . But, Barnes being Barnes, the feeling didn’t last long and he began to think of a way to profit from this.

Low Library, Columbia University

CONSIDER
THIS
ABOUT the Lumen.

Mr. Quinlan’s eyes were unusually vibrant when he said this.

There are two words consigned to the page indicating the Master’s Black Site: “obscura” and “aeterna.” “Dark” and “eternal.” No exact coordinates.

“Every site had them,” said Fet. “Except that one.”

He was actively working on the Bible, trying to shape it as close to the Lumen as possible. He had amassed a pile of books that he examined and cannibalized for pieces or engravings.

Why? And why just those two words?

“Do you think that is the key?”

I believe it is. I always thought the key to finding the site was in the information in the book—but, it turns out, the key is in the information missing from it. The Master was the last one to be born. The youngest one of them all. It took it hundreds of years to reconnect with the Old World and even longer to acquire the influence to destroy the Ancients’ origin sites. But now—now it has come back to the New World, back to Manhattan. Why?

“Because it wanted to protect its own origin site.”

The fiery mark in the sky confirmed as much. But where is it?

In spite of the thrilling information, Fet seemed distant, distracted.

What is it?

“Sorry. I’m thinking about Eph,” said Fet. “He’s out. With Nora.”

Out where?

“Getting some medicine. For me.”

Dr. Goodweather must be protected. He is vulnerable.

Fet was caught short. “I’m sure they’ll be fine,” he said, but now it was his turn to worry.

Macy’s Herald Square

EPH
AND NORA exited the subway at Thirty-fourth Street and Pennsylvania Station. It was there at the train station, nearly two years before, that Eph had left Nora, Zack, and Nora’s mother, in a last-ditch attempt to get them safely out of the city before New York fell to the vampire plague. A horde of creatures had derailed the train inside the North River Tunnel, foiling their escape, and Kelly had made off with Zack, taking him to the Master.

They were casing a small closed pharmacy occupying the corner of the Macy’s store. Nora was watching commuters pass them, downtrodden humans on their way to and from work, or else on their way to the ration station at the Empire State Building to exchange work vouchers for clothing or food.

“Now what?” said Eph.

Nora looked diagonally across Seventh Avenue, seeing Macy’s one block away, its front entrance boarded. “We’ll go through the store and into the pharmacy. Follow me.”

The rotating doors had long ago been locked, the broken glass boarded tight. Shopping, either as a necessity or a leisure-time pursuit, no longer existed. Everything was ration cards and vouchers.

Eph pried a piece of plywood off the Thirty-fourth Street entrance. Inside, the “World’s Largest Department Store” was a mess. Racks overturned, clothing torn. It looked less like looting and more like the scene of a fight, or a series of fights. A vampire and human rampage.

They accessed the pharmacy through the store counter. The shelves were almost bare. Nora picked up a few items, including a mild antibiotic and a few syringes. Eph pocketed a bottle of Vicodin when Nora wasn’t looking and jammed it into a small pouch.

In a matter of five minutes they had what they came for. Nora looked at Eph. “I need some warm clothes and a pair of sturdy shoes. These camp slippers are worn down.”

Eph thought about cracking a joke about women and shopping but kept quiet and nodded. Farther inside, it wasn’t so bad. They walked up the famous wooden escalators—the first such set of moving stairs ever installed inside a building.

Their flashlights played over the vacant display floor, unchanged since the end of shopping as the world knew it. The mannequins startled Eph, their bald heads and fixed expressions giving them—in the first moment of illumination—a superficial resemblance to the strigoi.

“Same haircut,” said Nora with a faint smile. “It’s all the rage . . .”

They moved through the floor, casing the place, looking for any signs of danger or vulnerability. “I am afraid, Nora,” Eph said, much to her surprise. “The plan . . . I am afraid and I don’t mind admitting as much.”

“The exchange will be difficult,” she said, her voice low as she pulled down shoe boxes in a back room, looking for her size. “That’s the trick. I think you should tell it we are getting the book for Mr. Quinlan to study. The Master surely knows about the Born. Tell it you plan to grab the book as soon as you can. We’ll have a location to set the bomb—and you’ll lure it in. He can bring as much reinforcement as he wants then. A bomb is a bomb . . .”

Eph nodded. He watched her face for some sign of treachery. They were alone now; if she was going to reveal herself to him as the turncoat, this was the time.

She eschewed more-fashionable leather boots for something sturdy and without heels. “The fake book just has to look good,” Eph said. “It has to look right. I think things will move so quickly, we just need to pass that initial glance test.”

“Fet is on it,” said Nora with absolute certainty. Almost with pride. “You can trust him . . .” And then she realized who she was talking to. “Listen, Eph. About Fet . . .”

“You don’t have to say anything. I understand. The world is fucked and we deserve to be only with those who care for us—above and beyond all things. In a strange way . . . if it was going to be anyone I feel good that it was Fet. Because he will give his life before he allows any harm to come to you. Setrakian knew it and chose him above me and you know it too. He can do what I never could—be there for you.”

Nora felt conflicting emotions now. This was Eph at his best: generous, smart, and caring. She would’ve almost preferred him to be an asshole. Now she saw him for who he really was: the man she had once fallen in love with. Her heart still felt the pull.

“What if the Master wants me to bring the book to it?” asked Eph.

“Maybe you’ll tell him we are chasing you. That you need the Master to come and get you. Or maybe you insist on him bringing Zack to you.”

Eph’s face darkened a moment, remembering the Master’s abject refusal on that point. “That raises a major issue,” he said. “How can I set this thing off and get away?”

“I don’t know. Too many variables right now. This whole thing is going to require a lot of luck. And courage. I wouldn’t blame you if you are having second thoughts.”

She watched him. Looking for a crack in his demeanor . . . or an opening so that she could reveal her complicity? “Second thoughts?” he said, trying to draw her out. “About going through with this?”

He saw the concern in her face as she shook her head. No hint of duplicity. And he was glad. He was relieved. Things had changed so much between them—but she was at heart the same old freedom fighter she always had been. It helped Eph to believe that he was the same too.

“What is that?” she asked.

“What?” he said.

“It looked almost like you were smiling.”

Eph shook his head. “Just me realizing that the bottom line is that Zack goes free. Whatever it takes to achieve that, I’ll do.”

“I think that’s amazing, Eph. I really do.”

“You don’t think the Master will see right through this?” he said. “You think it will believe that I could do this? That I could betray the rest of you?”

“I do,” she said. “I think it fits the way the Master thinks. Don’t you?”

Eph nodded, glad she wasn’t looking at him at that moment. If not Nora, then who was the turncoat? Not Fet, certainly. Could it be Gus? Could all of his bluster toward Eph be a cover? Or Joaquin was another possible suspect. All this twisty thinking was making him even more crazy.

. . . can never go down / can never go down the drain.

He heard something out in the main display area. Stirring noises, once assigned to rodents, nowadays meant only one thing.

Nora had heard it too. They switched off their flashlights.

“Wait here,” said Eph. Nora understood that, for this subterfuge to succeed, Eph had to go alone. “And be careful.”

“Always,” she said, drawing silver.

He slid out through the door, careful not to bump the handle of the sword jutting out of his backpack. He pulled on his night-vision monocular and waited for the image to stabilize in his vision.

Everything looked still. All the mannequins had normally sized hands, no extended talon for a middle finger. Eph circled right, keeping to the edge of the room, until he saw the hanger swinging gently on a circular rack near the down escalator.

Eph drew his sword and went swiftly to the top wooden step. The nonworking escalator ran along a narrow, walled space. He descended as quickly and as quietly as he could, then took in the next level from the landing. Something told him to keep going down, and so he did.

He slowed at the bottom, smelling something. A vampire had been here; he was close behind. Strange for a vampire to be out on its own, not otherwise industriously employed. Unless patrolling this department store was its assigned task. Eph ventured out from the escalator, the floor revealed in green. Nothing moved. He was about to start toward a large display when he heard a light click in the opposite direction.

Again he saw nothing. Ducking low, he wove around the clothing racks in the direction of the noise. The sign above the open doorway gave directions for the restrooms and the administrative offices, as well as an elevator. Eph crept past the offices first, looking in every open door. He could come back and try the closed doors after he had cleared the rest of the area. He went to the restrooms, nudging open the door to the women’s room just a few inches to see if it made much noise. It was nearly silent. He entered and scanned the stalls, pushing open each door, sword in hand.

He returned to the hallway and stood listening, feeling as though he had lost whatever thin trail he had been following. He pulled on the men’s-room door and slipped inside. He passed the urinals and poked open each stall door with the tip of his sword, and then, disappointed, turned to leave.

In an explosion of paper and trash, the vampire leaped out of the open trash barrel in the corner near the door, landing on the edge of one of the sinks across the room. Eph lurched backward at first, cursing and swiping at the air with his sword to ward off any stinger attacks. He quickly asserted his position, leading with his silver, not wanting to get backed into a stall. He brandished the weapon at the hissing vampire and circled past it, coming close to the barrel it had sprung from, paper rustling at his feet.

It squatted there, gripping the smooth edge of the sink, its knees up around its head, looking at him. Eph finally got a clear glance at it in the green light of his scope. It was a boy. A ten- or twelve-year-old of African-American descent, with what looked like pure glass in his eyes.

A blind boy. One of the feelers.

The feeler’s top lip was curled such that, by night vision, it looked like an appraising smile. His fingers and toes gripped the front edge of the sink counter as though he were about to pounce. Eph kept the tip of his sword pointed at the feeler’s midsection.

“Were you sent to find me?” Eph said.

Yes.

Eph sagged a bit in dismay. Not at the response, but at the voice.

It was Kelly’s. Speaking the Master’s words.

Eph wondered if Kelly was somehow responsible for the feelers. If she was their wrangler, so to speak. Their dispatcher. And if so, if indeed these blind, psychic vampire children had been placed under her unofficial command, how fitting and sadly ironic at the same time. Kelly Goodweather was still a mother hen, even in death.

“What made it so easy this time?”

You wanted to be found.

The feeler pounced, but not at Eph. The boy sprang from the countertop across the restroom to the wall, then dropped down to the tile floor on all fours.

Eph tracked it with his sword tip. The feeler crouched there, looking at him.

Are you going to slay me, Ephraim?

Kelly’s taunting voice. Had it been her idea to send a boy Zack’s age?

“Why do you torment me like this?”

I could have a hundred thirsty vampires there in moments, surrounding you. Tell me why I should not send them to you now.

“Because the book is not here. And—more important—if you broke our deal, I would slice my own throat before letting you have access to my mind.”

You are bluffing.

Eph lunged at the boy. He skittered backward, bumping into a stall door and stopping inside. “How do you like it?” said Eph. “These threats don’t instill much faith in me that you will keep your end of the bargain.”

Pray that I do.

“Interesting choice of words, ‘pray.’ ” Eph stood in the doorway to the stall now; the corner of the bathroom reeked from neglect. “Ozryel. Yes, I’ve been reading the book you want so badly. And talking to Mr. Quinlan, the Born.”

Then you should know that I am not in fact Ozryel.

“No, you are the worms that crawled out of the murderous angel’s veins. After God had him pulled apart like someone quartering a chicken.”

We share the same rebellious nature. A lot like your son, I imagine.

Eph shook that off, determined not to be an easy mark for the Master’s abuse any longer. “My son is nothing like you.”

Don’t be so sure. Where is the book?

“It was hidden in the stacks deep beneath the New York Public Library this entire time, in case you were wondering. I am supposed to be buying a little time for them now.”

I presume the Born is studying it avidly.

“Correct. That doesn’t worry you?”

To the eyes of the unworthy, it would take years to decipher.

“Good. So you’re not in any rush. Maybe I should step back, then. Wait for a better offer from you.”

And maybe I should draw and quarter your son.

Eph wanted to run his sword through this undead child’s throat. Leave the Master wanting for a while longer. But at the same time he did not want to push the creature too far. Not with Zack’s life on the line. “You’re the one bluffing now. You are worried and are pretending not to be. You want this book and you want it very badly. Why so soon?”

It did not answer.

“There is no other traitor. You are all lies.”

The feeler remained crouched, its back against the wall.

“Fine,” said Eph. “Play it that way.”

My father is dead.

Eph’s heart skipped a beat, stopping dead in his chest for a long moment. Such was the shock of hearing, as clear as though he were there in the room with him, his son Zack’s voice.

He was shaking. He fought hard to keep a furious scream from rising in his throat.

“You goddamned . . .”

The Master returned to Kelly’s voice. You will bring the book as soon as you can.

Eph’s first fear was that Zack had been turned. But no; the Master was just throwing Zack’s voice, pushing it to Eph through this feeler.

Eph said, “Goddamn you.”

God tried to. And where is He now?

“Not here,” said Eph, his blade lowering a bit. “Not here.”

No. Not in a department store men’s room in a deserted Macy’s. Why don’t you release this poor child, Ephraim? Look into its blind eyes. Wouldn’t striking it down give you great satisfaction?

He did look into its eyes. Glassy and unblinking. Eph saw the vampire . . . but also the boy he once was.

I have thousands of sons. All of them absolutely loyal.

“You have only one true offspring. The Born. And all he wants is to destroy you.”

The feeler dropped to its knees, raising its chin, baring its neck to Eph, its arms hanging limp at its sides.

Take him, Ephraim, and be done with it.

The feeler’s blind eyes stared into nothingness, in the manner of a supplicant awaiting orders from its lord. The Master wanted him to execute the child. Why?

Eph pointed the tip of his sword at the boy’s exposed neck. “Here,” he said. “Run him into my sword if you wish him released.”

You have no desire to slay him?

“I have every desire to slay him. But no good reason to.”

When the boy did not move, Eph stepped back, pulling away his sword. Something wasn’t right here.

You cannot slay the boy. You hide behind weakness by calling it strength.

Eph said, “Weakness is giving in to temptation. Strength is resisting it.” He looked at the feeler, Kelly’s voice still hanging in his head. The feeler had no link to Eph, not without Kelly. And her voice was being projected by the Master, in an attempt to distract and weaken him, but the vampire Kelly could be anywhere at that moment. Anywhere.

Eph backed out of the stall and started running, rushing up the escalator to where he had left Nora.

Kelly stayed close to the wall, padding barefoot past the racks of clothes. The woman’s scent lingered in the back room behind the shoe display . . . but her bloodbeat thrummed across the display floor. Kelly approached the changing-room doorway. Nora Martinez waited there with a silver sword.

“Hey, bitch,” Nora greeted her.

Kelly seethed, her mind going out to the feelers, calling them close. She had no clear angle of attack. The silver weapon glowed hot in her view as the bald female human started toward her.

“You really let yourself go,” said Nora, circling around a register. “Cosmetics is on the first floor, by the way. And maybe a turtleneck to cover up that nasty turkey neck.”

The girl feeler came bounding from the stairs, stopping near Kelly.

“Mother-daughter shopping day,” said Nora. “How sweet. I’ve got some silver jewelry I’d love to see you two try on.”

Nora feigned a jab; Kelly and the girl feeler just stared at her.

“I used to be afraid,” said Nora. “In the train tunnel, I was afraid of you. I’m not afraid now.”

Nora unclipped the Luma lamp hanging from her pack, switching on the battery-powered black light. The ultraviolet rays repelled the vampires, the feeler snarling and backing away on all fours. Kelly remained still, only turning as Nora circled away from them, backing away to the stairs. She was using the mirrors to check behind her, which was how she saw the blurred figure darting up from the handrail.

Nora spun and drove her blade deep into the mouth of the boy feeler, the searing silver releasing him almost immediately. She jerked the blade out and spun back, ready for the attack.

Kelly and the girl feeler were gone. Vanished—as though they had never been there in the first place.

“Nora!”

Eph called to her from the floor below. “Coming down!” she yelled back, descending the wooden steps.

He met her there, anxious, having feared the worst. He saw the slick white blood on her blade.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded, grabbing a scarf off a nearby rack to clean off her sword. “Ran into Kelly upstairs. She says hi.”

Eph stared at the sword. “Did you . . . ?”

“No, unfortunately. Just one of her little foster monsters.”

Eph said, “Let’s get out of here.”

Outside, she half-expected a swarm of vampires to greet them. But no. Regular humans moving between work and home, shoulders hunched against the rain.

“How did it go?” asked Nora.

“It’s a bastard,” said Eph. “A true bastard.”

“But do you think it bought it?”

Eph could not look her in the eye. “Yes,” he said. “It bought it.”

Eph was vigilant for vampires, scanning the sidewalks as they went.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Keep moving,” he said. Across Thirty-sixth Street, he pulled over, ducking under the canopy of a closed market. He looked up through the rain, eyeing the rooftops.

There, high across the street, a feeler leaped from the edge of one building to the next. Tracking them.

“They’re following us,” said Eph. “Come on.” They walked on, trying to lose themselves in the masses. “We have to wait them out until the meridiem.”

Columbia University

EPH
AND NORA returned to the empty university campus soon after first light, confident they were not followed. Eph figured that Mr. Quinlan had to be underground, probably going over the Lumen. He was headed that way when Gus intercepted them—or, more accurately, intercepted Nora while Eph was still with her.

“You have the medicine?” he asked.

Nora showed him a bag full of their loot.

“It’s Joaquin,” said Gus.

Nora stopped short, thinking vampire involvement. “What happened?”

“I need you to see him. It’s bad.”

They followed him to a classroom where Joaquin was propped up on top of a desk, his pant leg rolled up. His knee was bulbous in two places, considerably swollen. The gangbanger was in great pain. Gus stood on the other side of the desk, waiting for answers.

“How long has it been like this?” Nora asked Joaquin.

Through a sweaty grimace, Joaquin said, “I dunno. A while.”

“I’m going to touch it here.”

Joaquin braced himself. Nora explored the swollen areas around the knee. She saw a small wound below the patella, less than an inch in length and crooked, its edges yellowed and crusty. “When did you get this cut?”

“Dunno,” said Joaquin. “Think I bumped it at the blood camp. Didn’t notice it until long after.”

Eph jumped in. “You’ve been going out on your own sometimes. You hit any hospitals or nursing home facilities?”

“Uh . . . probably. Saint Luke’s, sure.”

Eph looked at Nora, their silence conveying the seriousness of the infection. “Penicillin?” said Nora.

“Maybe,” said Eph. “Let’s go think this through.” To Joaquin, he said, “Lie back. We’ll be right back in.”

“Hold up, doc. That don’t sound good.”

Eph said, “It’s an infection, obviously. It would be fairly routine to treat this in a hospital. Problem is, there are no more hospitals. A sick human is simply disposed of. So we need to discuss how to care for it.”

Joaquin nodded, unconvinced, and lay back on the desk. Gus, without a word, followed Eph and Nora out into the hallway.

Gus said, looking mostly at Nora, “No bullshit.”

Nora shook her head. “Bacterium, multiresistant. He might have cut himself at the camp, but this is something he picked up at a medical facility. The bug can live on instruments, on surfaces, for a long time. Nasty, and trenchant.”

Gus said, “Okay. What do you need?”

“What we need is something we can’t get anymore. We just went out looking for it—vancomycin.”

There had been a run on vancomycin during the last days of the scourge. Befuddled medical experts, professionals who should have known better than to feed a panic, went on television suggesting this “drug of last resort” as a possible treatment for the still-unidentified strain that was spreading through the country with incredible speed.

“And even if we could find some vancomycin,” said Nora, “it would take a severe course of antibiotics and other remedies to rid him of this infection. It’s not a vampire sting, but, in terms of life expectancy, it might as well be.”

Eph said, “Even if we could get some fluids into him intravenously, it just won’t do him any good, except prolonging the inevitable.”

Gus looked at Eph as though he were going to hit him. “There’s gotta be some other way. You guys are fucking doctors . . .”

Nora said, “Medically, we’re halfway back to the Dark Ages now. With no new drugs being manufactured, all the diseases we thought we had beat are back, and taking us early. We can maybe scrounge around, find something to make him more comfortable . . .”

She looked at Eph. Gus did too. Eph didn’t care anymore; he pulled off his pack—where he had smuggled the Vicodin—and opened the zippered pouch and pulled out a baggie full of tablets. Dozens of tablets and pills in different shapes, colors, and sizes. He selected a pair of low-dosage Lorcets, some Percodans, and four two-milligram Dilaudid tabs.

“Start him with these,” he said, pointing to the Lorcets. “Save the Dilaudids for last.” The rest of the bag he turned over to Nora. “Take it all. I’m through with them.”

Gus looked at the pills in his hands. “These won’t cure him?”

“No,” said Nora. “Just manage his pain.”

“What about, you know, amputation? Cutting off his leg. I could do it myself.”

“It’s not just the knee, Gus.” Nora touched his arm. “I’m sorry. The way things are now, there’s just not much we can do.”

Gus stared at the drugs in his hand, dazed, as though he held there the broken pieces of Joaquin.

Fet entered, the shoulders of his duster wet from outside. He slowed a moment, struck by the strange scene of Eph, Gus, and Nora standing together in an emotional moment.

“He’s here,” said Fet. “Creem’s back. At the garage.”

Gus closed the pills in his fist. “You go. Deal with that piece of shit. I’ll be along.”

He went back inside to Joaquin, caressed his sweaty forehead, and helped him swallow the pills. Gus knew that he was saying good-bye to the last person in the world he cared for. The last person he really loved. His brother, his mother, his closest compas: all gone now. He had nothing left now.

Back outside, Fet looked at Nora. “Everything all right? You took a long time.”

“We were being followed,” she said.

Eph watched them embrace. He had to pretend as though he didn’t care.

“Mr. Quinlan get anywhere with the Lumen?” asked Eph once they parted.

“No,” said Fet. “It’s not looking good.”

The three of them headed across the Greek-amphitheater-like Low Plaza, past the library, and on to the edge of the campus, where the maintenance building stood. Creem’s yellow Hummer was parked inside the garage. The blinged-out leader of the Jersey Sapphires had his fat hand on a shopping cart full of semiautomatic weapons that Gus had promised him. The gang leader grinned wide, his silver-plated teeth glowing Cheshire Cat–like inside his considerable mouth.

“I could do some damage with these pop guns,” he said, sighting one out the open garage door. He looked at Fet, Eph, and Nora. “Where’s the Mex?”

“He’ll be along,” said Fet.

Creem, professionally suspicious, mulled this over before deciding it was okay. “You authorized to speak for him? I made that bean eater a fair offer.”

Fet said, “We are all well aware.”

“And?”

“Whatever it takes,” said Fet. “We have to see the detonator first.”

“Yeah, sure, of course. We can arrange that.”

“Arrange it?” said Nora. She looked at his ugly yellow truck. “I thought you were bringing it.”

“Bringing it? I don’t even know what the fuck it looks like. What am I, MacGyver? I show you where to go. Military arsenal. If this place don’t have it, I don’t know that anyplace does.”

Nora looked at Fet. It was clear she didn’t trust this Creem. “So, what, you’re offering us a ride to the store? That’s your great contribution?”

Creem smiled at her. “Intelligence and access. That’s what I bring to the table.”

“If you don’t have this thing yet . . . then why are you here now?”

Creem brandished the unloaded weapon. “I came for my guns, and for the Mex’s answer. And a little matter of ammunition to load up these babies.” He opened his driver’s-side door, reaching for something between the front seats: a map of Jersey, with a hand-drawn map paper-clipped to it.

Nora showed the maps to Fet and then Eph. “This is what you’re giving us. For the island of Manhattan.” She looked at Fet. “The Native Americans got a better deal than we are.”

Creem was amused. “That’s a map of the Picatinny Arsenal. You see there, it’s in the northern New Jersey skylands, so only about thirty, forty miles west of here. A giant military reserve that the bloodsuckers now control. But I got a way in. Been raiding munitions for months now. Drawn down on most of their ammo—why I need this here.” He patted the weapons as he loaded them into the back of his Hummer. “Started out in the Civil War as a place for the army to store gunpowder. It was military research and manufacturing before the vamp takeover.”

Fet looked up from the map. “They have detonators?”

Creem said, “If they don’t, nobody does. I seen fuses and timers. You gotta know what type you need. Your nuke here? Not that I know what I’m looking for.”

Fet didn’t answer that. “It’s about three feet by five feet. Portable, but not suitcase-small. Heavy. Like a small keg or a trash can.”

“You’ll find something that works. Or you won’t. I don’t make any guarantees, except that I can put you there. Then you take your toy far away and see how she goes. I don’t offer any money-back guarantees. Duds are your problem, not mine.”

Nora said, “You are offering us next to nothing.”

“You want to shop around for a few more years? Be my guest.”

Nora said, “I’m glad you find this so funny.”

“It’s all fucking funny to me, lady,” said Creem. “This whole world is a laugh factory. I laugh all day and night. What do you want me to do, bust out weeping? This vampire thing is one colossal joke, and the way I see it, you’re either in on the joke, or you’re out.”

“And you’re in on it?” said Nora.

“Put it to you this way, bald beauty,” said silver-toothed Creem. “I aim to have the last laugh. So you renegades and rebels better make sure you light the fuse on this fucking thing away from my island here. Take a bite out of . . . fucking Connecticut or something. But stay off my turf here. Part of the deal.”

Fet was smiling now. “What do you hope to do with this city once you own it?”

“I don’t even know. Who can think that far ahead? I never been a landlord before. This place is a fixer-upper but a one of a kind. Maybe turn this fucker into a casino. Or a skate rink—it’s all the same to you.”

Gus entered then. His hands were deep in his pockets, his face set tight. He was wearing dark glasses but if you looked carefully enough—like Nora did—you could see his eyes were red.

“Here he is,” said Creem. “Looks like we have a deal, Mex.”

Gus nodded. “We have a deal.”

Nora said, “Hold on. He’s got nothing except these maps.”

Gus nodded, still not really in the room yet. “How soon can we get it?”

Creem said, “How about tomorrow?”

Gus said, “Tomorrow it is. On one condition. You wait here tonight. With us. Lead us to it before first light.”

“Keeping an eye on me, Mex?”

“We’ll feed you,” said Gus.

Creem was won over. “Fair enough. I like my steak well-done, remember.” He swung his trunk door shut. “What’s your great plan, anyway?”

“You don’t really need to know,” said Gus.

“You can’t ambush this motherfucker.” Creem looked at them all. “Hope you know that.”

Gus said, “You can if you have something it wants. Something it needs. That is why I’m keeping my eye on you . . .”

Extract from the Diary of Ephraim Goodweather

Dear Zack,

This is my second time writing a letter that no father should ever have to write to his son: a suicide note. The first one I crafted before putting you on that train out of New York City, explaining my reasons for staying behind and fighting what I suspected was a losing battle.

Here I remain, still fighting that fight.

You were taken from me in the cruelest manner possible. For nearly two years now, I have pined for you, I have tried to find a way to set you free from the clutches of those who hold you. You think me dead, but no—not yet. I live, and I live for you.

I am writing this to you in the event that you survive me and that the Master survives me as well. In that case—which is for me the worst-case scenario—I will have committed a grave crime against humanity, or what was left of it. I will have traded the last hope for the freedom of our subordinated race in order that you, son, will live. Not only live, but live as a human being, unturned by the plague of vampirism spread by the Master.

My dearest hope is that you have by now come to the realization that the Master’s way is evil in its basest form. There is a very wise saying: “History is written by the victor.” Today I write not of history but of hope. We had a life together once, Zack. A beautiful life, and I include your mother in this also. Please remember that life, its sunlight, laughter, and simple joy. That was your youth. You have been made to grow up much too fast, and any confusion on your part as to who truly loves you and wants the best for you is understandable and forgivable. I forgive you everything. Please forgive my treachery on your behalf. My own life is a small price to pay for yours, but the lives of my friends, and the future of humanity—enormous.

Many times I have given up hope in myself, but never in you. I regret only that I will not see the man you will grow to be. Please let my sacrifice guide you onto the path of goodness.

And now I have one other very important thing to say. If, as I say, this plan comes off as I fear it might, then I have been turned. I am a vampire. And you must understand that, due to the bond of love I feel for you, my vampire self will be coming for you. It will never stop. If, by the time you read this, you have already slain me, I thank you. A thousand times, I thank you. Please feel no guilt, no shame, only the satisfaction of a good deed done well. I am at peace.

But if somehow you have not released me yet—please destroy me the next chance you get. This is my last request. You will want to cut down your mother too. We love you.

If you have found this diary where I intend to leave it—on your boyhood bed, in your mother’s house on Kelton Street in Woodside, Queens—then you will find, beneath the bed, a bag of weapons forged of silver that I hope will make your way easier in this world. It is all I have to bequeath you.

It is a cruel world, Zachary Goodweather. Do anything you can to make it better.

Your father,
Dr. Ephraim Goodweather

Columbia University

EPH
HAD
SKIPPED Gus’s promised meal in order to compose his letter to Zack in one of the empty classrooms down the hall from Joaquin. In doing so, Eph despised the Master at that moment more than he had at any other point in this long, terrible ordeal.

Now he looked over what he had just written. He read it through, trying to approach it as Zack would. Eph had never before considered this from Zachary’s perspective. What would his son think?

Dad loved me—yes.

Dad was a traitor to his friends and his people—yes.

Eph realized, reading this, how saddled with guilt Zack would be. To have the weight of the lost world upon his shoulders. His father having chosen slavery for all for the freedom of one.

Was that really an act of love? Or was that something else?

It was a cheat. It was the easy way out. Zack would get to live as a human slave—if the Master fulfilled its end of the bargain—and the planet would become a vampire’s nest for eternity.

Eph had the sensation of awakening, as though from a fever dream. How could he ever have considered this? It was almost as though, having allowed the Master’s voice into his head, he had also allowed a bit of corruption or insanity. As if the Master’s malignant presence had mentally nested inside Eph’s mind and started to metastasize. Thinking of this actually made him fear for Zack more than ever: he feared Zack being alive next to that monster.

Eph heard someone approaching from the hallway and quickly closed his diary and slid it underneath his pack—just as the door opened.

It was Creem, his bulk nearly filling the door frame. Eph had expected Mr. Quinlan, and Creem’s presence threw him off. At the same time, Eph was relieved: Mr. Quinlan would have seen right through his distress, Eph felt.

“Hey, doc. Looking for you. Alone time, huh?”

“Getting my head straight.”

“I was looking for that Dr. Martinez, but she’s busy.”

“I don’t know where she is.”

“Off somewhere with the big dude, the exterminator.” Creem walked in and closed the door, extending his arm, his sleeve rolled back to his thick elbow. A square pad bandage was adhered to his forearm. “I got this cut I need you to look at. I saw the Mex’s boy there, Joaquin. He’s downright fucked. I need this checked out.”

“Uh, sure.” Eph tried to clear his head. “Let’s see.”

Creem came forward, Eph digging a flashlight out of his pack, taking the man’s wide forearm in hand.

His skin color looked good under the bright beam.

“Peel it back for me,” said Eph.

Creem did, his sausage-thick fingers adorned with silver bling. The bandage pulled off wiry black hairs, but the man didn’t flinch.

Eph shone his flashlight down over the revealed flesh. No cut or abrasion.

“I don’t see anything,” said Eph.

Creem said, “That’s because there’s nothing to see.”

He pulled his arm back, standing there, looking at Eph. Waiting for Eph to figure it out.

Creem said, “The Master said I was to reach out to you in private.”

Eph nearly jumped backward. The flashlight fell from his hands, rolling to his foot. Eph picked it up, fumbling with it to turn off the beam.

The gang leader smiled silverly.

“It’s you?” said Eph.

“And you?” said Creem. “Didn’t make no sense.” Creem looked back at the closed door before continuing. “Listen, homeboy. You gotta be more present, you know? Gotta speak up more, play the part. You’re not working it hard enough.”

Eph barely heard him. “How long . . . ?”

“The Master came to me not too long ago. Fucking mowed down the rest of my crew. But I can respect that. This is the Master’s block now, you know?” A silver snap of his fingers. “But it spared me. The Master had other plans. Made me an offer—the same one I made you people.”

“Turn us in . . . for Manhattan?”

“Well, for a piece. A little black market, some sex trade, gambling. Said it would help keep people distracted and in line.”

“So this . . . this detonator . . . it’s all a lie.”

“Naw, that’s real. I was just supposed to infiltrate you people. It was Gus who came to me with the request.”

“What about the book?”

“That silver book you’re always whispering about? The Master didn’t say. That’s what you’re giving him?”

Eph had to play along here. So he nodded.

“You’re the last one I woulda thought. But hey—those others are soon gonna wish they’d made a deal before us.”

Creem smiled silverly again. His metallic expression sickened Eph.

Eph said, “You really think it’ll honor its deal with you?”

Creem made a face. “Why wouldn’t it? You expect it to honor yours?”

“I don’t even know about that.”

“You think it’ll fuck us?” Creem was getting angry. “Why? What are you getting outta this? Better not say this city.”

“My boy.”

“And?”

“That’s it.”

“That’s all? Your boy. For this fucking sacred book and your friends.”

“He’s all I want.”

Creem stepped back, acting impressed but—Eph could tell—thinking Eph a fool. “You know, I got to thinking, when I found out about you. Why two plans? What’s the Master thinking? Is it going to do both deals?”

“Probably neither,” said Eph.

Creem didn’t like the sound of that. “Anyway, it occurred to me—one of us is the backup plan. ’Cause, you do the deal first, what’s he need me for? I get fucked over, and you get the glory.”

“The glory of betraying my friends.”

Creem nodded. Eph should have paid more attention to Creem’s reaction, but he was too agitated now. Too torn. He saw himself reflected in this bloodless mercenary.

“I think the Master was trying to punk me. I think having the second deal is the same as having no deal. That’s why I told the others about the armory location. ’Cause they’re never gonna make it there. ’Cause Creem’s gotta make his move now.”

Eph became aware of the gangbanger’s closeness then. He checked the man’s hands, and they were empty—but balled into fists.

“Wait,” said Eph, sensing what Creem was about to do. “Hold on. Hear me out. I . . . I’m not going to do it. It was madness to even consider it. I’m not turning on these people—and you shouldn’t either. You know where a detonator is. We get that, hook it up to Fet’s bomb, and we go after the Master’s Black Site. That way we all get what we want. I get my boy back. You can have your chunk of real estate. And we nail that fucker once and for all.”

Creem nodded, appearing to weigh the offer. “Funny,” he said. “That’s exactly what I would say if the tables were turned and you were about to double-cross me. Adios, doc.”

Creem grasped Eph by his front collar, and there was no time to defend himself. The man’s fat fist and silvered knuckles came hurtling at the side of Eph’s head, and he didn’t feel the blow at first, only noticing the sudden twisting of the room, and then chairs scattering beneath the weight of his falling body. His skull smacked the floor and the room went white and then very, very dark.

The Vision

AS
USUAL, OUT of the fire came the figures of light. Eph stood there, immobile—overwhelmed as they approached him. His solar plexus was hit by the energy of one of them as it struck him full-on. Eph resisted, wrestled for what seemed an eternity. The second figure joined the match—but Ephraim Goodweather didn’t give up. He fought bravely, desperately, until he saw Zack’s face again, amid the glow.

“Dad—” Zack said, and then the flashpoint occurred again.

But this time Eph did not wake up. The image gave way to a new landscape of verdant green grass under a warm yellow sun, rippling in an unobtrusive breeze.

A field. Part of a farm.

Clear, blue sky. Scudding clouds. Lush trees.

Eph raised his hand to block the direct sun from his eyes so he could see better.

A simple farmhouse. Small, constructed of bright red bricks with a roof of black shingles. The house was a good fifty yards away—but he reached it in just three steps.

Smoke curled out of the pipe chimney in perfect, repeating formation. The breeze shifted, leveling out the smoke stream, and the exhaust formed into alphabet letters written as though in a neat hand.

. . . L E Y R Z O L E Y R Z O L E Y R Z O L E Y R Z O . . .

The smoky letters dissipated, becoming a light ash drifting to the grass. He bent over at the waist in a full jackknife and swiped the blades with his fingers, and found his pads sliced open, red blood oozing out.

A lone, four-paned window in the wall. Eph put his face to it, and when he breathed onto the glass, his breath cleared the opaque window.

A woman sat at the old table in the kitchen. Bright yellow hair, writing in a thick book with a quill made from a beautiful, oversized, brilliant silver feather, dipped in an inkwell filled with red blood.

Kelly turned her head, not all the way toward the window, just enough so that Eph knew that she felt him there. The glass fogged again, and when he breathed it clear, Kelly was gone.

Eph circled the farmhouse, looking for another window or a door. But the house was solid brick, and after one full rotation, he could not even find the wall with the original window. The bricks had darkened to black, and as he backed off from the structure, it became a castle. The ash had turned the grass black at his feet, further sharpening the blades so that every step slashed at his bare feet.

A shadow passed across the sun. It was winged, like a great bird of prey, banking fleetly before sailing away, the shadow fading into the darkening grass.

Atop the castle, a factory-sized smokestack chugged black ash into the sky, turning fair day into ominous night. Kelly appeared on one of the ramparts, and Eph yelled up to her.

“She can’t hear you,” Fet told him.

Fet wore his exterminator’s jumpsuit and smoked a corona, but his head was a rat’s head, his eyes small and red.

Eph looked up to the castle again, and Kelly’s blond hair blew away like smoke. Now she was bald Nora, disappearing inside the upper reaches of the castle.

“We have to split up,” said Fet, pulling the cigar from his mouth with a human hand, blowing silver-gray smoke that curled past his fine, black whiskers. “We don’t have much time.”

Fet the rat ran to the castle and squeezed himself headfirst into a crack in the foundation, somehow wriggling his big body in between two black stones.

Up top, a man now stood in the turret wearing a work shirt bearing the Sears insignia. It was Matt, Kelly’s live-in boyfriend, Eph’s first replacement as a father figure and the first vampire Eph had slain. As Eph looked at him, Matt suffered a seizure, his hands clawing at his throat. He convulsed, doubling over, hiding his face, contorting . . . until his hands came away from his head. His middle fingers stretched into thick talons, and the creature straightened, now a good six inches taller. The Master.

The black sky opened up then, rain pouring down from above, but the drops, when they landed, instead of the usual slapping patter noise, made a noise that sounded like “Dad.”

Eph stumbled away, turning and running. He tried to outpace the rain through the slashing grass, but drops pelted him at every step, shouting in his ears, “Dad! Dad! Dad!”

Until everything cleared. The rain stopped, the sky turning into a shell of crimson. The grass was gone and the dirt ground reflected the redness of the sky just as the ocean does.

In the distance, a figure approached. It appeared not too far away, but closer, Eph was able to better judge its size. It looked like a human male, but at least three times the height of Eph himself. It stopped some distance away, though its dimensions made it seem nearer.

It was indeed a giant, but its proportions were exactly correct. It was dressed, or bathed, in a glowing nimbus of light.

Eph tried to speak. He felt no direct fear of this creature. He only felt overwhelmed.

Something rustled behind the giant’s back. At once, two broad silver wings fanned open, their diameter longer even than the giant’s height. The gust from this action blew Eph back a step. Arms at its sides, the archangel—the only thing it could be—beat its wings two more times, whipping at the air and taking flight.

The archangel soared, its great wings doing all the work, arms and legs relaxed as it flew toward Eph with preternatural grace and ease. It landed in front of him, dwarfing Eph three times over. A few silver feathers slipped from its plumage, falling quill-first and sticking into the red earth. One floated toward Eph, and he caught it in his hand. The quill became an ivory handle, the feather a silver sword.

The massive archangel bent down toward Eph. Its face was still obscured by the nimbus of light it exuded. The light felt strangely cool, almost misty.

The archangel fixed its gaze on something behind Eph, and Eph—reluctantly—turned.

At a small dinner table poised on the edge of a cliff, Eldritch Palmer, once the head of the Stoneheart Group, sat dressed in his trademark dark suit with a red swastika armband around his right sleeve, using a fork and knife to eat a dead rat laid out on a china plate. A blur approached from the right, a large white wolf, charging toward the table. Palmer never looked up. The white wolf leaped at Palmer’s throat, knocking him from the chair, tearing at his neck.

The white wolf stopped and looked up at Eph—and came racing toward him.

Eph did not run or raise his sword. The wolf slowed near him, paws kicking up dirt. Palmer’s blood stained its snowy mouth fur.

Eph recognized the wolf’s eyes. They belonged to Abraham Setrakian, as did its voice.

“Ahsudau-wah.”

Eph shook his head with incomprehension, and then a great hand seized him. He felt the beating of the archangel’s wings as he was lifted away from the red land, the ground below shrinking and changing. They neared a large body of water, then banked right, flying over a dense archipelago. The archangel dipped lower, diving straight for one of the thousand islands.

They landed on a basin-shaped wasteland of twisted iron and smoking steel. Torn clothes and burned paper were strewn across the charred ruins; the small island was the ground zero of some catastrophe. Eph turned to the archangel, but it was gone—and in its place was a door. A simple door, standing alone in its frame. A sign affixed to it, written in black Magic Marker, illustrated with gravestones and skeletons and crosses, drawn in a young hand, read:

YOU MAY NOT LIVE BEYOND THIS POINT.

Eph knew this door. And the handwriting. He reached for the knob and opened it, stepping through.

Zack’s bed. Eph’s diary was set upon it, but instead of a tattered cover, the diary was faced in silver, front and back.

Eph sat down upon the bed, feeling the mattress’s familiar give, hearing it creak. He opened his diary, and its parchment pages were those of the Occido Lumen, handwritten with illuminated illustrations.

More extraordinary than that was the fact that Eph could read and comprehend the Latin words. He perceived the subtle watermarking that revealed a second layer of text behind the first.

He understood it. In that moment he understood all.

“Ahsudagu-wah.”

As though summoned by the utterance of this very word, the Master stepped through the wall-less door. He threw back the hood shadowing his face, and his clothes fell away; the light of the sun charred his skin, turning it crispy black. Worms wriggled beneath the flesh covering his face.

The Master wanted the book. Eph stood, the feather in his hand a fine sword of silver once again. But instead of attacking, he reversed his grip on the sword’s handle, holding it pointing down—as the Lumen instructed.

As the Master rushed at him, Eph drove the silver blade into the black ground.

The initial shockwave rode out over the earth in a watery ripple. The eruption that followed was of divine strength, a fireball of bright light that obliterated the Master and everything around it—leaving only Eph, staring at his hands, the hands that had done this. Young hands—not his own.

He reached up and felt his face. He was no longer Eph.

He was Zack.

AWAKENING
TO FIRE

Columbia University

AWAKE, GOODWEATHER.

The Born’s voice called Eph back to consciousness. He opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor, the Born standing over him.

What happened?

Leaving the vision for reality was a shock. Moving from sensory overload to sensory deprivation. Being in the dream had felt like being inside one of the Lumen’s illuminated pages. It had seemed more than real.

He sat up, now aware of the headache. The side of his face, sore. Above him, Mr. Quinlan’s face was its usual starkly pale self.

Eph blinked a few times, trying to shake off the lingering hypnotic effect of the vision, clinging to him like sticky afterbirth. “I saw it,” he said.

Saw what?

Eph heard a percussive beating sound then, growing louder, passing overhead, shaking the building. A helicopter.

We are under attack.

Mr. Quinlan helped him to his feet. “Creem,” said Eph. “He told the Master where we are.” Eph held his head. “The Master knows we have the Lumen.”

Mr. Quinlan turned and faced the door. He stood still, as though listening.

They have taken Joaquin.

Eph heard footsteps, soft and distant. Bare feet. Vampires.

Mr. Quinlan grabbed Eph’s arm and lifted him to his feet. Eph looked into Mr. Quinlan’s red eyes, remembering the dream’s end—then quickly put it out of his mind, focusing on the threat at hand.

Give me your spare sword.

Eph did, and after collecting his diary and throwing on his pack, he followed Mr. Quinlan into the corridor. They turned right, finding stairs leading down to the basement, where they entered the underground corridors. Vampires were already in the passages. Noises carried as though conducted on a current. Human yells and sword slashing.

Eph pulled out his sword, turning on his flashlight. Mr. Quinlan moved with great speed, Eph trying to keep up. In a flash, Mr. Quinlan zoomed ahead, and when Eph rounded the corner his beam of light found two decapitated vampires.

Behind you.

Another came out of a side room, Eph spinning and running it through the chest with his blade. The silver weakened it, and Eph withdrew the blade and quickly sliced through its neck.

Mr. Quinlan moved ahead, rushing into battles, slaying vampires before the creatures had a chance to attack. In this way they proceeded through the passageways of the subterranean asylum. A stairway marked with Gus’s fluorescent paint brought them to a passage that led to another stairway, back up into the basement of a campus building.

They exited the mathematics building near the center of the campus, behind the library. Their presence immediately attracted the attention of the invading vampires, who came running at them from all sides without regard for the silver weapons they faced. Mr. Quinlan, with his blazing speed and natural immunity to the infectious worms contained in their caustic white blood, cut down three times as many strigoi as Eph.

An army helicopter approached from the water, swooping overhead, curling hard over the campus buildings. Eph saw the gun mount, though his mind rejected the image at first. He saw the bald vampire head behind the long barrel, then heard the reports, yet still could not process it until he saw the rounds impact the stone walk near his feet—strafing gunfire heading for him and Mr. Quinlan. Eph turned with Mr. Quinlan and ran for cover, getting in under the overhang of the nearest building as the helicopter swung out to come around again.

They ran to the doorway, ducking out of sight for the moment but not entering the building—too easy to become trapped. Eph fumbled out his night scope and held it to his eye just long enough to see dozens of glowing green vampires entering the amphitheater-style quad, like undead gladiators called into battle.

Mr. Quinlan was still next to him, more still than usual. He stared straight ahead as though seeing something somewhere else.

The Master is here.

“What?” Eph looked around. “It must be here for the book.”

The Master is here for everything.

“Where is the book?”

Fet knows.

“You don’t?”

I last saw it in the library. In his hands as he looked for a facsimile to forge . . .

“Let’s go,” said Eph.

Mr. Quinlan did not hesitate. The giant, domed library was almost directly ahead of them, at the front of the quad basin. He raced out from the doorway and the overhang, slashing an oncoming vampire as he went. Eph followed fast, seeing the helicopter coming back around, wide to his right. He cut down the steps, then back up, the gun firing semiautomatic now, chips of granite pricking at his shins.

The helicopter slowed, hovering over the quad, affording the shooter more stability. Eph ducked between two thick pillars holding up the front portico of the library, partially shielding him from the gunfire. Ahead of him, a vampire got close to Mr. Quinlan and had, as its reward, its head manually torn off its torso. Mr. Quinlan held the door open for Eph, who ran inside.

He stopped halfway through the rotunda. Eph could feel the Master’s presence somewhere within the library. It wasn’t a scent or a vibration; it was the way the air moved in the Master’s wake, curling around itself, creating odd cross-currents.

Mr. Quinlan ran past him, into the main reading room.

“Fet!” called Eph, hearing noises like books falling in the distance. “Nora!”

No reply. He rushed after Mr. Quinlan, but with his sword out, moving it here and there, aware of the Master. He had lost Mr. Quinlan for the moment and so pulled out his flashlight, turning it on.

After nearly a year of disuse, the library had become profoundly dusty. Eph saw the dust hanging in the air in the bright cone of his beam. As he trained his light down along the stacks to an open area at the other end, he noticed a disruption in the dust, as from something moving faster than the eye could see. This disruption, this breathlike rearrangement of particles, moved straight toward Eph at incredible speed.

Eph was struck hard from behind and knocked down. He looked up above him just in time to see Mr. Quinlan take a hard swipe at the advancing air. His sword struck nothing, but on his follow-through he positioned his body to deflect the onrushing threat. The impact was tremendous, though Mr. Quinlan had the advantage of balance.

A stack of bookshelves collapsed next to Eph with tremendous force, the steel fixture driven into the carpeted floor. The loss of momentum revealed the Master, rolling off the downed shelves. Eph saw the dark lord’s face—a moment, just enough to see the worms scuttling madly beneath the surface of its flesh—staring at it before the creature righted itself.

A classic rope-a-dope. Mr. Quinlan had ducked out, drawing the Master to an unguarded Eph, only to blindside it as it attacked. The Master realized this at the same time Eph did, unused as it was to being duped.

BASTARD.

The Master was angry. It rose up and lashed out at Mr. Quinlan, unable to do any lasting damage because of the sword, but going in low and thrusting the Born into the facing book stack.

Then it started away, a black blur, back through the rotunda room.

Mr. Quinlan righted himself quickly and raised up Eph with his free hand. They went running after the Master, through the rotunda room, looking for Fet.

Eph heard a scream, identified it as belonging to Nora, and raced into a side room. He found her with his flashlight. Other vampires had entered from the opposite end, one of them threatening Nora from its perch at the top of a row of stacks, another pair pelting Fet with books. Mr. Quinlan launched himself from a chair, driving at the vampire atop the stacks, catching its neck in his free hand while running it through with his sword, and falling with it into the next row of stacks. That freed Nora to go after the book-hurling vampires. Eph could feel the Master but failed to find it with his flashlight. The marauders were purposeful distractions, Eph knew, but also legitimate threats. He raced down a lane parallel to Fet and Nora’s and met two more intruders coming through the far door.

Eph brandished his sword, but they did not stop. They ran at him and he ran straight at them. He slayed them easily—too easily. Their purpose was simply to occupy him. Eph encountered another one entering but, before attacking it, first risked a look back around the end of the row at Fet.

Fet was slashing and hacking, shielding his face and eyes from the books being thrown at him.

Eph turned and sidestepped the vampire that was nearly upon him, driving his blade through its throat. Another two appeared at the door. Eph made ready to fight them off when he was struck hard by a blow across his left ear. He turned with his flashlight beam and found another vampire standing astride the stacks, hurling books at him. Eph knew then that he had to get out of there.

As he cut down the oncoming pair of sacrificial strigoi, Eph saw Mr. Quinlan streak across the rear of the room. Mr. Quinlan shouldered the book-wielding nuisance off the stacks, launching the vampire across the room—then stopped. He turned in Fet’s direction, and, seeing this, so did Eph.

He watched Fet’s broad blade slice into another wilding vampire—just as the Master descended from the stacks above him, landing behind Fet. Fet was aware of the Master, somehow, and tried to turn and slash at it. But the Master gripped Fet’s backpack, pulling down sharply. The pack slipped back to Fet’s elbows, pinning his arms behind him.

Fet could have shaken free, but that would have meant relinquishing his pack. Mr. Quinlan leaped down off the book stack, racing at the Master. The Master used the thick, sharp nail of its talon-like middle finger to sever the padded shoulder straps, cutting the pack away from Fet even as Fet fought for it. Fet turned and lunged at the Master, and at his pack, with no regard for himself. The Master caught him one-handedly and hurled him—as easily as a book—directly at Mr. Quinlan.

Their collision was violent and loud.

Eph saw the Master with the book bag in hand. Nora faced him now, from the end of her row, standing before him, sword out. What Nora could not see—but the Master and Eph could—were two female vampires racing along the tops of the stacks behind her.

Eph yelled to Nora, but she was transfixed. The Master’s murmur. Eph yelled again, even as he moved, running sword-first at the Master.

The Master turned, deftly anticipating Eph’s attack—but not Eph’s aim. Eph sliced not at the Master’s body, but at the severed strap of the pack itself, just below the Master’s grip. He wanted the Lumen. He clipped the dangling strap and the bag dropped to the library floor. Eph’s momentum took him past the dodging Master—and the action was enough to break Nora’s trance. She turned and saw the strigoi above her, about to strike. Their stingers lashed out, but Nora’s silver sword kept them at bay.

The Master looked back at Eph with ferocious disgust. Eph was off balance and vulnerable to attack—but Mr. Quinlan was getting back on his feet. The Master scooped up the bag of books before Eph could and raced to the rear door.

Mr. Quinlan was up. The Born looked back at Eph, just for a moment, then turned and rushed out the door after the Master. He had no choice. They had to have that book.

Gus chopped at the bloodsucker running at him through the basement, hitting it again before it went down. He ran upstairs to the classroom where Joaquin was and found him lying atop the desk with his head on a folded blanket. He should have been deep in a narcotic sleep, but his eyes were open and staring at the ceiling.

Gus knew. There were no obvious symptoms—it was too early for that—but he could tell that Mr. Quinlan was right. A combination of the bacterial infection, the drugs, and the vampire sting had Joaquin in a stupor.

“Adios.”

Gus did away with him. One swift chop of his sword, and then he stood staring at the unholy mess he had made until the noises from the building stirred him back into action.

The helicopter had returned outside. He heard gunfire and wanted to get out there. But first he ran back into the underground passages. He attacked and slaughtered two unlucky vampires who intervened on his way to his power room. He broke all of his batteries off their chargers, dumping them into a bag with his lamps and his night scopes.

He was alone now—truly alone. And his hideout was blown.

He strapped one Luma lamp to his free hand and readied his sword and set off to fuck up some bloodsuckers.

Eph made his way to a flight of stairs, looking for an exit. He had to get outside.

A door gave way to a loading area and the humid coolness of the night air. Eph switched off his flashlight, trying to orient himself. No vampires, not at the moment. The helicopter was somewhere on the other side of the library, over the quad. Eph started off toward the maintenance garage, where Gus stored his larger weapons. They were vastly outnumbered, and this hand-to-sword combat worked in the Master’s favor. They needed more firepower.

As Eph ran from building to building, anticipating attacks from any direction, he became aware of a presence racing along the rooftops of the campus buildings. A creature following him. Eph caught only glimpses of a partial silhouette, but that was all he needed. He was certain he knew who it was.

As he approached the garage, he noticed a light on inside. That meant a lamp, and a lamp meant a human. Eph ran up to the entrance, close enough to see that the garage door was open. He saw the tricked-out silver grille of a vehicle, Creem’s yellow Hummer backed inside.

Eph had believed Creem to be long gone. Eph turned the corner and saw Creem’s unmistakable barrel-shaped shadow, loading tools and batteries into the rear of the vehicle.

Eph moved quickly but silently, hoping to sneak up on the much larger man. But Creem was on high alert, and something made him spin around, confronting Eph. He grabbed Eph’s wrist, immobilizing his sword arm, then flattened Eph against the Hummer.

Creem got right up in Eph’s face, so close Eph could smell the dog treats on his breath, could see the crumbs still stuck in his silver teeth. “Did you think I was going to be outplayed by some white-bread fuckup with a library card?”

Creem reared back his massive hand, forming a silver-knuckled fist. As he brought it forward toward Eph’s face, a thin figure ran at him from the front of the car, hooking his arm, driving the bigger Creem back toward the rear of the garage.

Eph came off the Hummer coughing for air. Creem was fighting off the intruder in the shadows of the back. Eph found his flashlight, turning it on.

It was a vampire, snarling and scratching at Creem, who was able to hold his own only because of the repellent silver bling on his fingers and the thick silver chains around his neck. The vampire hissed and weaved, slashing with its long talon finger at Creem’s thigh, cutting him, the pain such that the top-heavy Creem collapsed under his own weight.

Eph raised his flashlight beam to the vampire’s face. It was Kelly. She had saved him from Creem because she wanted Eph for herself. The flashlight reminded her of this, and she snarled into its brightness, leaving the wounded Creem and starting toward Eph.

Eph searched the cement floor of the garage for his sword but could not find it. He reached into his pack for his spare but remembered that Mr. Quinlan had taken it.

He had nothing. He backed up, hoping to nudge his fallen sword with his heel, but to no avail.

Kelly approached, crouched low, a sneer of anticipatory ecstasy crossing her vampire face. At long last, she was about to have her Dear One.

And then the look was gone, replaced by a startled expression of fear as she looked past Eph with narrow eyes.

Mr. Quinlan had arrived. The Born stepped next to Eph, its silver sword in hand, tipped in white blood.

Kelly went into full hissing mode, her body tense, ready to spring and escape. Eph did not know what words or sounds the Born was putting into her head, but they distracted and enraged her. He checked Mr. Quinlan’s other hand and did not see Fet’s bag. The book was gone.

Eph, by now at the Hummer’s front door, saw inside the automatic weapons that Gus had delivered to Creem. While the Born compelled Kelly, Eph went into the truck and grabbed the nearest weapon, wrapping its shoulder sling around his forearm. He stepped out and fired past Mr. Quinlan at Kelly, the machine gun suddenly coming to life in his hands.

He missed her with his first volley. Now she was moving, darting up and over the roof of the Hummer to avoid his fire. Eph went quickly around the rear of the truck, shooting at will, chasing the leaping Kelly back out of the garage, firing at her as she raced up the side of the building to the roof and away.

Eph went immediately back inside, to the rear, where Creem was on his feet, trying to get to the Hummer. Eph walked right up to him with the smoking-hot weapon pointed at the gang leader’s considerable chest.

“What the fuck was that?” yelled Creem, looking down at the blood staining his slashed pant leg. “How many of these bloodsuckers you got fighting over you?”

Eph turned to Mr. Quinlan. “What happened?”

The Master. It got away. Far away.

“With the Lumen.”

Fet and Nora came running inside, doubling over, out of breath.

“Watch him,” Eph told Mr. Quinlan before darting outside to cut down any pursuers. But he saw none.

Back inside, Fet was checking Nora for blood worms. They were still trying to catch their breath, exhausted from fright, the fight, and the escape.

“We gotta get the hell outta here,” said Fet between gasps.

“The Master has the Lumen,” said Eph.

“Is everyone all right?” said Nora, seeing Creem in back with Mr. Quinlan. “Where’s Gus?”

Eph said, “Did you hear me? The Master’s got it. It’s gone. We’re through.”

Nora looked at Fet and smiled. Fet made a swirling motion with his finger and she turned around so that Fet could unzip the pack on her back. He pulled out a parcel of old newspaper and unwrapped it.

Inside was the silverless Lumen.

“The Master got the Gutenberg Bible I was working on,” said Fet, smiling more at his own cleverness than the happy outcome.

Eph had to touch it to convince himself that it was real. He looked to Mr. Quinlan to confirm that it was.

Nora said, “The Master’s going to be pissed.”

Fet said, “No. It looks really good. I think he will be pleased . . .”

Eph said, “Holy shit.” He looked to Mr. Quinlan. “We should leave. Now.”

Mr. Quinlan grabbed Creed roughly by the thick back of his neck.

“What’s this?” asked Nora, referring to Mr. Quinlan’s rough treatment of Creem.

Eph said, “Creem is the one who brought the Master here.” He briefly pointed the weapon at the big man. “But he’s had a change of heart. Now he’s going to help us. He’s going to lead us to the armory to get the detonator. But first we need the bomb.”

Fet was wrapping up the Lumen and returning it to Nora’s backpack. “I can lead you there.”

Eph climbed into the driver’s seat, setting the machine gun on the broad dashboard. “Lead on.”

“Wait,” said Fet, jumping into the passenger seat. “First we need Gus.”

The others jumped in, and Eph started the engine. The headlamps came on, illuminating two vampires coming their way. “Hold on!”

He punched the gas, rolling out toward the surprised strigoi. Eph drove right into them, the creatures perishing on impact with the silver grille. He cut right, off the road, over a dirt lawn, bumping up two steps and onto a campus walkway. Fet took the machine gun and rolled down his window, climbing half out. He sprayed down any pairs or groups of strigoi advancing on them.

Eph turned the corner around one of the larger university halls, crushing an old bicycle rack. He saw the rear of the library and gunned it, avoiding a dry fountain and crushing two more straggling vampires. He came out around the front of the library and saw the helicopter hovering over the campus quad.

He was so focused on the helicopter that he did not see, until the last moment, the long flight of broad stone steps leading down in front of him. “Hang on!” he yelled, both to Fet, hanging outside the window, and to Nora, who was moving weapons in back.

The Hummer dipped down hard and jounced along the stairs like a yellow turtle bumping down a washboard set at a forty-five-degree angle. They rattled around fiercely inside the vehicle, Eph knocking his head against the roof. They bottomed out with a final jolt and Eph swung left, toward the Thinker statue set outside the philosophy building, near where the helicopter had been hovering.

“There!” yelled Fet, spotting Gus and his violet Luma lamp emerging from behind the statue, where he had taken cover from the chopper’s gunfire. The helicopter was turning now toward the truck, Fet raising his weapon and trying to fire one-handedly at the flying machine as he held on to the Hummer’s roof rack. Eph zoomed toward the statue, running down another vampire as he pulled up to Gus.

Fet’s gun choked dry. Shots from the helicopter drove him back inside, the gunfire just missing the truck. Gus came running up and saw Eph behind the wheel, then quickly reached in behind him, imploring Nora, “Give me one of those!”

She did, and Gus brought the machine gun to his shoulder, kicking off rounds at the helicopter overhead—first one at a time, drawing a bead on his target, then firing rapid bursts.

The return gunfire stopped, and Eph saw the helicopter pull back, turning fast, then lower its nose and start away. But it was too late. Gus had hit the Stoneheart pilot, who slumped over with his hand still on the joystick.

The helicopter listed and plummeted, dropping to the corner of the quad on its side, crushing another vampire beneath it.

“Fuck yeah,” said Gus, watching it go down.

The helicopter then burst into flames. Remarkably, a vampire came crawling out of the wreckage, fully engulfed, and started moving toward them.

Gus felled it with a single burst to the head.

“Get in!” yelled Eph over the ringing in his ears.

Gus looked inside the vehicle, ready to defy Eph, not wanting to be told what to do. Gus wanted to stay and slay every single bloodsucker who had dared invade his turf.

But then Gus saw Nora with the muzzle of her gun at Creem’s neck. That intrigued him.

“What’s this?” said Gus.

Nora kicked open her door. “Just get in!”

Fet directed Eph east across Manhattan, then south to the low nineties and east again to the water’s edge. No helicopters, no sign of anyone following them. The bright yellow Hummer was a little too obvious, but they had no time to switch vehicles. Fet showed Eph where to park it, stashed inside an abandoned construction site.

They hurried to the ferry terminal. Fet had always eyed a tugboat docked there, in case of emergency. “And I guess this is it,” he said, stepping behind the controls as they boarded the boat, pushing off into the rough East River.

Eph had taken over watching Creem from Nora. Gus said, “Somebody better explain this.”

Nora said, “Creem was in league with the Master. He gave away our position. He brought the Master to us.”

Gus walked to Creem, holding on to the side of the rocking tug. “Is that true?”

Creem showed his silver teeth. He was more proud than afraid. “I made a deal, Mex. A good one.”

“You brought the bloodsuckers into my crib? To Joaquin?” Gus cocked his head, getting up into Creem’s face. He looked like he was about to go off. “They hang traitors, you piece of shit. Or put them up in front of a firing squad.”

“Well, you should know, hombre, that I wasn’t the only one.”

Creem smiled and turned to Eph. Gus looked his way, as did all the others. “Is there something else we don’t know about?” asked Gus.

Eph said, “The Master came to me through your mother. It offered me a deal for my boy. And I was crazy or weak or whatever you want to call me. But I considered it. I . . . I kept my options open. I know now that it was a no-win, but—”

“So your big plan,” Gus said. “Your brainstorm to offer the book up to the Master as a trap. That was no trap.”

“It was,” said Eph. “If it was going to work. I was playing both sides. I was desperate.”

“We’re all fucking desperate,” said Gus. “But none of us would turn on our own.”

“I’m being honest here. I knew it was reprehensible. And I still considered it.”

At once, Gus charged at Eph with a silver knife in his hand. Mr. Quinlan, in a blaze of movement, got in front of him just in time, holding Gus back with a palm against his chest.

Gus said to Mr. Quinlan, “Let me at him. Let me kill him right now.”

Goodweather has something else to say.

Eph balanced himself against the motion of the boat, the lighthouse end of Roosevelt Island coming into view. He said, “I know where the Black Site is.”

Gus glared around Mr. Quinlan at him. “Bullshit,” he said.

“I saw it,” said Eph. “Creem knocked me out, and I had a vision.”

“You had a fucking dream?” said Gus. “He’s finally snapped! This guy is fucking insane!”

Eph had to admit it came out sounding more than a little crazy. He wasn’t sure how to convince them. “It was a . . . a revelation.”

“A traitor one minute, a fucking prophet the next!” said Gus, trying to get at Eph again.

“Listen,” said Eph. “I know how this sounds. But I saw things. An archangel came to me—”

“Oh fucking hell!” Gus said.

“—with great silver wings.”

Gus fought to get after him again, Mr. Quinlan intervening—only this time, Gus tried to fight the Born. Mr. Quinlan took the knife from Gus’s hand, nearly cracking his bones, then broke the knife in two and threw the pieces overboard.

Gus, gripping his sore hand, stood back from Mr. Quinlan like a kicked dog. “Fuck him, and his junkie bullshit!”

He wrestled with himself, like Jacob . . . like every leader ever to set foot on this earth. It is not faith that distinguishes our real leaders. It is doubt. Their ability to overcome it.

“The archangel . . . it showed me . . . ,” said Eph. “It took me there.”

“Took you where?” said Nora. “The site? Where is it?”

Eph feared the vision had started to fade from memory, like a dream. But it remained fixed in his consciousness, though Eph did not think it wise to repeat it now in great detail. “It’s on an island. One of many.”

“An island? Where?”

“Nearby . . . but I need the book to confirm. I can read it now, I’m positive. I can decipher it.”

“Right!” said Gus. “Just bring him the book! The same one he wanted to turn over to the Master! Just hand it over to him. Maybe Quinlan’s in on it too.”

Mr. Quinlan ignored Gus’s accusation.

Nora waved at Gus to be quiet. “How do you know you can read it?”

Eph had no way to explain it. “I just know.”

“It is an island. You said that.” Nora stepped toward him. “But why? Why were you shown this?”

Eph said, “Our destinies—even those of the angels—are given to us in fragments. The Occido Lumen had revelations that most of us ignored—given to a prophet, in a vision, and then consigned to a handful of lost clay tablets. It has always been like this: the clues, the pieces, that form God’s wisdom come to us through improbable means: visions, dreams, and omens. Seems to me that God sends the message, but leaves it up to us to decipher it.”

“You realize that you are asking us to trust a vision you had,” said Nora to Eph. “After just admitting to us that you were going to mislead us.”

“I can show you,” said Eph. “I know you don’t think you can trust me, but you can. You must. I don’t know why . . . but I think I can save us. I can save us all. Including Zack. By destroying the Master once and for all.”

“You’re fucking insane,” said Gus. “You were just a stupid asshole but now you are also fucking insane! I bet he knocked back some of the pills he gave Joaquin. He’s telling us about a fucking Ambien dream! The doc is a drug addict, and he’s tripping out. Or else he has the shakes. And we’re supposed to do what he says? After a dream about some angels?” Gus threw up his hands. “You believe that, then you people are as fucking crazy as he is.”

He is telling the truth. Or what he knows to be the truth.

Gus stared at Mr. Quinlan. “Is that the same as being right?”

Fet said, “I think I believe him.” Eph was moved by the nobility of Vasiliy. “I say, back at the blood camp, that sign in the sky was meant for him. There is a reason he had this vision.”

Now Nora looked at Eph as though she barely knew him. Any lingering familiarity she felt she had with him was gone now; he saw that. He was an object now, like the Lumen. “I think we have to listen to him.”

Belvedere Castle

ZACK
SAT
UPON the big rock inside the snow leopard’s habitat, underneath the branches of a dead tree. He sensed that something was up. Something weird. The castle always seemed to reflect the mood of the Master, in the same way that the weather instruments responded to changes in temperature and air pressure. Something was coming. Zack didn’t know how, but he felt it.

The rifle lay across his lap. He wondered if he would need to use it. He thought of the snow leopard that had once stalked these grounds. He missed his pet, his friend, and yet, in a sense, the leopard was still there with Zack. Inside him.

He saw movement outside the mesh wall. This zoo hadn’t seen another visitor in two years. He used the rifle sight to locate the intruder.

It was Zack’s mother, running his way. Zack had watched her enough to know agitation when he saw it. She slowed as she approached the habitat, seeing Zack inside. A trio of feelers came bounding after her on all fours, like puppies trailing their owner at dinnertime.

These blind vampires were her children now. Not Zack. Now, instead of her having been the one who changed—having turned into a vampire and departed the league of the living—Zack felt that it was he who had passed out of normal existence. That he was the one who had died, in relation to his mother, and lived before her now as a memory she could no longer remember, a ghost in her house. Zack was the strange one. The other.

For a moment, while he had her in his sights, he placed his index finger on the trigger, ready to squeeze. But then he relinquished his grip on the rifle.

He went out through the feeding door, exiting the rear of the habitat, going to her. It was subtle, her agitation. The way her arms hung, her fingers splayed. Zack wondered where she was coming from. And where did she go when the Master sent her out? Zack was her only living Dear One—so whom did she seek? And what now was the sudden emergency?

Her eyes were red and glowing. She turned and started away, commanding the feelers with her eyes, and Zack followed, his rifle at his side. They exited the zoo in time for Zack to see a large group of vampires—a regiment of the legion that ringed the castle of the Master—running through the trees toward the edge of the park.

Something was happening. And the Master had summoned him.

Roosevelt Island

EPH
AND NORA waited on the boat, docked on the Queens side of Roosevelt Island, around the northern point of Lighthouse Park. Creem sat watching them from the rear, watching their guns. Across the other side of the East River, Eph saw the lights of a helicopter between buildings, hovering in the vicinity of Central Park.

“What’s going to happen?” Nora asked him, the hood of her jacket keeping out the rain. “Do you know?”

“I don’t,” he said.

“We’re going to make it, right?”

Eph said, “I don’t know that.”

Nora said, “You were supposed to say yes. Fill me with confidence. Make me believe that we can do this.”

“I think we can.”

Nora was soothed by the calm in his voice. “And what do we do about him?” she asked, referring to Creem.

“Creem will cooperate. He will take us to the arsenal.”

Creem huffed at that.

“Because what else does he have?” said Eph.

“What else do we have?” echoed Nora. “Gus’s hideout is blown. So is your place at the ME’s office. Now Fet’s hideaway here, Creem knows about it.”

“We’re out of options,” said Eph. “Though really we’ve only had two options all along.”

“Which were?” said Nora.

“Quit or destroy.”

“Or die trying,” she added.

Eph watched the helicopter take off again, zooming north over Manhattan. The darkness wouldn’t shield them from vampire eyes. The crossing back would be dangerous.

Voices. Gus and Fet. Eph made out Mr. Quinlan with them, cradling something in his arms, like a beer keg wrapped in a tarpaulin.

Gus climbed in first. “They try anything?” he asked Nora.

Nora shook her head. Eph realized then that she had been left there to keep an eye on both of them, as though he and Creem might try to sail away and strand the others on the island. Nora appeared embarrassed that Gus had let Eph learn this.

Mr. Quinlan boarded, the boat dipping down under his weight and the weight of the device. Yet he set it down easily on the deck, a testament to his great strength.

Gus said, “So let’s see this bad boy.”

“When we get there,” said Fet, hurrying to the controls. “I don’t want to open up that thing in this rain. Besides, if we’re going to get inside this army arsenal, we have to make it there by sunup.”

Gus sat on the floor against the side of the boat. The wetness didn’t seem to bother him. He positioned himself and his gun so that he could keep an eye on both Creem and Eph.

They made it back across to the pier, Mr. Quinlan carrying the device to Creem’s yellow Hummer. The oak urns had been loaded previously.

Fet took the wheel, driving north across the city, heading for the George Washington Bridge. Eph wondered if they would hit any roadblocks but then realized that the Master still did not know their direction or destination. Unless . . .

Eph turned to Creem, wedged tight in the backseat. “Did you tell the Master about the bomb?”

Creem stared at him, weighing the pros and cons of answering truthfully.

He did not.

Creem looked at Mr. Quinlan with great annoyance, confirming Mr. Quinlan’s read of him.

No roadblock. They drove off the bridge into New Jersey, following signs for Interstate 80 West. Eph had dented up Creem’s silver grille nudging a few cars out of the way, in order to clear their path, but they encountered no major obstructions. While they were stopped at an intersection, trying to figure out which way to turn, Creem tried to grab Nora’s weapon and make a break for it. But his bulk prevented him from making any quick movement, and he ate Mr. Quinlan’s elbow, denting his silver grille, just like that of his Hummer.

If their vehicle had been made along the way, the Master would have immediately known their location. But the river, and the proscription against crossing moving bodies of water of their own volition, should have slowed the slaves of the Master who pursued them, if not the Master himself. So it was just the Jersey vampires they had to worry about at the moment.

The Hummer was a fuel guzzler, and the gas-gauge needle leaned close to “E.” They were also racing time, needing to reach the armory at sunup while the vampires slept. Mr. Quinlan made Creem talk, giving them directions.

They pulled off the highway and zoomed toward Picatinny. All sixty-five hundred acres of the vast army installation were fenced. Creem’s way inside involved parking in the woods and trekking a half mile through a swamp.

“No time for that,” said Fet, the Hummer running on fumes. “Where’s the main entrance?”

“What about daylight?” said Nora.

“It’s coming. We can’t wait.” He rolled down Eph’s window and pointed to the machine gun. “Get ready.”

He pulled in, heading straight for the gate, whose sign read, PICATINNY
ARSENAL
THE
JOINT
CENTER
OF
EXCELLENCE
FOR
ARMAMENTS
AND
MUNITIONS, and passed a building labeled VISITOR
CONTROL. Vamps came out of the guard shack, Fet blinding them with his high beams and roof-rack lights before ramming them with the silver grille. They went down like milk-filled scarecrows. Those who avoided the Hummer’s swath of destruction danced at the end of Eph’s machine gun, which he fired out from a sitting position, balanced out of the passenger window.

They would communicate Eph’s location to the Master, but the coming dawn—just starting to lighten the swirling black clouds overhead—gave the rest of them a couple of hours’ head start.

That did not account for the human guards, a few of which came out of the visitors center after the Hummer had passed. They were rushing toward their security vehicles as Fet took a corner, wheeling through what looked like a small town. Creem pointed the way toward the research area, where he believed there to be detonators and fuses. “Here,” he said as they approached a block of low-lying, unlabeled buildings. The Hummer coughed and lurched, and Fet turned into a side lot, rolling to a stop. They hopped out, Mr. Quinlan hauling huge Creem from the car like a load of laundry, then pushing the Hummer into a carport space half-hidden from the road. He opened the back and lifted out the nuclear device like luggage, while everyone else, except Creem, grabbed guns.

Inside the unlocked door was a research and development warehouse that had evidently not seen any activity in some time. The lights worked, and the place looked picked over, like a store selling off all its wares at a discount, and the display shelves too. All lethal weapons had been taken, but nonlethal devices and parts remained, on draftsman’s tables and work desks.

“What are we looking for?” asked Eph.

Mr. Quinlan set down the package. Fet pulled off the tarp. The device looked like a small barrel: a black cylinder with buckled straps around its sides and over its lid. The straps bore Russian lettering. A tuft of wires sprouted out of the top.

Gus said, “That’s it?”

Eph examined the tangle of thick, braided wires that ran from beneath the lid. “You’re sure about this thing?” he asked Fet.

“No one’s going to be absolutely sure until this thing mushrooms up to the sky,” said Fet. “It’s a one-kiloton yield, small by nuclear-weapons standards but plenty big for our needs. It’s a fission bomb, low efficiency. Plutonium pieces are the trigger. This thing will take out anything within a half-mile radius.”

“If you can detonate it,” said Gus. “How can we match up Russian and American parts?”

“It works by implosion. The plutonium is projected toward the core like bullets. It’s all laid in there. What we need is something to start the shock wave.”

Nora said, “Something with a delay.”

“Exactly,” said Fet.

“And you’ll have to do it on the fly. We don’t have much time.” She looked at Gus. “Can you get another vehicle together for us? Maybe two?”

Gus nodded. “You people hot-wire this nuclear bomb, I’ll go hot-wire some cars.”

Nora said, “That leaves only one more thing.”

She walked over to Eph and pulled off her pack.

She handed it to him. The Lumen was inside.

“Right,” said Eph, intimidated now that the time was here. Fet was already digging through discarded devices. Mr. Quinlan stood near Creem. Eph found a door that led to a hallway of offices and picked one that was void of any personal effects. A desk, a chair, a file cabinet, and a blank, wall-sized whiteboard.

He pulled the Lumen from Nora’s bag and set it upon the nicked desk. Eph took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind, then opened the first pages. The book felt very ordinary in his hands, nothing like the magical object from his dream. He turned the pages slowly, remaining calm when nothing happened at first, no lightning bolts of inspiration or revelation. The silver threading in the illuminated pages looked dull to his eye underneath the fluorescent ceiling fixtures, the text flat and lifeless. He tried the symbols, touching the page with his fingertips.

Still nothing. How could this be? Perhaps he was just too nervous, too amped up. Nora appeared at his door, Mr. Quinlan behind her. He shaded his eyes with his hands to block them out—trying to block everything out, most important, his own doubts. He closed the book and closed his eyes, trying to force himself to relax. Let the others think what they wanted to think. He went inward. He went to thoughts of Zack. Of freeing his son from the clutches of the Master. To ending this darkness on Earth. To the higher angels flying around inside his head.

He opened his eyes and sat up. He opened the book with confidence. He took his time looking at the text. Studying the same illustrations he had looked at one hundred times before. It wasn’t just a dream, he told himself. He believed this. But, at the same time, nothing was happening. Something was wrong, something was off. The Lumen was holding on to all of its secrets.

“Maybe if you try to sleep,” suggested Nora. “Enter it through your subconscious.”

Eph smiled, appreciating her encouragement, having expected derision. The others wanted him to succeed. They needed him to succeed. He could not let them down.

Eph looked to Mr. Quinlan, hoping the Born had some suggestion or insight.

It will come.

These words made Eph doubt himself more than ever. Mr. Quinlan had no idea, other than faith, faith in Eph, while Eph’s own faith was fading. What have I done? he thought. What will we do now?

“We’ll leave you alone,” said Nora, backing away, closing the door.

Eph shook off his despair. He sat back in the chair and rested his hands upon the book and closed his eyes, waiting for something to happen.

He drifted, at times, but kept waking up, having no luck directing his dreams. Nothing came to him. He tried reading the text two more times before giving up, slamming the book shut, and dreading the walk back out to the others.

Heads turned, Fet and Nora read his expression and his posture, their expectations dashed. Eph had no words. He knew that they understood his distress and frustration, but that didn’t make failure any more acceptable.

Gus came in, shaking rain off his jacket. He passed Creem sitting on the floor near Mr. Quinlan and the nuclear device.

“I got us two rides,” said Gus. “A big army Jeep, enclosed, and an Explorer.” He looked at Mr. Quinlan. “We can get the silver grille onto the Jeep, if you want to help me. They run, but no guarantees. We’ll have to siphon more fuel along the way, or else find a working gas station.” He looked to Fet.

Fet held up his device. “All I know is this is a weatherproof fuse that you can set by hand. Either immediate or delay mode. Just turn this switch.”

“How long is the delay?” asked Gus.

“Not sure. At this point, we’ll have to take what we can get. The wire connections look like they will match up.” Fet shrugged, indicating that he had done as much as he could do. “All we need now is a destination.”

Eph said, “I must be doing something wrong. Or something we forgot, or . . . something I just don’t know.”

Fet said, “We’ve burned up most of the daylight. When night falls they’re going to start coming for us. We have to move on from here, regardless.”

Eph nodded fast, gripping the book. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to tell you.”

Gus said, “We’re done. That’s what you’re telling us.”

Nora said to Eph, “You didn’t get anything from the book? Not even—”

Eph shook his head.

“What about the vision? You said it’s an island.”

“One of dozens of islands. Over twelve in the Bronx alone, eight or so in Manhattan, half a dozen in Staten Island . . . Like at the mouth of a giant lake.” Eph searched his tired mind. “That’s all I know.”

Nora said, “We can maybe find some military maps. Somewhere around here.”

Gus laughed. “I’m crazy for going along with this, for trusting a crazy coward traitor. For not killing you and saving me this misery.”

Eph noticed Mr. Quinlan doing his usual silent thing. Standing there with arms folded, patiently waiting for something to happen. Eph wanted to go to him, to tell the Born that his faith in Eph was misplaced.

Fet intervened before Eph could. “Look,” he said. “After all we’ve been through—all that we’re going through—there’s nothing I can tell you that you don’t know yourself. I just want you to remember the old man for a second. He died for that thing in your hands, remember. He sacrificed himself so that we would have it. I’m not saying this to put any more pressure on you here. I’m saying it to take the pressure away. The pressure’s gone, as far as I can see. We’re at the end. We’ve got no more. You’re it. We’re with you, thumbs up or thumbs down. I know you’re thinking about your boy; I know it eats at you. But just think about the old man for a moment. Reach down deep. And if there is anything there, you’ll find it—you’ll find it now.”

Eph tried to imagine Professor Setrakian there with him right now, wearing his tweed suit, leaning on the oversized wolf’s-head walking stick that hid his silver blade. The vampire scholar and killer. Eph opened the book. He recalled the one time Setrakian got to touch and read these pages he had sought for decades, just after the auction. Eph turned to the illustration Setrakian had shown them, a two-page spread showing a complex mandala in silver, black, and red. Over the illustration, on tracing paper, Setrakian had laid the outline of a six-limbed archangel.

The Occido Lumen was a book about vampires—not, Eph realized, a book for vampires. Silver-faced and -edged in order to keep it out of the hands of the dread strigoi. Painstakingly designed to be vampire-proof.

Eph thought back to his vision . . . finding the book upon the outdoor bed . . .

It had been daylight . . .

Eph walked to the door. He opened it and stepped out into the parking lot, looking up at the swirling dark clouds beginning to efface the pale orb of the sun.

The others followed him outside into the gloaming, except for Mr. Quinlan, Creem, and Gus, who remained at the door.

Eph ignored them, turning his gaze to the book in his hands. Sunlight. Even if vampires could somehow circumvent the silver protections of the Lumen, they could never read it by natural light, due to the virus-killing properties of the ultraviolet C range.

He opened the book, tipping its pages toward the fading sun like a face basking in the last of the day’s warmth. The text took on new life, jumping off the ancient paper. Eph flipped to the first of the illustrations, the inlaid silver strands sparkling, the image bright with new life.

He quickly searched the text. Words appeared behind words, as though written in invisible ink. Watermarks changed the very nature of the illustrations, and detailed designs emerged behind otherwise bare pages of straightforward text. A new layer of ink reacted to the ultraviolet light . . .

The two-page mandala, viewed in direct sunlight, evinced the archangel image in a delicate hand, appearing quite silver against the aged paper.

The Latin text did not quite translate itself as magically as it had in his dream, but its meaning became clear. Most elucidating was a diagram revealed in the shape of a biohazard symbol, with points inside the flower arranged like points on a map.

On another page, certain letters were highlighted, which, when put together, formed a peculiar yet familiar word:

A H S U D A G U–W A H.

Eph read quickly, the insights leaping into his brain through his eyes. The pale sunlight faded quickly at the end, and so did the book’s enhancements. So much more to read and to learn. But for now, Eph had seen enough. His hands continued to tremble. The Lumen had shown him the way.

Eph walked back inside past Fet and Nora. He felt neither relief nor exhilaration, still vibrating like a tuning fork.

Eph looked at Mr. Quinlan, who saw it in his face.

Sunlight. Of course.

The others knew something had happened. Except for Gus, who remained skeptical.

“Well?” said Nora.

Eph said, “I’m ready now.”

“Ready for what?” said Fet. “Ready to go?”

Eph looked at Nora. “I need a map.”

She ran off into the offices. They heard desk drawers slamming.

Eph just stood there, like a man recovering from an electric shock. “It was the sunlight,” he explained. “Reading the Lumen in natural sunlight. It was like the pages opened up for me. I saw it all . . . or would have, if I’d had more time. The original Native American name for this place was ‘Burned Earth.’ But their word for ‘burned’ is the same as ‘black.’ ”

Oscura. Dark.

“Chernobyl, the failed attempt—the simulation,” said Fet. “It appeased the Ancients because ‘Chernobyl’ means ‘Black Soil.’ And I saw a Stoneheart crew excavating sites around a geologically active area of hot springs outside Reykjavik known as Black Pool.”

“But there are no coordinates in the book,” said Nora.

“Because it was beneath the water,” said Eph. “At the time Ozryel’s remains were cast away, this site was underwater. The Master didn’t emerge until hundreds of years later.”

The youngest one. The last.

A triumphant yell, and then Nora came running back with a sheaf of oversized topographical maps of the northeastern United States, with cellophane street atlas overlays.

Eph flipped the pages to New York State. The top part of the map included the southern region of Ontario, Canada.

“Lake Ontario,” he said. “To the east here.” At the mouth of the Saint Lawrence River, east of Wolfe Island, a cluster of tiny, unnamed islands was grouped together, labeled “Thousand Islands.” “It’s there. One of those. Just off the New York coast.”

“The burial site?” said Fet.

“I don’t know what its name is today. The original Native American name for the island was ‘Ahsudagu-wah.’ Roughly translated from the Onondaga language as ‘Dark Place’ or ‘Black Place.’ ”

Fet slid the road atlas out from beneath Eph’s hands, flipping back to New Jersey.

“How do we find the island?” said Nora.

Eph said, “It’s shaped roughly like the biohazard symbol, like a three-petaled flower.”

Fet quickly plotted their course through New Jersey into Pennsylvania, then north to the top of New York State. He ripped out the pages. “Interstate Eighty West to Interstate Eighty-one North. Gets us right to the Saint Lawrence River.”

“How long?” said Nora.

“Roughly three hundred miles. We can do that in five or six hours.”

“Maybe straight highway time,” said Nora. “Something tells me it won’t be as simple as that.”

“It’s going to figure out which way we’re headed and try to cut us off,” Fet said.

“We have to get going,” said Nora. “We barely have a head start as it is.” She looked to the Born. “Can you load the bomb in the—”

When her voice dropped off, the others turned in alarm. Mr. Quinlan stood next to the unwrapped device. But Creem was gone.

Gus ran to the door. “What the . . . ?” He came back to the Born. “You let him get away? I brought him into this thing—I was going to take him out.”

We don’t need him anymore. And yet he can still be of use to us.

Gus stared. “How? That rat bastard doesn’t deserve to live.”

Nora said, “What if they catch him? He knows too much.”

He knows just enough. Trust me.

“Just enough?”

To draw fear from the Master.

Eph understood now. He saw it as plain as he had the symbolism in the Lumen. “The Master will be on his way here; that’s guaranteed. We need to challenge it. To scare it. The Master pretends to be above all emotion, but I have seen it angry. It is, going back to biblical times, a vengeful creature. That hasn’t changed. When it administers its kingdom dispassionately, then it is in complete control. It is efficient and detached, all-seeing. But when it is challenged directly, it makes mistakes. It acts rashly. Remember, it became possessed of a bloodlust after laying siege to Sodom and Gomorrah. It murdered a fellow archangel in the grip of a homicidal mania. It lost control.”

“You want the Master to find him?”

“We want the Master to know we have the nuke and the means to detonate it. And that we know the location of the Black Site. We have to get it to overcommit. We have the upper hand now. It’s the Master’s turn to be desperate.”

To be afraid.

Gus stepped up to Eph then. Standing close, trying to read Eph the way Eph had read the book. Taking the measure of the man. Gus held in his hands a small carton of smoke grenades, some of the nonlethal weapons the vampires had left behind.

“So now we have to protect the guy who was going to stab us all in the back,” said Gus. “I don’t get you. And I don’t get this—any of this, but especially you being able to read the book. Why you? Of all of us.”

Eph’s response was frank and honest. “I don’t know, Gus. But I think that part of this is I’m going to find out.”

Gus wasn’t expecting such a guileless response. He saw in Eph’s eyes the look of a man who was scared, and also accepting. Of a man resigned to his fate, whichever way it went.

Gus wasn’t ready to drink the Kool-Aid yet, but he was ready to commit to the final leg of this journey. “I think we’re all going to find out,” he said.

Fet said, “The Master most of all.”

The Dark Place

THE
THROAT
WAS buried deep in the earth beneath the cold Atlantic sea. The silt around it had turned black upon contact with it and nothing would grow or live near it.

The same was true of every other site where the remains of Ozryel were interred. The angelic flesh remained incorrupt and unchanged, but its blood seeped into the earth and slowly radiated out. The blood had a will of its own, each strand moving blindly, instinctively upward, traversing the soil, hidden from the sun, seeking a host. This is the manner in which the blood worms were born. Within them they contained the remnant of the human blood, tinting their tissue, guiding them toward the scent of their potential host. But also within them they carried the will of their original flesh. The will of the arms, the wings, the throat . . .

Their thin bodies wriggled blindly for the longest distances. Many of the worms died, infertile emissaries baked by the merciless heat of the earth or stopped by a geological obstacle that proved impossible to negotiate. They all strayed from their birth sites, some even transported away along with the earth on unwitting insect or animal vectors. Eventually they found a host—and they dug in the flesh, like a dutiful parasite, burrowing deep. In the beginning, it took the pathogen weeks to supplant, to hijack, the will and the tissue of the infected victim. Even parasites and viruses learn through trial and error—and learn they did. By the fifth human host body, the Ancients began to master the art of survival and supplantation. They extended their domain through infection, and they learned to play by the new earthbound rules of this game.

And they became masters at it.

The youngest one, the last to be born, was the Master, the throat. God’s capricious verbs gave movement to the very earth and the sea and made them clash and push upward the land that formed the Master’s birth site. It was a peninsula and then, hundreds of years later, an island.

The capillary worms that emanated from the throat were separated from their site of origin and wandered away the farthest, for in this newly formed land, humans had not yet set foot. It was useless and painful to try to nurture or dominate a lower form of life, a wolf or a bear; their control was imperfect and limited, and their synapses were alien and short-lived. Each of these invasions proved fruitless, but the lesson learned by one parasite was instantly learned by the hive mind. Soon their numbers were reduced to only a handful, scattered far away from the birth site: blind, lost, and weak.

Under a cold autumn moon a young Iroquois brave set camp on an earth patch dozens of miles from the birth site of the throat. He was an Onondaga—a keeper of the fire—and as he lay down on the ground, he was overtaken by a single capillary worm, burying itself into his neck.

The pain awakened the man and he instantly reached for the wounded area. The worm was still not entirely burrowed in, so he was able to grab the tail end of it. He pulled with all his might, but the thing wiggled and squirmed against his efforts and finally slipped from his grip, digging into the muscular structure of his neck. The pain was unbearable, like a slow, burning stab, as it wriggled down his throat and chest and finally disappeared under his left arm as the creature blindly discovered his circulation system.

As the parasite overtook the body, a fever started, lasting for almost two weeks and dehydrating its host body. But once the supplantation was complete, the Master sought refuge in the darkened caves and the cold, soothing filth in them. It found that, for reasons beyond its comprehension, the soil in which it overtook its host body provided it with the most comfort, and so it carried around a small clump of earth wherever it went. By now the worms had invaded and taken nourishment from almost every organ in the host’s body, multiplying in his bloodstream. His skin grew taut and pale, contrasting sharply with his tribal tattoos and his ravenous eyes, veiled by the nictitating membrane, glowing brightly in the moonlight. A few weeks went by without any nourishment but finally, close to dawn, he fell upon a group of Mohawk hunters.

The Master’s control over its vehicle was still tentative, but thirst compensated for fighting precision and ability. The transference was faster the next time—multiple worms going into each victim through the wet stinger. Even when the attacks were clumsy and barely completed, they accomplished their end. Two of the hunters fought bravely, their throw-axes doing damage to the body of the possessed Onondaga warrior. But, in the end, even as that body slowly bled out into the earth, the parasites overtook the bodies of their attackers and soon the pack multiplied. Now the Master was three.

Through the years, the Master learned to use its skills and tactics to suit its needs for secrecy and stealth. The land was inhabited by fierce warriors and the places where it could hide were limited to caves and crevices that were well-known to hunters and trappers. The Master seldom transmitted its will into a new body and only did so if the stature or strength of a new host was overwhelmingly desirable. And through the years it gained in legend and name and the Algonquian Indians called it the wendigo.

It longed to commune with the Ancients, whom it naturally sensed and whose empathic beacon it felt across the sea. But every time it attempted to cross running water its human body would fail and be struck by a seizure, no matter the might of the occupied body. Was this tied to the place of his dismemberment? Trapped within the flowing arms of the river Yarden? Was it a secret alchemy, a deterrent written upon his forehead by the finger of God? This and many other rules it would come to learn during its existence.

It moved west and north looking for a route to the “other land,” the continent where the Ancients were thriving. It felt their call—and the urge inside it grew, sustaining the Master over the grueling trek from one edge of the continent to the other.

It reached the forbidding ocean in the frozen lands at the uppermost northwest, where it hunted and fed on the inhabitants of that cold wasteland, the Unangam. They were men of narrow eyes and tanned skin, who wore animal pelts for warmth. The Master, entering the minds of its victims, learned of a crossing to a great land on the other side of the sea, at a place where the shores almost touched, reaching like outstretched hands. It scouted the cold shore, searching for this launching point.

One fateful night, the Master saw a cluster of narrow, primitive fishing ships near a cliff, unloading the fish and seal they had hunted. The Master knew it could cross the ocean aided by them. It had learned to ford smaller bodies of water with human assistance, so why not a larger one? The Master knew how to bend and terrorize the soul of even the hardest man. It knew how to gain and feed upon the fear of its subjects. The Master would kill half the group and announce itself as a deity, a fury of the wood, an elemental force of grander power than his already amazing one. It would suffocate any dissidence and gain every alliance either by pardon or by favor . . . and then it would travel across the waters.

While hidden beneath a heavy coat of pelts, lying upon a small bed of soil, the Master would attempt the crossing that would reunite it with those closest to its nature.

Picatinny Armory

CREEM
HID
IN another building for a while, scared of that Quinlan dude and what his reach was. Creem’s mouth still hurt from the elbow he had taken, and now his silver teeth wouldn’t bite right. He was pissed at himself for going back to the maintenance garage at the university for the guns, for being greedy. Always so hungry for more, more, more . . .

After a while, he heard a car go past, but not too fast, and quiet. It sounded like an electrical car, one of those plug-in compacts.

He headed out toward the one place he used to avoid, the front entrance of Picatinny Armory. Darkness had fallen again, and he walked toward a cluster of lights, wet and hungry and holding the cramp in his side. He turned the corner and saw the smashed gate where they had entered and beings clustered near the Visitor Control building. Creem put his hands up and walked until they saw him.

He explained himself to the humans, but they put him in a locked bathroom anyway, when all Creem wanted was something to eat. He kicked at the door a few times, but it was surprisingly solid; he realized the restroom had doubled as a secret holding cell for problem visitors to the armory. So he sat back on the closed toilet seat and he waited.

A tremendous crash, almost like a blast, shook the walls. The building had taken a blow, and Creem’s first thought was that those assholes had hit a speed bump on the way out and nuked half of Jersey. Then the door opened and the Master stood there in its cloak. It carried a wolf’s-head walking stick in one hand. Two of its little critters, the blind children, scampered around its legs like eager pets.

Where are they?

Creem sat back against the tank of the toilet, oddly relaxed now in the king bloodsucker’s presence.

“They’re gone. They hit the road. Little while ago.”

How long?

“I don’t know. Two vehicles. At least two.”

Which direction?

“I was locked in a fucking bathroom here, how would I know? That vampire they got on their side, the hunter, Quinlan—he’s an asshole. Dented my grille.” Creem touched the unaligned silver in his mouth. “So, hey, do me a favor? When you catch them? Give him and the Mexican an extra kick in the head from me.”

They have the book?

“They got that book. They have a nuclear bomb too. And they know where they are headed. Some Black Site or something.”

The Master stood there, saying nothing. Creem waited. Even the feelers noticed the Master’s silence.

“I said they’re heading for—”

Did they say where?

The Master’s speech pattern was different. The timing of his words was slower.

Creem said, “You know what I could use to jog my memory? Some food. I’m getting weak with fatigue here—”

At once the Master swooped in and gathered Creem in its hands, holding him up off the floor.

Ah yes, said the Master, its stinger slipping from its mouth. Nourishment. Perhaps a bite would help us both.

Creem felt the stinger press against his neck.

I asked you where they are going.

“I . . . I don’t know. The doc, your other little friend there—he read it in that book. All I know.”

There are other ways to ensure your total compliance.

Creem felt a soft, piston-like thump against his neck. Then a pinprick, and a gentle warmth. He shrieked, expecting to be emptied.

But the Master just held his stinger there and squeezed Creem’s shoulders together, Creem feeling pressure against his shoulder blades and his clavicle, as though the Master was about to crush him like a tin can.

You know these roads?

“Do I know these roads? Sure, I know these roads.”

With an effortless pivot, the Master threw Creem bodily out through the restroom door into the greater Visitor Control building, the big gang leader sprawling on the floor.

Drive.

Creem got up and nodded . . . unaware of the small drop of blood forming on the side of his neck where the stinger had touched him.

Barnes’s bodyguards walked into his outer office inside Camp Liberty without knocking. Barnes’s assistant’s throat-clearing alerted him to stash the detective book he had been reading in a drawer and pretend to be going over the papers on his desk. They entered, their necks darkly patterned with tattoos, and held the door.

Come.

Barnes nodded after a moment, stuffing some papers into his attaché case. “What is this about?”

No answer. He accompanied them down the stairs and across to the guard at the gate, who let them through. There was a light, dark mist, not enough to warrant an umbrella. It did not appear that he was in any kind of trouble, but then again it was impossible to read anything into his stone-faced bodyguards.

His car pulled up, and they rode sitting next to him, Barnes remaining calm, searching his memory for some mistake or unintended slight he might have made. He was reasonably confident there had been none, but he had never been summoned anywhere quite this way before.

They were heading back to his home, which he thought was a good sign. He saw no other vehicles in the driveway. They walked inside and there was no one there waiting for him, most especially the Master. Barnes informed his bodyguards that he was going to visit the bathroom and spent his alone time in there running the water and teaming up with his reflection in the mirror to try to figure out this thing. He was too old for this level of stress.

He went into the kitchen to prepare a snack. He had just pulled open the refrigerator door when he heard the helicopter rotors approaching. His bodyguards appeared at his side.

He walked to the front door and opened it, watching the helicopter rotate overhead and descend. The skids set down gently on the once-white stones of his wide, circular driveway. The pilot was human, a Stoneheart; Barnes saw that instantly from the man’s black suit jacket and necktie. There was a passenger, but not cloaked, therefore not the Master. Barnes let out a subtle breath of relief, waiting for the engine to turn off and the rotors to slow, allowing the visitor to disembark. Instead, Barnes’s bodyguards each gripped one of his arms and walked him down the front steps and out over the stones toward the waiting chopper. They ducked beneath the screaming rotors and opened the door.

The passenger, sitting with twin seat belts crossed over his chest, was young Zachary Goodweather.

Barnes’s bodyguards boosted him inside, as though he might try to escape. He sat in the chair next to Zack, while they took facing seats. Barnes strapped on his safety restraints; his bodyguards did not.

“Hello again,” said Barnes.

The boy looked at him but did not answer. More youthful arrogance—and maybe something more.

“What’s this about?” asked Barnes. “Where are we going?”

The boy, it seemed to Barnes, had picked up on his fear. Zack looked away with a mixture of dismissal and disgust.

“The Master needs me,” said Zack, looking out the window as the chopper started to rise. “I don’t know why you’re here.”

Interstate 80

THEY
DROVE
ALONG Interstate 80, west through New Jersey. Fet drove with his foot to the floor, high beams all the way. Occasional debris, or an abandoned car or bus, slowed him down. A few times they passed some skinny deer. But no vampires, not on the interstate—at least, none they could see. Eph sat in the backseat of the Jeep, next to Mr. Quinlan, who was attuned to the vampires’ mental frequency. The Born was like a vampire radar detector: so long as he remained silent, they were okay.

Gus and Nora followed in the Explorer, a backup vehicle in case one of them broke down, which was a real possibility.

The highways were nearly clear. People had tried to evacuate once the plague reached true panic stages (the default human response to an infectious disease outbreak—escape—despite there being no virus-free zone to escape to), and highways jammed all across the country. However, few had been turned in their cars, at least not on the highway itself. Most were taken when they pulled off the main routes, usually to sleep.

“Scranton,” said Fet, passing a sign for Interstate 81 North. “I didn’t think it would be this easy.”

“Long way to go,” said Eph, looking out the window at the darkness rushing past. “How’s our fuel?”

“Okay for now. I don’t want to stop anywhere near a city.”

“No way,” agreed Eph.

“I’d like to get over the border into New York State first.”

Eph looked out at Scranton as they navigated the increasingly cluttered overpasses to the north. He noticed a section of one block burning in the distance and wondered if there were other rebels such as themselves, smaller-scale fighters in smaller urban centers. Occasional electric lights shining in windows drew his eye and made him wonder at all the desperation going on there in Scranton and in similar small cities all across the country and the world. He wondered also where the nearest blood camp was.

“There must be a list of Stoneheart Corporation meatpacking plants somewhere, a master list that would clue us in to the blood camp locations,” said Eph. “Once we get this done, there’s going to be a lot of liberating to do.”

“And how,” said Fet. “If it’s like it was with the other Ancients, then the Master’s clan will die out with him. Vanish. People in the camps won’t know what hit them.”

“Trick will be getting the word out. Without mass media, I mean. We’ll have all these little duchies and fiefdoms popping up across the country. People trying to take control. I’m not so sure democracy will automatically bloom.”

“No,” said Fet. “It’s going to be tricky. Lots of work. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Eph looked at Mr. Quinlan sitting next to him. He noticed the leather sack between his boots. “Do you die with all the others when the Master is destroyed?”

When the Master is obliterated, his bloodline is no more.

Eph nodded, feeling the heat of the half-breed’s supercharged metabolism. “Nothing in your nature prevents you from working toward something that will ultimately result in your own demise?”

You’ve never worked toward something that went against your own self-interest?

Eph said, “No, I don’t think I have. Nothing that could kill me, that’s for sure.”

There is a greater good at stake. And vengeance is a uniquely compelling motivation. Revenge trumps self-preservation.

“What is it you’re carrying in that leather pack?”

I am sure you already know.

Eph remembered the Ancients’ chamber beneath Central Park, their ashes set inside receptacles of white oak. “Why are you bringing along the Ancients’ remains?”

You did not see that in the Lumen?

Eph had not. “Are you . . . intending on bringing them back? Resurrecting them somehow?”

No. What is done cannot be undone.

“Why, then?”

Because it is foretold.

Eph puzzled over that one. “Is something going to happen?”

Are you not concerned about the ramifications of success? You said yourself that you are uncertain democracy will spontaneously bloom. Humans have never truly had self-rule. It has been that way for centuries. Do you think you will be able to manage on your own?

Eph had no answer for him. He knew that the Born was right. The Ancients had been pulling strings since near the beginning of human history. What would the world look like without their intervention?

Eph watched out his window as the distant blaze, which was substantial, faded from view. How to put it all back together again? Recovery seemed like an impossibly daunting task. The world was already irretrievably broken. For a moment he even wondered if it was worth it.

Of course, that was just fatigue talking. But what had once seemed like the end of their troubles—destroying the Master and retaking stewardship of the planet—would in reality be the beginning of a brand-new struggle.

Zachary and the Master

ARE
YOU
LOYAL? asked the Master.
Are you thankful for all I have provided, for all that I have shown you?

“I am,” answered Zachary Goodweather with not a moment’s doubt. The spiderlike shape of Kelly Goodweather watched her son, perched on a ledge nearby.

The end of times is near. Where we define together this new earth. All that you knew—all of those that were close to you—will be gone. Are you to be faithful to me?

“I will be,” answered Zack.

I have been betrayed many times in the past. You should know that I am thus familiar with the mechanics of such plotting. Part of my will resides in you. You can hear my voice with distinct clarity, and in return, I am privy to your innermost thoughts.

The Master got up and examined the boy. There was no doubt detectable in him. He was in awe of the Master, and the gratitude he expressed was genuine.

I was betrayed once by those who should have been the closest to me. Those that I shared my very essence with—the Ancients. They had no pride in them—no real hunger. They were content living their lives in the shade. They blamed me for our condition and took shelter in the refuse of mankind. They thought themselves powerful, but they were quite weak. They sought alliance. I seek domination. You understand that, don’t you?

“The snow leopard,” said Zack.

Precisely. All relationships are based on power. Domination and submission. There is no other way. No equality, no congeniality, no shared domain. There is only one king in a kingdom.

And here, the Master looked at Zack with calculated precision—enacting what the Master believed human kindness should look like—before adding, One king and one prince. You understand that too, don’t you? My son.

Zack nodded. And with that he accepted both the notion and the title. The Master scanned every gesture, every nuance on the young man’s face. It listened carefully to the rhythm of his heart, looked at the pulse in his carotid artery. The boy was moved—excited by this simulated bond.

The caged leopard was an illusion. One that you needed to destroy. Bars and cages are symbols of weakness. Imperfect measures of control. One may choose to believe they are there to subjugate the creature inside—to humiliate it—but in due time one realizes they also are there to keep it away. They become a symbol of your fear. They limit you as much as the beast within. Your cage is just bigger, and the freedom of the leopard lies in those confines.

“But if you destroy it,” said Zack, developing the thought himself, “if you destroy it . . . there is no doubt left.”

Consumption is the ultimate form of control. Yes. And now we stand together at the brink of control. Absolute domination of this earth. So—I have to make sure that nothing stands between you and me.

“Nothing,” said Zack with absolute conviction.

The Master nodded, apparently pensive, but in fact building a pause calculated long before for maximum effect. The revelation he was about to give to Zack needed that careful timing.

What if I said to you that your father was still alive?

And then the Master felt it—a torrent of emotions swirling inside Zack. A turmoil that the Master had thoroughly anticipated but that intoxicated him all the same. It loved the taste of broken hopes.

“My father is dead,” said Zack. “He died with Professor Setrakian and—”

He is alive. This has been brought to my attention only recently. As to the question of why he has never attempted to rescue you or contact you, I’m afraid I cannot be of assistance. But he is very much alive and seeks to destroy me.

“I will not let him,” said Zack, and he meant it. And, in spite of itself, the Master felt strangely flattered by the purity of sentiment the young man had for him. Natural human empathy—the phenomenon known as “Stockholm syndrome,” whereby captives come to identify with and defend their captors—was a simple enough tune for the Master to play. It was a virtuoso of human behavior. But this was something more. This was true allegiance. This, the Master believed, was love.

You are now making a choice, Zachary. Perhaps your first choice as an adult, and what you choose now will define you and define the world around you. You need to be completely sure.

Zack felt a lump in his throat. He felt resentment. All the years of mourning were alchemically transformed into abandonment. Where had his dad been? Why had he left him behind? He looked at Kelly, standing nearby, a horrible squalid specter—a monstrous freak. She, too, had been abandoned. Was it not all Eph’s fault? Had he not sacrificed all of them—his mother, Matt, and Zack himself—in pursuit of the Master? There was more loyalty from his twisted scarecrow of a mother than from his human father. Always late, always far away, always unavailable.

“I choose you,” said Zack to the Master. “My father is dead. Let him stay that way.”

And once again, he meant it.

Interstate 80

NORTH
OF SCRANTON, they began to see strigoi standing at the side of the highway like sentinels. Passive, camera-like beings appearing out of the darkness, standing just off the road, watching the vehicles zoom past them.

Fet reacted to the first few of them, tempted to slow and slay them, but Eph told him not to bother. “They have already seen us,” said Eph.

“Look at this one,” said Fet.

Eph first saw the WELCOME
TO
NEW
YORK
STATE sign by the side of the highway. Then, eyes glowing like glass, the female vampire standing beneath it, watching them pass. The vampires communicated the vehicles’ location to the Master in a sort of internalized, instinctual GPS. The Master knew that they were now making their way north.

“Hand me the maps,” said Eph. Fet did, and Eph read it by flashlight. “We’re making great time on the highway. But we have to be smart. It’s only a matter of time before they throw something at us.”

The walkie-talkie in the front seat crackled. “Did you see that one?” asked Nora in the trailing Explorer.

Fet picked up the radio and answered. “The welcoming committee? We saw her.”

“We have to go back roads.”

“We’re with you. Eph’s looking at the map now.”

Eph said, “Tell her we’ll head up to Binghamton for gas. Then stay off the highway after that.”

They did just that, pulling sharply off the highway at the first Binghamton exit advertising fuel, following the arrow at the end of the off-ramp to a cluster of gas stations, fast food restaurants, a furniture store, and two or three little strip malls, each anchored by a different coffee shop drive-through. Fet skipped the first gas station, wanting more room in case of emergency. The second, a Mobil, featured three aisles of tanks angled in front of an On the Go convenience mart. The sun had long ago faded all the blue letters on the MOBIL sign, and now only the red “O” was visible, like a hungry, round mouth.

No electricity, but they had kept Creem’s hand pump from the Hummer, knowing that they would have to do some siphoning. The ground caps were all still in place, which was a good indication that fuel remained in the underground tanks. Fet pulled the Jeep next to one and pried up the cap with a tire iron. The gasoline smell was pungent, welcome. Gus pulled in and Fet waved him over to back up near the tank opening. Fet pulled out the pump and narrow tubing, feeding the longer end into the ground tank and the shorter end into the Jeep.

His wound had started to hurt again and it bled intermittently, but Fet hid both facts from the group. He told himself he was doing this in order to see it all through—to stick to the end. But he knew that, for the better part, he wanted to be there between Eph and Nora.

Mr. Quinlan stood at the roadside, looking up and down the dark lane. Eph wore his weapon pack over one shoulder. Gus carried a Steyr submachine gun loaded half with silver and half with lead. Nora went around the side of the building, relieving herself and quickly returning to the cars.

Fet was pumping hard, but it was slow work, the fuel only now starting to spray into the Jeep’s tank. It sounded like cow’s milk hitting a tin can. He had to pump faster to achieve a steady flow.

“Don’t go too deep,” said Eph. “Water settles at the bottom, remember?”

Fet nodded impatiently. “I know.”

Eph asked if he wanted to trade off, but Fet refused, his big arms and shoulders doing the work. Gus left them, walking out into the road near Mr. Quinlan. Eph thought about stretching his legs more but found that he did not want to be too far away from the Lumen.

Nora said, “Did you work on the trigger fuse?”

Fet shook his head as he worked.

Eph said, “You know how mechanical I am.”

Nora nodded. “Not at all.”

Eph said, “I’m driving the next leg. Fet can work on the detonator.”

“I don’t like taking so much time,” said Nora.

“We need to wait for the next meridiem anyway. With the sun up, we can work freely.”

Nora said, “A whole day? That’s too much time. Too much risk.”

“I know,” said Eph. “But we need daylight to do this thing right. Got to hold off the vamps until then.”

“But once we get to the water, they can’t touch us.”

“Getting on the water is another task altogether.”

Nora looked to the dark sky. A cool breeze came along and she shrugged her shoulders against it. “Daylight seems like a long time away. I hope we don’t lose our head start here.” She turned her gaze to the deadness of the street. “Christ, I feel like there are one hundred eyes staring at me.”

Gus was jogging back toward them from the sidewalk. “You’re not far off,” he said.

“Huh?” said Nora.

Gus opened the hatch on the Explorer, pulling out two road flares. He ran back to the street, far enough away from the gas fumes, and sparked them to life. One he tossed end over end into the parking lot of the Wendy’s across the road. The spitting red flame lit the forms of three strigoi standing at the building’s corner.

The other he hurled toward some abandoned cars in an old rental car parking lot. That flare bounced off a vampire’s chest before hitting the asphalt. The vampire never flinched.

“Shit,” said Gus. He pointed at Mr. Quinlan. “Why didn’t he say anything?”

They have been here the entire time.

“Jesus,” said Gus. He went running toward the rental car company and opened up on the vampire there. The machine gun reports echoed long after he was done, and the vampire lay on the ground, not dead but down for good and full of bleeding white holes.

Nora said, “We should get out of here.”

“Won’t get far without gas,” said Eph. “Fet?”

Fet was pumping, the fuel flowing more freely now. Getting there.

Gus fired his Steyr across at the other flare, trying to scatter the vampires in the Wendy’s lot, but they didn’t scare. Eph drew his sword, seeing movement behind the cars in the parking lot on the other side. Figures running.

Gus yelled out, “Cars!”

Eph heard the engines approaching. No headlights, but vehicles coming out of the darkness, underneath the highway overpass, slowing to a stop.

“Fet, you want me to—?”

“Just keep them back!” Fet pumped and pumped, trying not to breathe the toxic fumes.

Nora reached inside both cars, turning on each set of headlights, illuminating the immediate area east and west.

To the east, opposite the highway, vampires crowded the edge of the light, their red eyes reflecting like glass baubles.

To the west, coming from the highway, two vans, figures emptying out of them. Local vampires called into duty.

“Fet?” said Eph.

“Here, switch tanks,” said Fet, pumping hard, not stopping. Eph pulled the tubing from the Jeep’s almost-full tank and quickly transferred it to the Explorer, gasoline spraying out onto the hardtop.

Footsteps now, and it took Eph a moment to locate them. Overhead, on top of the canopy roof, right above them. The vampires were encircling them and closing in.

Gus opened up his gun on the trucks, winging a vampire or two but not doing any real damage.

“Move away from the tank!” yelled Fet. “I don’t want any sparks nearby!”

Mr. Quinlan returned from the roadside, near Eph at the vehicles. The Born felt it was his responsibility to protect him.

“Here they come!” said Nora.

The vampires began to swarm. A coordinated effort, first focusing on Gus. Four vampires, two running at him from either side. Gus fired on one pair, shredding them, then wheeled and put down the other two, but only just in time.

While he was occupied, a handful of dark figures seized the opportunity to break from the adjoining lots, running toward the Mobil.

Gus turned and sprayed them, hobbling a few, but had to turn back around as more advanced on him.

Mr. Quinlan darted forward with amazing agility, meeting three advancing fellow strigoi and forcefully driving his open hands into their throats, snapping their necks.

Bang! A small vampire, a child, dropped down onto the roof of the Jeep from the carport roof. Nora swiped at it, and the little vampire hissed and darted backward, the Jeep rocking gently. Eph rushed around past the headlights to the other side of the Jeep, looking to slay the nasty little thing. It wasn’t there.

“Not here!” said Eph.

“Not here either!” called Nora.

Eph said, “Underneath!”

Nora got down and swung her sword underneath the vehicle’s carriage, the blade’s reach long enough to drive the child back out toward Eph’s side. He cut at its lower right leg, severing the Achilles tendon. But instead of retreating again, the maimed vampire came right out from beneath the Jeep and sprang up at him, Eph’s sword meeting it halfway, cutting down the blood-rabid strigoi in midair. He felt the effort more than ever. He felt his muscles twitch and spasm. A flash of pain ran from his elbow to his lower back. His arm curled in a brutal cramp. He knew what it was: he was malnourished, perhaps even to the point of starvation. He ate very little and very badly—no minerals, no electrolytes, his nerve endings terminally raw. He was coming to an end as a fighter. He fell down, releasing his sword, feeling a million years old.

A wet crunching sound startled Eph from behind. Mr. Quinlan was behind him, bright in the headlights, the head of another child vampire in one hand, the body in his other. The vampire had gotten the drop on Eph, but Mr. Quinlan saved him. The Born threw the dripping body parts to the blacktop as he turned, anticipating the next attack.

Gus’s gun rattled out in the street as more vampires converged on them from the edges of darkness. Eph cut down two more adult strigoi running up from behind the gas station store. He was worried about Nora being on her own, on the other side of the cars.

“Fet! Come on!” he yelled.

“Almost!” Fet yelled back.

Mr. Quinlan lashed out, dropping more sacrificial strigoi, his hands dripping white. They just kept coming.

“They’re trying to hold us here,” said Eph. “Slow us down!”

The Master is en route. And others. I can sense it.

Eph stabbed the closest strigoi by the throat, then kicked it in the chest, retrieved his blade, and ran around to the other side of the Jeep. “Gus!” he called.

Gus was already retreating, his smoking gun silent. “I’m out.”

Eph chopped at a pair of vampires coming up on Nora, then whipped the fuel line out of the Explorer’s tank. Fet saw this and finally gave up pumping. He grabbed Eph’s spare sword out of his pack and took care of another animal-like vampire coming over the Explorer’s hood.

Gus jumped into the front seat of the Explorer, grabbing another weapon. “Go! Get out of here!”

There was no time to throw the gas-soaked pump into the truck. They abandoned it there, gas still drooling out of the tube, slicking the hardtop.

“Don’t shoot this close!” said Fet. “You’ll blow us up!”

Eph went for the Jeep’s door. He watched through the windows as Mr. Quinlan grabbed a female vampire by her legs and whipped her head against a steel column. Fet was in the backseat behind Eph, fighting off vamps trying to get in the door. Eph jumped into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut and turning the key.

The engine started up. Eph saw that Nora was inside the Explorer. Mr. Quinlan was the last, climbing into the backseat of the Jeep with strigoi running up to his window. Eph threw the truck into drive and curled out into the street, mowing down two vampires with the Jeep’s silver grille. He saw Nora zoom the Explorer out to the edge of the road, then stop short. Gus jumped out with his machine gun and bent low, firing laterally across the hardtop at the leading edge of the fuel spill. It ignited and he jumped into the Explorer, and both trucks sped away as the flame slid toward the uncapped ground tank, igniting the fumes above for one brief, beautiful moment of winged flame—then the ground tank erupted, an angry orange-black blast, making the ground shudder, splitting the canopy, and frying the strigoi still there.

“Jesus,” said Fet, watching out the back window, past the tarp-covered nuclear bomb. “And that’s nothing compared to what we’ve got here.”

Eph gunned it past the vehicles in the road, some of the vampires rushing to get behind the wheel. He wasn’t worried about outrunning them. Only the Master.

Late-arriving vampires darted out into the street, practically throwing themselves into the path of the Jeep in an attempt to slow them down. Eph tore through them, seeing hideous faces for an instant in the headlights just at impact. The caustic white blood ate at the Jeep’s rubber wiper blades after a few back-and-forth swipes. A gang had gathered on the entrance ramp leading back onto Interstate 81, but Eph went right by that ramp, heading down the dark town road.

He followed the main road, handing the map back to Fet, watching for the Explorer’s headlights in his rearview mirror. He didn’t see them. He felt for the walkie-talkie, finding it on the seat near his hip. “Nora? You get out? You two okay?”

Her voice came back a moment later, adrenalized. “We’re good! We’re out!”

“I don’t see you.”

“We’re . . . I don’t know. Probably behind you.”

“Just keep heading north. If we get separated, meet up at Fishers Landing as soon as you can get there. You got that? Fishers Landing.”

“Fishers Landing,” she said. “Okay.” Her voice crackled.

“Run with your headlights off when you can—but only when you can. Nora?”

“We’re going to . . . up . . . onward.”

“Nora, I’m losing you.”

“. . . Eph . . .”

Eph felt Fet leaning up behind him. “Radio range is only about one mile.”

Eph checked his mirrors. “They must have headed down another road. So long as they stay off the highway . . .”

Fet took the radio, trying to raise her, but got nothing. “Shit,” he said.

“She got the rendezvous point,” said Eph. “She’s with Gus. She’ll be all right.”

Fet handed back the radio. “They have enough fuel, anyway. Now all we have to do is stay alive until sunrise.”

At the roadside, beneath a blank marquee sign for an old abandoned drive-in movie theater, an expressionless strigoi followed the Jeep with his eyes as it passed him by.

The Master reached out with its mind. Although it seemed counterintuitive, engaging many different perspectives at once served to focus the Master’s thoughts and soothe its temper.

Through the eyes of one of its minions, the Master watched the green vehicle driven by Dr. Ephraim Goodweather barrel through an unlit intersection in rural upstate New York, the oversized Jeep following the central yellow line. Moving ever north.

It viewed the Explorer driven by Dr. Nora Martinez driving past a church in a small town square. The criminal Augustin Elizalde leaned out the front window, and there was a muzzle flash and the Master’s view disappeared. They were also moving north, along the other side of the highway they had started out on—the interstate on which the Master was now traveling at a high rate of speed.

It saw the boy, Zachary Goodweather, seated in the helicopter crossing the state through the air, traveling northwest on a sharp diagonal. The boy looked out the window of the flying machine, ignoring the airsick Dr. Everett Barnes seated next to him, the older man’s face a bluish shade of gray. The boy, and perhaps Barnes, would be instrumental to the Master in distracting or otherwise persuading Goodweather.

The Master also saw through Kelly Goodweather’s perception. Traveling inside a moving vehicle dulled her homing impulse somewhat, but still the Master felt her closeness to Dr. Goodweather, her former human mate. Her sensitivity gave the Master another perspective with which to triangulate his focus on Dr. Goodweather.

Turn off here.

The town car swerved and zoomed down the exit ramp, the gang leader Creem driving with a heavy foot.

“Shit,” said Creem upon seeing the still-burning service station just up the road. The smell of burned fuel entered the automobile’s ventilation system.

Left.

Creem followed directions, turning away from the blast site, wasting no time. They passed the drive-in theater marquee and the vampire standing watch there. The Master dipped again into its vision and saw itself inside the black town car, hurtling down the roadway.

They were gaining on Goodweather.

Eph roared along country roads, winding their way north. He kept changing routes to keep his pursuers guessing. Vampire sentinels stood watch at every turn. Eph could tell if he had been on the same road for too long when they put obstacles in his way, trying to slow him down or make him crash: other cars, a wheelbarrow, planters from a garden store. Driving upwards of fifty miles per hour on a pitch-black road, these things came up fast in his headlights and were dangerous to maneuver around.

A few times the vampires tried to ram them with a car or follow them. That was Fet’s cue to rise up out of the sunroof with the machine gun in hand.

Eph avoided the city of Syracuse altogether, traveling east around the outskirts. The Master knew where they were—but it still did not know where they were going. That was the only thing saving them right now. Otherwise it would mass its slaves at the shore of the Saint Lawrence River, keeping Eph and the others from getting through.

If possible, Eph would have just kept driving until daylight. But gasoline was an issue, and stopping to refuel was simply too dangerous. They were going to have to risk waiting for daylight at the river, potentially as sitting ducks.

On the plus side, the farther north they drove, the fewer roadside strigoi they saw. The lower rural population was in their favor.

Nora was at the wheel. Reading maps was not one of Gus’s strengths. Nora was confident they were moving north in general but knew that they had occasionally gotten sidetracked a little too far east or west. They were past Syracuse, but suddenly Watertown—the last city of any size before the Canadian border—seemed so far away.

The radio at her hip had crackled a few times, but every time she tried to raise Eph, she received only silence in return. After a while she stopped trying. She did not want to chance running down the batteries.

Fishers Landing. That was what Eph had said, where they were to meet. Nora had lost track of how many hours it had been since sundown, how many more it would be until sunrise—all she knew was that it was too many. She wanted daylight far too badly to dare to trust her own gut estimation.

Just get there, she thought. Get there and figure it out.

“Here they come, doc,” said Gus.

Nora looked all around the street in front of her. She saw nothing, driving so intently through the darkness. Then she saw it: a hint of light through the treetops.

Moving light. A helicopter.

“They’re looking for us,” said Gus. “Haven’t spotted us yet, I don’t think.”

Nora kept one eye on the light and the other on the road. They passed a sign for the highway and realized they had drifted back near the interstate. Not good.

The helicopter circled toward them. “I’m cutting the headlights,” she said, which also meant slowing way down.

They drifted down the dark road, watching the helicopter come around, approaching near. The light grew brighter as it began to descend, maybe a few hundred yards north of them.

“Hold up, hold up,” said Gus. “It’s landing.”

She saw the light setting down. “That must be the highway.”

Gus said, “I don’t think they saw us at all.”

She continued to roll down the road, judging its margins by the black treetop branches framed against the less-black sky. Trying to decide what to do.

“Should we take off?” she said. “Risk it?”

Gus was trying to see through the windshield up to the highway. “You know what?” he said. “I don’t think they were looking for us after all.”

Nora kept her eyes on the road. “What is it, then?”

“You got me. Question is—do we dare to find out?”

Nora had spent enough time with Gus to know that this was not actually a question. “No,” she said quickly. “We need to go. To keep going.”

“It could be something.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Why we have to look. I haven’t seen any roadside bloodsuckers for a few miles anyway. I think we’re good for a quick look.”

“A quick look,” said Nora, as though she could hold him to that.

“Come on,” he said. “You’re curious too. Besides—they were using their light, right? That means humans.”

She pulled over to the left side of the road and turned off the engine. They got out of the car, forgetting that the interior lights came on once the doors were opened. They closed them quickly without slamming them and stood and listened.

The rotors were still spinning but slowing down. The engine had just been turned off. Gus held his machine gun away from himself as he scrambled up the weedy, rocky embankment, with Nora just behind and to the left of him.

They slowed at the top, their faces rising beneath the guardrail. The chopper was another one hundred yards or so down the highway. There were no cars in sight. The rotors stopped rotating, though the helicopter light remained illuminated, shining off to the opposite side of the road. Nora made out four silhouettes, one of them shorter than the others. And she could not be sure, but she believed that the pilot—probably a human, judging by the light—was still inside the cockpit, waiting. For what? Taking off again soon?

They ducked back down. “A rendezvous?” said Nora.

“Something like that. You don’t think it’s the Master, do you?”

“Can’t tell,” she said.

“One of them was small. Looked like a kid.”

“Yeah,” said Nora, nodding . . . and then she stopped nodding. Her head shot up again, and this time she looked over the top of the guardrail. Gus pulled her back down by her belt, but not before she had convinced herself of the identity of the ragged-haired boy. “Oh my God.”

“What?” said Gus. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”

She drew her sword. “We have to get over there.”

“Well, sure, now you’re talking. But what’s the—”

“Shoot the adults but not the kid. Just don’t let them get away.”

Nora was up and over the guardrail before Gus could get to his feet. She was running straight at them, Gus having to hustle to keep up. She watched the larger two figures turn her way before she had made any real noise. The vampires saw her heat impression, sensing the silver in her sword. They stopped and turned back to the humans. One grabbed the boy and tried to lift him inside the helicopter. They were going to take off again. The engine turned over, the rotors starting their hydraulic whine.

Gus opened up his weapon, picking at the long tail of the helicopter at first, then stitching up the side toward the passenger compartment. That was enough to drive the vampire carrying the boy away from the chopper. Nora was more than halfway to them now. Gus fanned out wide to her left, picking at the cockpit glass. The glass did not shatter, the rounds punching clean through until a spray of red went out over the opposite end.

The pilot’s body slumped forward. The rotors continued to speed up but the chopper did not move.

One vampire left the man he was guarding and ran at Nora. She saw the dark, decorative ink on its neck and immediately placed the vamp as one of the prison bodyguards—one of Barnes’s bodyguards. The thought of Barnes erased all fear, and Nora came at the vampire with her sword high and her voice at full yell. The big vampire went low at the last moment, surprising her, but she sidestepped him like a matador, bringing down her sword on his back. He skidded across the blacktop on his front side, burning off flesh, then hopped back up to his feet. Pale skin hung from his thighs, chest, and one cheek. That didn’t slow him down. The silver wound to his back did.

Gus’s gun rattled and the big vampire twitched. The shots stunned him but did not put him down. Nora did not give the powerful strigoi time to mount another attack. She treated his neck tattoos like targets and took off his head.

She turned back toward the helicopter, squinting into its rotor wash. The other tattooed vampire was away from the humans, circling Gus. It understood and respected the power of silver—but not the power of a machine gun. Gus walked up on the hissing strigoi, right up inside its stinging radius, and fired a cluster of head shots. The vamp went down backward and Gus advanced and shot up its neck, releasing the creature.

The man was down on one knee, bracing himself on the open door of the helicopter. The boy watched both vampires go down. He turned and ran toward the roadside, in the direction the helicopter light was shining. Nora saw something in his hands, which he held in front of him as he ran.

Nora yelled, “Gus, get him!” because Gus was closest. Gus took off after the kid. The skinny kid was fast enough but unsteady. He jumped over the guardrail and landed all right, but in the shadowy ground beyond he misjudged a step or two and got tangled up in his own feet.

Nora was standing near Barnes beneath the whirling rotor umbrella of the helicopter. He was still airsick and on his knee. Yet when he looked up and recognized Nora’s face, he paled even more.

Nora raised her sword and was ready to strike when she heard four sharp cracks, dulled beneath the sound of the helicopter. It was a small rifle, the boy firing at them in a panic. Nora wasn’t hit but the bullets exploded awfully near. She moved away from Barnes and entered the underbrush. She saw Gus lunge for the boy and tackle him before he could fire again. He picked the kid up by his shirt, turning him toward the light, Gus making sure he wasn’t dealing with a vampire. Gus pulled the empty rifle out of his hand and threw it into the trees. The kid bucked, so Gus gave him a good shake, just violent enough to let him know what could happen to him if he tried to fight. Still, the kid squinted in the light, trying to pull away, genuinely afraid of Gus.

“Easy, kid. Jesus.”

He dragged the squirming boy back over the guardrail.

Nora said, “You okay, Gus?”

Gus wrestled with the kid. “He’s a lousy shot, so yeah.”

Nora looked back at the chopper. Barnes had vanished. She squinted past the helicopter light, searching for him, but to no avail. Nora cursed softly.

Gus took another look at the kid’s face there and noticed something about him, his eyes, the structure of his face. He looked familiar. Too familiar.

Gus looked at Nora. “Oh, come on,” said Gus.

The kid kicked at Gus with the heel of his sneaker. Gus kicked him back, only harder.

“Christ—just like your father,” Gus said.

That slowed the kid down. He looked at Gus, though still trying to pull away. “What do you know?” he said.

When Nora looked at Zack, she both recognized him at once and not at all: the boy’s eyes were nothing like she had remembered. His features had matured as any boy’s would have over a two-year period—but his eyes lacked the light they had once had. If the curiosity was still there, it was darker now, it was deeper. It was as though his personality had retreated into his mind, wanting to read but not to be read. Or maybe he was just in shock. He was only thirteen, after all.

He is hollow. He is not there.

“Zachary,” she said, not knowing what to do.

The boy looked at her for some moments before recognition crept into his eyes. “Nora,” he said, pronouncing the word slowly, as though having nearly forgotten it.

Despite the fact that there were fewer drones available to monitor the various potential automobile routes in northern New York State, the Master’s path grew ever more certain. The Master had viewed Dr. Martinez’s ambush through the eyes of Dr. Barnes’s security detail, until their violent release. Currently, the Master saw the helicopter in the highway, rotors still spinning, viewed through Kelly Goodweather’s eyes.

The Master watched as Kelly directed her driver down a steep embankment to an auxiliary road, driving fast, following the Explorer’s path. Kelly’s bond with Zachary was much more intense than her bond with her ex-mate Dr. Ephraim Goodweather. Her longing was much more pronounced—and, in this moment, productive.

And now the Master had an even better read on the infidels’ progress. They had taken the bait the Master knew would prove irresistible. The Master watched through Zachary’s eyes, sitting in the backseat of the automobile driven by Augustin Elizalde. The Master was all but with them there in the vehicle as they headed to rendezvous with Dr. Goodweather, who had possession of the Lumen and knowledge of the location of the Black Site.

“I am following them,” said Barnes, his voice crackling on a radio. “I will keep you informed. You have me on the GPS.”

And indeed, a dot was visible on the GPS. An imperfect, pale, mechanical imitation of the Master’s bond, but one he could share with the traitor Barnes.

“I have the gun with me,” said Barnes. “I am ready for your command.”

The Master smiled. So obsequious.

They were close, perhaps mere miles away from their destination. Their northern trajectory put them on a path toward Lake Ontario or the Saint Lawrence River. And if a water crossing was in order, no matter. The Master had Creem to ferry him across, if needed, as the gang leader was still nominally human but wholly under his command.

The Master directed the helicopters north at full speed.

Creem’s mouth hurt. His gums burned where his dented silver teeth were attached. At first he thought this was more lingering effects resulting from the elbow he had taken from Mr. Quinlan. But now his fingers were growing sore, enough so that he plucked the bling off his knuckles, giving his digits a rest, the silver jewelry piling up in the cup holder.

He didn’t feel right. He felt woozy and warm. At first he feared some sort of bacterial infection like the one that had claimed Gus’s man. But the more he looked into his rearview mirror at the Master’s dark, worm-writhing face, the more Creem grew anxious, wondering if the Master had infected him. For an instant, he felt something move through his forearm and into his biceps. Something more than a tingle. Something en route to his heart.

Eph’s Jeep reached Fishers Landing first. The northernmost road ran along the edge of the Saint Lawrence. Mr. Quinlan couldn’t pick up on any vampires in the immediate area. They saw a CAMP
RIVERSIDE sign pointing toward an area where the road left the water’s edge. They turned down the dirt road, riding out to a large spit of land jutting into the river. There were cabins and a restaurant with an adjacent sweets shop, and a sandy beach boxed in by a dock long and wide enough to be just barely visible over the water.

Eph pulled up sharply in the lot at the end of the road, leaving his headlamps on, and pointed at the water. He wanted to get out on that dock. They needed a boat.

As soon as he shut his door, a powerful light filled his vision, effectively blinding him. By thrusting up his arm, he could just make out multiple sources, one from near the restaurant, the other near a towel shack. He panicked a moment but then realized that these were artificial light sources—something vampires had no need or use for.

A voice called out, “Stop right there! Don’t move!”

A real voice, not a vampire voice projected into his head.

“Okay, okay!” said Eph, trying to shield his eyes. “I’m a human!”

“We see that now,” said the female voice.

A male voice from the other side said, “This one’s armed!”

Eph looked over at Fet on the other side of the Jeep. Fet said, “Are you armed?”

“You better believe it!” called the male voice.

“Can we both put them down and talk?” said Fet.

“No,” said the female voice. “We’re glad you aren’t stingers, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t raiders. Or Stonehearts in disguise.”

“We aren’t either,” said Eph, holding off the lights with his open hands. “We’re here on a . . . a sort of mission. But there isn’t much time.”

“There’s one more in the backseat!” yelled the male voice. “Show yourself!”

Oh, shit, thought Eph. Where to begin? “Look,” he said. “We came here all the way from New York City.”

“I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you return.”

“You . . . you sound like fighters. Against the vampires. We’re fighters too. Part of a resistance.”

“We’re full up here, friend.”

Eph said, “We need to get out to one of the islands.”

“Feel free. Just do it from some other point along the Saint Lawrence. We don’t want any trouble, but we’re ready enough for it.”

“If I could have just ten minutes to explain—”

“You got ten seconds to leave. I can see your eyes, and your friend’s. They’re right enough in the light. But if your other friend isn’t getting out of the car, we’re going to start shooting.”

“First of all, we have something fragile and explosive in the car, so for your sake, don’t shoot. Second, you’re not going to like what you see in our other friend here.”

Fet chimed in. “He reads vamp. His pupils will glass up in the light. Because he’s part stinger.”

The male voice said, “No such thing.”

“One such thing,” said Eph. “He’s on our side, and I can explain—or try to—if you’ll give me a chance.”

Eph sensed the light source moving. Advancing on him. He stiffened, expecting an attack.

The male voice from the other light said, “Careful, Ann!”

The woman behind the light stopped about ten yards away from Eph, near enough that he could feel heat coming off the lamp. He made out rubber boots and an elbow behind the beam.

“William!” the female voice called.

William, the bearer of the other light, came running toward Fet. “What is it?”

“Take a good look at his face,” she said.

For a moment, Eph had both beams directly on him.

“What?” said William. “He ain’t no vamp.”

“No, dummy. From the news reports. The wanted man. Are you Goodweather?”

“Yes. Ephraim is my name.”

“Goodweather, the fugitive doctor. Who killed Eldritch Palmer.”

“Actually,” Eph said, “I was falsely accused. I didn’t kill the old bastard. I did try, though.”

“They wanted you real bad, didn’t they? Those motherfuckers.”

Eph nodded. “They still do.”

William said, “I don’t know, Ann.”

Ann said, “You’ve got ten minutes, asshole. But your so-called friend stays in the car, and if he tries to get out, you’re all fish food.”

Fet stood before the back of the Jeep, showing them the device and the timer he had attached by flashlight.

“Shee-it. A goddamn nuclear bomb,” said Ann, revealed to be a woman in her fifties with a long, fraying braid of gray hair, dressed in waders under a fisherman’s slicker.

“You thought it would be bigger,” said Fet.

“I don’t know what I thought.” She looked again at Eph and Fet. William—a man in his forties, wearing a wool sweater shaggy with pulls and droopy blue jeans—remained off to the side, both hands on his rifle. The lamps lay at his feet, one of them still turned on. The indirect light cast Mr. Quinlan, now standing outside the vehicle, in an intimidating cloak of shadows. “Except that your situation here is too bizarre to be untrue.”

Eph said, “We don’t want anything from you, except a map of these islands and a means to get out there.”

“You’re going to detonate this little fucker.”

Eph said, “We are indeed. You’ll want to relocate away from here, whether the island is more than a half mile offshore or not.”

“We don’t live here,” said William.

At first, Ann shot him a look that said he had told too much. But then she softened, allowing that she could be open with Eph and Fet since they had been open with her.

“We live out in the islands,” she said. “Where the damn stingers can’t go. There are old forts from the Revolutionary War out there. We’re in them.”

“How many?”

“All told there’s forty-two of us. Was fifty-six; we’ve lost that many. We’re in three living groups, ’cause even after the world’s ended some assholes still can’t get along. We’re mostly neighbors who didn’t know one another before this damn thing. We keep coming back to the mainland to scavenge for arms, tools, and food, kind of like Robinson Crusoe if you consider the mainland the shipwreck.”

Eph said, “You have boats.”

“We do have fucking boats. Three motorboats and a whole bunch of li’l skiffs.”

“Good,” said Eph. “Very good. I hope you can see fit to loan us one. I’m sorry we’re bringing this trouble your way.” He checked with the Born, who was standing very still. “Anything yet?”

Nothing imminent.

But Eph could tell by the way he answered that they were running out of time. He said to Ann, “You know these islands?”

She nodded. “William knows them best. Like the back of his hand.”

Eph said to William, “Can we go inside the restaurant and you sketch me out directions? I know what I’m looking for. It’s an island with very little growth on it, rocky, shaped like a trefoil, which is like a series of three overlapping rings. Like a biohazard symbol, if you can picture that.”

Ann and William looked at each other in a way that showed they both knew exactly which island Eph was referring to. Eph felt a spike of adrenaline.

A radio crackle surprised them, making jumpy William step back. The walkie-talkie in the front seat of the Jeep. “Friends of ours,” said Fet, moving to the door, reaching in for the radio. “Nora?”

“Oh, thank God,” she said, her voice fuzzy over the airwaves. “We’re in Fishers Landing finally. Where are you?”

“Follow the signs for the public beach. You’ll see a sign for Camp Riverside. Follow the dirt road to the water. Hurry up, but come quietly. We’ve met some others who can help us get out onto the water.”

“Some others?” she said.

“Just trust me and get out here, now.”

“Okay, I see a sign for the beach,” she said. “We’ll be right there.”

Fet set down the radio. “They’re close.”

“Good,” said Eph, turning again to Mr. Quinlan. The Born was watching the sky, as though for a sign. This worried Eph. “Anything we need to know?”

All quiet.

“How many hours do we have until the meridiem?”

Too many, I am afraid.

“Something is troubling you,” said Eph. “What is it?”

I do not enjoy traveling over water.

“I realize that. And?”

We should have seen the Master by now. I don’t like the fact that we have not . . .

Ann and William wanted to talk, but Eph just wanted them to sketch out the route to the island. So he left them drawing on the back of a paper place mat and returned to Fet, standing before the bomb set upon the candy shop ice cream counter adjacent to the restaurant. Through the glass doors, Eph saw Mr. Quinlan waiting for vampires in front of the beach.

Eph said, “How long will we have?”

Fet said, “I don’t know. I hope long enough.” He showed him the switch with the safety on. “Turn this way for the delay.” It was set to a clock icon raised on the small panel. “Don’t turn it this way.” Toward the X. “Then run like hell.”

Eph felt another cramp crawling up his arm. He clenched his fist and hid the pain best as he could.

“I don’t like the idea of leaving it there. A lot can go wrong in a few minutes.”

“We don’t have an alternative. Not if we want to survive.”

They both looked up at the approaching headlights. Fet ran out to Nora’s car, and Eph remained behind, returning to monitor William’s work. Ann was making suggestions and William was annoyed. “It is four islands out and one over.”

Ann said, “What about Little Thumb?”

“You can’t give these islands pet names and expect everyone else to memorize them.”

Ann looked at Eph and explained, “The third island looks like it has a little thumb.”

Eph looked at the sketch. The route appeared clear enough; that was all that mattered.

Eph said, “Can you take the others down the river to your island ahead of us? We won’t stay, we won’t be using up your resources. Just a place to hide and wait until this is all over.”

Ann said, “Sure. Especially if you think you can do what you say you can do.”

Eph nodded. “Life on Earth is going to change again.”

“Back to normal.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Eph. “We’ll have a long way to go to get back to anything resembling normal. But we won’t have these bloodsuckers running us anymore.”

Ann looked like a woman who had learned not to get her hopes up too high. “I am sorry I called you an asshole, buddy,” she said. “What you are is really a tough motherfucker.”

Eph couldn’t help but smile. These days he would take any compliment, no matter how backhanded it was.

“Can you tell us about the city?” said Ann. “We heard that all of midtown burned down.”

“No, it’s—”

The glass doors opened in the candy shop and Eph turned. Gus entered, holding a machine gun in one hand. Then he saw, through the glass, Nora approaching the door. Instead of Fet, a tall boy of about thirteen walked at her side. They entered and Eph could neither move nor speak . . . but his dry eyes instantly stung with tears and his throat closed with emotion.

Zack looked around apprehensively, his eyes going past Eph to the old ice cream signs on the wall . . . then slowly coming back to his father’s face.

Eph walked to him. The boy’s mouth opened but he did not speak. Eph got down on one knee before him, this boy who used to be at about Eph’s eye level when he did that. Now Eph looked up a few inches at him. The mess of hair falling down over his face partially hid his eyes.

Zack said quietly to his father, “What are you doing here?”

He was so much taller now. His hair was long and ragged, swept back from his ears, exactly the way a boy that age would choose to grow his hair without parental intervention. He looked reasonably clean. He appeared well fed.

Eph grabbed him and hugged him hard. In doing so, he was making the boy real. Zack felt strange in his arms, smelled different, was different—older. Weak. It occurred to Eph how gaunt he must have looked to Zack in return.

The boy did not hug him back, standing stiffly, enduring the embrace.

He pushed him backward to look at him again. He wanted to know everything, how Zack had gotten here—but realized nothing else mattered right now.

He was here. He was still human. He was free.

“Oh, Zack,” said Eph, remembering the day he had lost him nearly two years before. He had tears in his eyes. “I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.”

But Zack was looking at him strangely. “For what?”

He started to say, “For allowing your mother to take you away—” But he stopped. “Zachary,” said Eph, overwhelmed by joy. “Look at you. So tall! You’re a man . . .”

The boy’s mouth remained open, but he was too stunned to speak. He stared at his father—the man who had haunted his dreams like an all-powerful ghost. The father who had abandoned him, deserted him, the one he remembered as being tall, so powerful, so wise, was a feeble, dry, insignificant thing. Unkempt, trembling, and weak.

Zack felt a surge of disgust.

Are you loyal?

“I never stopped looking,” said Eph. “I never gave up. I know they told you I was dead—I’ve been fighting this whole time. For two years, I’ve been trying to get you back . . .”

Zack looked around the room. Mr. Quinlan had entered the shop. Zack looked longest at the Born.

“Mother is coming for me,” said Zack. “She’s going to be angry.”

Eph nodded firmly. “I know she will. But . . . it’s almost over.”

“I know that,” said Zack.

Are you thankful for all I have provided, for all that I have shown you?

“Come here . . . ,” said Eph, squeezing Zack’s shoulders and walking him to the bomb. Fet moved to intercept them, but Eph barely noticed. “This is a nuclear device. We’re going to use it to blow up an island. To wipe out the Master and all of its kind.”

Zack stared at the device. “Why?” he asked in spite of himself.

The end of times is near.

Fet looked at Nora, a chill running down his spine. But Eph didn’t seem to notice, rapt in the role of the prodigal father.

“To make things the way they used to be,” said Eph. “Before the strigoi. Before the darkness.”

Zack looked strangely at Eph. The boy was blinking noticeably, purposefully, like a nervous, self-consoling tic. “I want to go home.”

Eph nodded quickly. “And I want to take you there. All your stuff is in your bedroom just like you left it. Everything. We’ll go as soon as all this is over.”

Zack shook his head, no longer looking at Eph. He was looking at Mr. Quinlan. “Home is the castle. In Central Park.”

Eph’s hopeful expression faltered. “No, you’re never going back there again. I know it’s going to take a little time, but you’re going to be fine.”

The boy is turned.

Eph’s head whipped around to Mr. Quinlan. The Born stood looking at Zack.

Eph stared at his son. He had all his hair; his complexion was good. His eyes weren’t black moons on a sea of red. His throat was not distended. “No. You’re wrong. He’s human.”

Physically, yes. But look into his eyes. He brought someone here with him.

Eph gripped the boy by the chin. He pushed the hair off his eyes. They were a little dim, maybe. A little withdrawn. Zack stared defiantly at first, then tried to look away, as any young teenager would.

“No,” said Eph. “He’s fine. He will be fine. He resents me . . . it’s only normal. He’s angry at me, and . . . we just need to put him on a boat. Get him on the river.” Eph looked at Nora and Fet. “The sooner the better.”

They are here.

“What?” said Nora.

Mr. Quinlan pulled his hood down tighter over his head.

Take to the river. I will hold off as many as I can.

The Born went out through the door. Eph grabbed Zack, started him toward the door, then stopped. To Fet, he said, “We’ll move him and the bomb at the same time.”

Fet didn’t like it but said nothing. “He is my son, Vasiliy,” said Eph, choking, begging. “My son . . . all I have. But I will carry my mission through. I will not fail us.”

For the first time in ages, Fet saw in Eph the old resolve—the leadership that he used to begrudgingly admire. This was the man Nora had once loved, and Fet had once followed.

“You stay here then,” said Fet, grabbing his pack and moving out after Gus and Nora.

Ann and William rushed over to him with the map. Eph said, “Go to the boats. Wait for us.”

“We won’t have enough room for everyone, if you’re going to the island.”

“We’ll work it out,” said Eph. “Now go. Before they try to scuttle them.”

Eph locked the door behind them, then turned back to Zack. He looked at his son’s face, seeking reassurance. “It’s okay, Z. We’re going to be okay. It’s going to be over soon.”

Zack blinked rapidly as he watched his father fold the map and stuff it into his coat pocket.

The strigoi came out of the darkness. Mr. Quinlan saw their heat impressions rushing through the trees and waited to intercept them. Dozens of vampires, with more following behind—perhaps hundreds. Gus came up firing down the dirt road at an unlit vehicle. Sparks popped off the hood and the windshield crackled, but the car kept coming. Gus stood in front of it until he was certain he had put a good kill pattern in the windshield, then jumped out of the way at what he thought was the last moment.

But the car turned his way as he went diving into the woods. A thick trunk stopped the vehicle with a ringing crash, though not before the front grille struck Gus’s legs and sent him flying into the trees. His left arm cracked like a tree branch, and when he got back to his feet he saw it hanging crookedly at his side—broken at the elbow, and maybe the shoulder too.

Gus swore through clenched teeth, the pain severe. Still, his combat instincts kicked in, and he made himself run to the car, expecting vamps to come spilling out like circus clowns.

Gus reached in with his good hand—the one holding his Steyr—and pulled back the driver’s head from the steering wheel. It was Creem, his head now lying back in the seat as though he were napping, except that he had taken two of Gus’s rounds in the forehead, one in the chest.

“Reverse Mozambique, motherfucker,” said Gus, and let the head go, its nose crunching softly against the steering wheel crossbar.

Gus saw no other occupants—though the rear door was strangely open.

The Master . . .

Mr. Quinlan had moved on in the blink of an eye, hunting his prey. Gus leaned a moment against the vehicle, beginning to gauge the gravity of his arm injury. It was then that he noticed a rivulet of blood oozing from Creem’s neck . . .

Not a bullet wound.

Creem’s eyes snapped open. He burst from the car, hurling himself toward Gus. The impact of Creem’s massive body knocked the air from Gus’s lungs, like a bull striking a matador, sending him sailing with almost as much force as the car had. Gus held on to his gun, but Creem’s hand closed around his entire forearm with incredible strength, crushing his tendons, forcing his fingers open. Creem’s knee was against Gus’s damaged left arm, grinding the broken bone like a mortar.

Gus screamed, both in rage and pain.

Creem’s eyes were wide open, looking crazed and slightly misaligned. His bling smile began to smoke and steam, his vampiric gums burning away from contact with the silver implants. The flesh burned away from his knuckles for the same reason. But Creem held on, puppeteered by the will of the Master. As Creem’s jaw opened and unhinged with a loud crack, Gus understood that the Master meant to take Gus and through him learn how to trump their plan. The grinding of his left arm drove Gus to howling distraction, but he could see Creem’s stinger budding in his mouth—oddly fascinating and slow—the reddened flesh parting, unfolding, revealing new layers as it awakened to its purpose.

Creem was being forced into overdrive transformation by the Master’s will. The stinger became engorged amid the clouds of silver vapor, getting ready to strike. Drool and residual blood spilled onto Gus’s chest as the demented being that once had been Creem reared its vampiric head.

In a final effort, Gus managed to twist his gun hand enough to aim loosely at Creem’s head. He fired once, twice, three times and, at such close range, each round ripped away huge amounts of flesh and bone from Creem’s face and neck.

Creem’s stinger darted wildly into the air, seeking contact with Gus. Gus kept firing, one round striking the stinger. Strigoi blood and worms flew everywhere, as Gus finally succeeded in shattering Creem’s vertebrae and severing his spinal cord.

Creem tipped over, slumping hard to the ground, twitching and steaming.

Gus rolled away from the energized blood worms. He felt an immediate sting in his leg, and quickly pulled up his left pant leg. He saw a worm sinking into his flesh. Instinctively, he reached for a sharp piece of the damaged automobile grille and dug into his leg. He sliced it open enough so that he could see the wriggling worm, rooting deeper and deeper. Gus grabbed the thing and yanked it out of his wound. The worm’s barbs grabbed hold, and it was excruciating—but he did it, dragging out the thin worm and pounding it into the ground, killing it.

Gus got to his feet, chest heaving, leg bleeding. He didn’t mind seeing his own blood, so long as it remained red. Mr. Quinlan returned and took in the entire scene, especially Creem’s steaming corpse.

Gus grinned. “See, compa? You can’t leave me alone for one fucking minute.”

The Born felt other interlopers advancing along the windy shoreline and pointed Fet in that direction. The first of the raiders advanced on the Born. They came hard, this first sacrificial wave, and Mr. Quinlan matched their viciousness. As he fought, he tracked three feelers to his right, clustered around a female vampire. One of the feelers broke off and engaged him, romping toward the Born on all fours. Mr. Quinlan knocked a two-legged vampire aside to deal with the nimble blind one. He swatted it away, the feeler tumbling backward before springing up again on all fours like an animal pushed off a potential meal. Two other vampires came at him, and Mr. Quinlan moved fast to avoid them, keeping an eye on the feeler.

A body came flying, launching off one of the storefront tables, landing on Mr. Quinlan’s back and shoulders with a high-pitched squeal. It was Kelly Goodweather, her right hand lashing out, raking the Born’s face. He howled and punched backward, and she slashed at him again, but he blocked it, grasping her wrist.

A burst from Gus’s machine gun sent her leaping off Mr. Quinlan’s shoulders. Mr. Quinlan anticipated another attack from the feeler, then saw it lying in the dirt, full of holes.

Mr. Quinlan touched his face. His hand came away sticky and white. He turned to go after Kelly, but she was nowhere to be seen.

Glass shattered somewhere in the restaurant. Eph readied his silver sword. He moved Zack to the corner of the candy counter, keeping him out of harm’s way and yet basically trapped and unable to run. The bomb remained on the wall end of the counter, over Gus’s pack and the Born’s black leather satchel.

A nasty little feeler galloped in from the restaurant, followed by another on its heels. Eph held out his silver blade, letting the blind creatures sense it. A form appeared in the dim doorway behind them, barely a silhouette, dark as a panther.

Kelly.

She looked horribly decayed, her features barely recognizable even to her former husband. The royal red wattle of her neck swayed limply, under dead eyes black and red.

She was there for Zack. Eph knew what he had to do. There was only one way to break the spell. Committing to this made Eph’s sword tremble in his hands—but the vibration originated from the sword itself, not his nerves. As he held the blade before him, it seemed to be glowing faintly.

She walked toward him, flanked by the agitated feelers. Eph showed her his blade. He said, “This is the end, Kelly . . . and I am so sorry . . . so goddamn sorry . . .”

She had no eyes for Eph, only for Zack standing behind him. Her face was unable to register any emotion, but Eph understood the compulsion to have and to protect. He understood it keenly. His back spasmed and the pain became almost unbearable. But somehow he conquered it and held on.

Kelly focused on Eph. She made a motion with her hand, a flick forward, and the feelers rushed him like attack dogs. They came in a crisscross motion, and Eph had a split second to choose between them. He struck at one and missed but managed to kick the other one to the side. The one he missed came right back at him, and Eph caught her with his sword, but off balance and only with the flat of the blade against her head. She went rolling back, dazed and slow to rise.

Kelly leaped onto a table and sprang off it, attempting to jump past Eph to Zack. Eph moved right into her path, however, and they collided, Kelly spinning off to the side and Eph almost falling backward.

Eph saw the other feeler sizing him up from the side and readied his blade. Then Zack burst past him. Eph just barely caught the boy by the collar of his parka, yanking him back. Zack slipped out of the jacket but stayed put, standing just in front of his father.

“Stop it!” Zack said. He held one hand out to his mother and the other to Eph. “Don’t!”

“Zack!” yelled Eph. The boy was near enough to both of them that Eph feared he and Kelly would both grab a hand, resulting in a tug-of-war.

“Stop it!” yelled Zack. “Please! Please—don’t hurt her! She’s all I have . . . !”

And in saying so, it hit Eph. It was he, the absent father, who was the anomaly. He had always been the anomaly. Kelly’s posture relaxed a moment, her arms dropping down at her bare sides.

Zack said to her, “I’ll go with you. I want to go back.”

But then another force came into Kelly’s eyes, a monstrous, alien will. She sprang all at once, violently shoving Zack aside. Her jaw dropped and her stinger lashed out at Eph, who barely moved in time, watching the muscular appendage snap out into the space where his neck had just been. He swiped at her stinger, but he was off balance and missed.

The feelers pounced on Zack, holding him down. The boy was yelling. Kelly’s stinger retracted, the end tip lolling out of her mouth like a thin, bifurcated tongue. She threw herself at Eph, ducking her head and plowing into his midsection, driving him to the floor. He slid backward, coming to rest hard against the bottom of the counter.

He quickly struggled up to his knees, back in full spasm, his ribs immediately jabbing his chest, a few of them broken and driving into his lungs. This shortened his swing as he brought the sword across, trying to keep her back. Kelly kicked his arm, her bare foot catching him beneath the elbow, his fists slamming against the lower part of the counter. The sword broke free from his grip and clanged to the floor.

Eph looked up. There was a bright red glare in her eyes as Kelly rushed at him for the kill.

Eph reached down without looking and somehow the handle of the sword found his fingers. He got the blade up just as her jaw fell and she thrust forward.

The blade ran straight back through her throat. It came out the back end of her neck, cleaving the root mechanism of her stinger. Eph stared in horror as her stinger went limp, her gaze unbelieving. Her open mouth filled with wormy white blood, her body sagging against the silver sword.

For a moment—probably imagined by Eph, but he accepted it anyway—he saw the formerly human Kelly behind her eyes, looking at him with an expression of peace.

Then the creature returned and sagged in release.

Eph remained holding her up until her white blood ran almost down to his sword handle. Then, overcoming his shock, he pivoted and removed the blade, and Kelly’s body lay upon the floor.

Zack was screaming now. He rose up in a fit of strength and rage, throwing off the feelers. The blind vampire children went wild themselves and ran at Eph. He swung his slickened blade diagonally upward, easily slaying the first one. That made the second jump back. Eph watched as it retreated, loping out of the room with its head turned almost fully over its shoulder, watching Eph until it was gone.

Eph lowered his sword. Zack stood over the remains of his vampire mother, crying and gasping. Zack looked at his father with a look of anguished disgust.

“You killed her,” said Zack.

“I killed the vampire that had taken her away from us. Away from you.”

“I hate you! I fucking hate you!”

In his fury, Zack found a long-handled flashlight on the countertop and grabbed it, going after his father. Eph blocked the strike to his head, but the boy’s forward momentum carried him into Eph and he fell on top of him, pressing against Eph’s broken ribs. The boy was surprisingly strong, and Eph was in agony. Zack hammered away at Eph, Eph blocking the blows with his forearm. The boy lost the flashlight but kept fighting, his fists striking Eph’s chest, hands reaching inside Eph’s coat. Finally Eph dropped his sword in order to grip the boy’s wrists and hold him off.

Eph saw, crumpled in the boy’s left fist, a piece of paper. Zack saw that Eph had noticed and fought his father’s attempts to pry open his fingers.

Eph pulled out the crumpled paper map. Zack had tried to take it from him. He stared into his son’s eyes and saw the presence. He saw the Master seeing through Zack.

“No,” said Eph. “No—please. No!”

Eph pushed the boy away. He was sickened. He looked at the map, then slipped it back into his pocket. Zack stood, backpedaling. Eph saw that the boy was about to take a run at the nuke. At the detonator.

The Born was there, Mr. Quinlan intercepting the boy and swallowing him up in a bear hug, spinning him away. The Born had a diagonal scrape across his face, from his left eye to his right cheek. Eph got to his feet, the ripping pain in his chest nothing compared to the loss of Zack.

Eph picked up his sword and went to Zack, still held by the Born. Zack was grimacing and nodding his head rhythmically. Eph held the silver blade near his son, watching for a response.

The silver did not repel him. The Master was in his mind but not his body.

“This isn’t you,” said Eph, speaking to Zack and also convincing himself. “You’re going to be okay. I have to get you out of here.”

We must hurry.

Eph grabbed Zack from him. “Let’s go to the boats.”

The Born lifted his leather pack to his shoulder, then gripped the straps of the bomb, pulling it off the counter. Eph grabbed the pack at his feet and pushed Zack toward the door.

Dr. Everett Barnes hid behind the trash shed located twenty feet from the restaurant, on the edge of the dirt parking lot. He sucked air through his broken teeth and felt the pleasurable sting of pain that produced.

If there truly was a nuclear bomb in play—which, judging by Ephraim’s apparent obsession with vengeance, there was—then Barnes needed to get as far away from this place as possible, but not before he shot that bitch. He had a gun. A nine-millimeter, with a full clip. He was supposed to use it against Ephraim, but the way he saw it, Nora would be a bonus. The cherry on top.

He tried to catch his breath in order to slow his heart rate. Placing his fingers to his chest, he felt a strange arrhythmia. He barely knew where he was, obeying blindly the GPS that connected him to the Master and that read the positioning of Zack with a unit hidden in the teenager’s shoe. In spite of the Master’s assurances, Barnes was nervous; with these vampires wilding all around the property, there was no guarantee they would be able to know a friend from an enemy. Just in case, Barnes was determined to get to some sort of vehicle if he had any chance to escape before this camp went up in a mushroom cloud.

He spotted Nora about a hundred feet away. He aimed at her as best he could and opened fire. Five rounds cracked out of the gun in rapid succession, and at least one of them connected with Nora, who fell down behind a line of trees . . . leaving a faint mist of blood floating in the air.

“I got you—you fucking cunt!” said Barnes triumphantly.

He pushed off from the gate and ran across the open lot toward the outlying trees. If he could follow the dirt road back out to the main street, he could find a car or some other means of transportation.

He reached the first line of trees, stopping there, shuddering as he discovered a puddle of blood on the ground . . . but no Nora.

“Oh, shit!” he said, and instinctively turned and rushed into the woods, tucking the gun in his pants. It burned him. “Shit,” he squealed. He never knew guns got this hot. He bent both arms protectively before his face, the branches ripping at his uniform and stripping medals off his chest. He paused in a clearing and hid in the underbrush, panting, the hot muzzle burning his leg.

“Looking for me?”

Barnes turned until he saw Nora Martinez just three trees away. Her forehead bore a gash, a bleeding, open wound the size of a finger. But she was unharmed otherwise.

He tried to run, but she grabbed the back of his jacket collar, pulling him back.

“We never had that last date you wanted,” she said, hauling him through the trees to the dirt drive.

“Please, Nora—”

She pulled him into the clear and looked him over. Barnes’s heart was racing, his breath short.

She said, “You don’t run this particular camp, do you?”

He pulled the gun out but it tangled on his Sansabelt pants. Nora quickly took it away and cocked it in a single expert move. She pressed it against his face.

He held up his hands. “Please.”

“Ah. Here they come.”

Out of the trees came the vampires, ready to converge, hesitant only because of the silver sword in Nora’s hand. They circled the two humans, looking for an opening.

“I am Dr. Everett Barnes,” Barnes announced.

“Don’t think they care for titles right now,” she said, holding them at bay. She frisked Barnes and found the GPS receiver. She stomped on it. “And I would say you’ve just about outlived your usefulness right now.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“I’m going to release a bunch of these bloodsuckers, of course,” she said. “The question is, what are you going to do?”

“I . . . I have no weapon anymore.”

“That’s too bad. Because, like you, they don’t care much for a fair fight.”

“You . . . you wouldn’t,” he said.

“I am,” she said. “I’ve got bigger problems than you.”

“Give me a weapon . . . please . . . and I will do whatever you want. Whatever you need, I will give you . . .”

“You want a weapon?” asked Nora.

Barnes whimpered something like “Yes.”

“Then,” Nora said, “have one . . .”

Out of her pocket, she produced the butter-knife shank she had painfully crafted and buried it firmly in Barnes’s shoulder, jamming it between the humerus and the collarbone.

Barnes squealed and, more important, bled.

With a battle cry, she raced out at the largest vampire, cutting him down, then spinning, drawing more to her.

The rest paused just a moment to confirm that the other human held no silver and that the scent of blood came from him. Then they ran at him like pound dogs thrown a slab of meat.

Eph dragged Zack with him, following the Born to the shoreline where the dock began. He watched Mr. Quinlan hesitate a moment, the keg-shaped bomb in his arms, before crossing from the sand onto the wood planking of the long dock.

Nora came running to meet them. Fet was alarmed at her wound, rushing to her. “Who did this to you?” he roared.

“Barnes,” she said. “But don’t worry. We won’t be seeing him again.” She then looked at Mr. Quinlan. “You have to go! You know you can’t wait for daylight.”

The Master expects that. So I will stay. This is perhaps the last time we will see the sun.

“We’re going now,” said Eph, Zack pulling at his arm.

“I’m ready,” said Fet, starting toward the dock.

Eph raised his sword, holding the point near Fet’s throat. Fet looked at him, anger rising.

“Just me,” Eph said.

“What the . . . ?” Fet used his own sword to bat Eph’s away. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Eph shook his head. “You stay with Nora.”

Nora looked from Fet to Eph.

“No,” said Fet. “You need me to do this.”

“She needs you,” said Eph, the words stinging as he spoke them. “I have Mr. Quinlan.” He looked back at the dock, needing to go. “Get to a skiff and sail downriver. I’ve gotta give Zack to Ann and William, to get him out of here. I’ll tell them to be looking for you.”

Nora said, “Let Mr. Quinlan set the detonator. You just drop him off.”

“I have to make sure it’s set. Then I’ll be along.”

Nora hugged him hard, then stepped back. She lifted Zack’s chin to look at his face, to try to give him some confidence or consolation. The boy blinked and looked away.

“You’re going to be okay,” she told him.

But the boy’s attention was elsewhere. He was looking skyward, and after a moment Eph heard it too.

Black helicopters. Approaching from the south. Coming in low.

Gus came hobbling down from the beach. Eph saw immediately that his left arm was badly broken—his left hand swelling with blood—though that condition did not in any way cool the gangbanger’s anger toward him. “Choppers!” yelled Gus. “What the hell are you waiting for?”

Eph quickly slipped off his pack. “Take it,” he said to Fet. The Lumen was inside.

“Fuck the manual, man,” Gus said. “This is practice!”

Gus dropped his gun, shaking off his own pack with a painful grunt—first his good arm, and then Nora helped him lift it off his broken one—then rummaged inside for two purple-colored canisters from his pack. He pulled the pins with his teeth, rolling the smoke grenades to the right and to the left.

Violet smoke billowed, lifted by the shore wind, shielding the beach and dock from view and providing some intermediate cover from the approaching helicopters. “Get outta here!” yelled Gus. “You and your boy. Take care of the Master. I’ll cover your ass—but you remember, Goodweather, you and me, we got business to settle after.” Gus gently, though with great pain, pushed the jacket sleeve up from the swollen wrist of his bad arm, showing Eph the scarred word “MADRE,” left there from all of Gus’s bloodletting.

“Eph,” said Nora. “Don’t forget—the Master is still out here somewhere.”

At the far corner of the dock, some thirty yards from shore, Ann and William waited inside two ten-foot aluminum rowboats with outboard motors. Eph ran Zack to the first boat. When the boy would not board willingly, Eph lifted him up bodily and placed him in there. He looked at his son. “We’re going to get through this, okay, Z?”

Zack had no response. He watched the Born loading the bomb onto the other boat, between the rear and middle bench seats, and gently but firmly lift William out, depositing him back on the dock.

Eph remembered the Master was in Zack’s head, seeing this too. Seeing Eph right now.

“It’s just about over,” Eph said.

The violet smoke cover billowed up off the beach, blowing across to the trees, revealing more advancing vampires. “The Master needs a human to take him across water,” said Fet, stepping up with Nora and Gus. “I don’t think there’s anybody left here but us three. We just have to make sure nobody else gets to the skiffs.”

The violet smoke parted strangely, as though folding in on itself. As though something had passed through it at incredible speed.

“Wait—did you see that?” yelled Fet.

Nora heard the thrumming presence of the Master. Impossibly, the wall of smoke changed course completely, curling back from the trees and rolling against the river breeze toward the shore—consuming them. Nora and Fet were immediately separated, vampires rushing at them silently out of the smoke, their bare feet soft on the damp sand.

Helicopter rotors chopped at the air overhead. Cracks and thumps made the sand jump at their shoes, rifle fire from above. Snipers shooting blindly into the smoke cover. A vampire took one to the top of its head just as Nora was about to cut it down. The rotors whipped smoke back at her, and she did a full three-sixty with her sword straight out, blindly coughing, choking. Suddenly she was unsure which side was shore and which was water. She saw a swirling in the smoke, like a dust devil, and heard the thrumming loudly again.

The Master. She kept swinging, fighting the smoke and everything in it.

Gus, keeping his bad arm behind him, rushed blindly sideways through the choking violet cloud, keeping to the shore. The sailboats were tied to a dock unconnected to land, anchored some forty or fifty feet out in the water.

Gus’s left side was throbbing, his arm swollen. He felt feverish as he broke from the edge of the violet cloud, before the river-facing windows of the restaurant, expecting a column of hungry vampires. But he was alone on the beach.

Not so in the air. He saw the black helicopters, six of them directly overhead, with another six or so coming up behind. They hovered low, swarming like giant mechanized bees, whipping sand into Gus’s face. One of them moved out over the river, scattering the surface water, whipping moisture with the force of shards of glass.

Gus heard the rifle cracks and knew they were shooting at the skiffs. Trying to scuttle them. Thumps at his feet told him they were shooting at him too, but he was more concerned about the choppers starting off over the lake—searching for Goodweather, for the nuke.

“Que chingados esperas?” he cursed in Spanish. “What are you waiting for?”

Gus fired at those choppers, trying to bring them down. A scorching stab in his calf dropped him to one knee, and he knew he had been shot. He kept firing at the helicopters heading out over the river, seeing sparks fly off the tail.

Another rifle round pierced his side with the force of an arrow. “Do it, Eph! Do it!” he yelled, falling to his elbow and still firing.

One helicopter wobbled, and a human figure fell from it into the water. The chopper failed to right itself, its rear tail spinning frontward until it collided with another chopper, and both aircraft rolled and crashed down into the river.

Gus was out of ammo. He lay back on the beach, just a few yards from the water, watching the death birds hover over him. In an instant, his body was covered with laser sights projecting out of the colored fog.

“Goodweather gets fucking angels,” said Gus, laughing, sucking air. “I get laser sights.” He saw the snipers leaning out of their open cabin doors, sighting him. “Light me up, motherfuckers!”

The sand danced all around him as he was shot through many times. Dozens of bullets rattled his body, severing it, grinding it . . . and Gus’s last thought was, You better not mess up this one too, doc.

“Where are you taking me?”

Zack stood in the middle of the boat, rocking in the wake. Their puttering motor had faded into the darkness and the purple fog, leaving only the usual humming sensation in Zack’s head. It mixed with the low throb of the helicopters approaching.

The woman named Ann pushed off from the dock cleat, while William pulled and pulled the rip cord of the coughing outboard motor, streams of violet smoke trailing past them. “To our island downriver.” She looked to William. “Hurry.”

Zack said, “What do you have there?”

“We have shelter. Warm beds.”

“And?”

“We have chickens. A garden. Chores. It’s an old fort from the American Revolution. There are children your age. Don’t worry, you’ll be safe there.”

The Master’s voice said, You were safe here.

Zack nodded, blinking. He lived like a prince, in a real castle in the center of a giant city. He owned a zoo. Everything he wanted.

Until your father tried to take you away.

Something told Zack to stay focused on the dock. The motor turned over, sputtering to life, and William turned in the rear seat and worked the tiller, steering them into the current. The helicopters were visible now, their lights and laser sights brightening the purple smoke on the beach. Zack counted off seven sets of seven blinks as the dock began to recede from view.

A blur of purple smoke burst from the long edge of the dock, flying through the air toward them. Out of it appeared the Master, its cloak flying behind it like wings, arms outstretched, the wolf-headed walking stick in one hand.

Its two bare feet landed in the aluminum boat with a bang. Ann, kneeling at the front point, barely had time to turn. “Fuck me . . .” She saw the Master before her—recognizing the pallid flesh of Gabriel Bolivar. This was the guy her niece was always yapping about. She wore him on T-shirts, hung his posters on her walls. And now, all that Ann could think of was, I never liked his fucking music . . .

The Master set down his staff, then reached for her and, in a ripping motion, tore her in half at the waist the way strongmen do very thick phone books—then hurled both halves into the river.

William was transfixed by the sight of the Master, who lifted him by his armpit and flat-handed his face with such tremendous force that William’s neck snapped and his head flopped back off his shoulders like a removed coat hood. It dumped him into the river water as well, then retrieved its walking stick and looked down at the boy.

Take me there, my son.

Zack moved to the tiller and changed course, the Master standing astride the middle bench, its cloak swirling in the wind, as they followed the first boat’s disappearing wake.

The smoke began to thin out, and Nora’s calls to Fet were answered. They found each other and then found their way back to the restaurant, outrunning the rounds from the helicopter snipers overhead.

Inside, they found the rest of Gus’s weapons. Fet grabbed Nora’s hand and they ran to the riverside windows, opening one onto the deck. Nora had picked up the Lumen and had it with her.

They saw the boats bobbing offshore. “Where’s Gus?” asked Nora.

“We’ll have to swim for it,” said Fet. His injured arm was now covered in blood, the wound reopened. “But first—”

Fet fired at the chopper spotlights, shattering the first one he aimed at.

“They can’t shoot what they can’t see!” he yelled.

Nora did the same, the weapon chugging in her grip. She got one too. The remaining lights swept the shoreline for the source of the automatic gunfire.

That was when Nora saw Gus’s body laid out in the sand, river water lapping at his side.

Her shock and sorrow only paralyzed her a moment. Immediately, Gus’s fighting spirit came over her, as well as Fet. Don’t mourn—fight. They moved out aggressively onto the beach, firing away at the Master’s helicopters.

The farther they got away from shore, the harder the boat rocked. The Born held tight to the nuke’s belt straps while Eph steered, trying to keep them from pitching over into the river. Thick, green-black water sloshed over the sides, spraying the bomb’s casing and the oak urns, a thin puddle forming underneath. It was spraying rain again, and they were sailing into the wind.

Mr. Quinlan lifted the urns off the wet floor of the boat, moved them away from the water. Eph did not know what it meant, but the act of bringing the remains of the Ancients to the origin site of the last of their number reminded Eph that it was all about to end. The shock of seeing Zack that way had thrown him off.

He motored past the second island, a long, rocky beach backed by bare, dying trees. Eph checked the map, the paper in his hand growing damp, the ink starting to run and spread.

Eph yelled over the motor and the wind, the pain in his ribs constricting his voice. “How, without turning him, did the Master create this . . . symbiotic relationship with my boy?”

I don’t know. The key is that he is away from the Master now.

“The Master’s influence will disappear once we do away with it, like all of its vampires?”

Everything that the Master was will cease.

Eph was cheered. He felt real hope. He believed that they could be father and son again. “It’ll be a little like cult deprogramming, I suppose. No such thing as therapy anymore. I just want to get him back to his old bedroom. Start there.”

Survival is the only therapy. I did not want to tell you before, for fear of your losing focus. But I believe the Master was grooming your son for its future self.

Eph swallowed. “I feared it myself. I couldn’t think of any other reason to keep him and not turn him. But—why? Why Zack?”

It may have little to do with your son.

“You mean, it’s because of me?”

I can’t know. All I know is that the Master is a perverse being. It loves to take root in pain. To subvert and corrupt. Perhaps in you it saw a challenge. You were the first one to board the aircraft on which it traveled to New York. You aligned yourself with Abraham Setrakian, its sworn enemy. Achieving the subjugation of an entire race of beings is a feat, but an impersonal one. The Master is one that needs to inflict pain personally. It needs to feel another’s suffering. It needs to experience it firsthand. “Sadism” is your closest modern term for it. And here it has been its undoing.

Exhausted, Eph watched the third dark island pass. After the fourth island, he banked the boat. Difficult to tell the shape of the landmass from the river—and in the darkness impossible to see all six outcroppings without circling it first—but somehow Eph knew that the map was true and this was the Black Site. The bare, black trees on this uninhabited island resembled many-fingered giants burned stiff, arms raised to the heavens in mid-cry.

Eph spotted an inlet and turned toward it, cutting the engine, nosing right onto land. The Born grabbed the nuke and stood, stepping onto the rocky shore.

Nora was right. Leave me here to finish it. Go back to your boy.

Eph looked at the hooded vampire, his face slashed, ready to end his existence. Suicide was an unnatural act for mortal humans to commit—but for an immortal? Mr. Quinlan’s martyrdom was a many times more transgressive, unnatural, violent act.

“I don’t know what to say,” said Eph.

The Born nodded. Then it is time to go.

With that, the Born started up the rocky rise with the keg-sized bomb in his arms and the remains of the Ancients in his pack. Eph’s only hesitation was a memory of his vision and its haunting images. The Born had not been foreseen as the redeemer. But Eph had not had enough time with the Occido Lumen, and perhaps the prophetic reading was different.

Eph dipped the propeller back into the water and gripped the zip cord. He was about to pull when he heard a motor, the sound carrying to him on the swirling wind.

Another boat, approaching. But there had been only one other motorized boat.

Zack’s boat.

Eph looked back for the Born, but he had already disappeared over the rise. Eph’s heart pounded as he stared into the dark mist over the river, straining to see the approaching craft. It sounded like it was coming in fast.

Eph stood and jumped out of the boat onto the rocks, one arm across his broken ribs, the twin handles of his swords wobbling over his shoulders. He charged up the rocky rise as fast as he could, the ground smoking with mist rising into the spitting rain as though the land were heating up in anticipation of the atomic cremation to come.

Eph topped the rise, unable to spot Mr. Quinlan among the trees. He rushed into the dead woods, calling to him, “Quinlan!” as loudly as his chest would allow, then emerged on the other side into a marshy clearing.

The mist was high. The Born had set the weapon down in the approximate center of the trefoil-shaped island, in the middle of a ring of inlaid stones resembling rocky black blisters. He was moving around the device and setting up the white oak receptacles containing the Ancients’ ashes.

Mr. Quinlan heard Eph calling him and turned his way—and just then picked up the Master’s approach.

“It’s here!” yelled Eph. “It’s—”

A blast of wind stirred up the mist. Mr. Quinlan just had time to brace himself before impact, grabbing on to the Master as it streaked in from out of nowhere. The momentum of the body strike carried them many yards away, rolling unseen into the mist. Eph saw something twist and fall through the air—and believed it was Setrakian’s old wolf-handled walking stick.

Eph forgot about his chest pain, running for the bomb, pulling out his sword. Then the mist swirled up around it, obscuring the device.

“Dad!”

Eph turned, feeling Zack’s voice right behind him. He whipped back around fast, knowing he had been suckered. His ribs ached. He went into the haze, looking for the bomb. Feeling the ground for the inlaid stones, trying to find his way.

Then before him, rising out of the mist: the Master.

Eph stumbled backward, shocked at the sight of it. Two slashes crossed the monster’s face in a rough X, the result of the Master’s collision and ensuing fight with the Born.

Fool.

Eph still could not right himself or find words. His head roared as though he had just heard an explosion. He saw ripples beneath the Master’s flesh, a blood worm exiting one open scratch mark and crawling over its open eye to reenter the next. The Master did not flinch. It raised its arms from its sides and took in the smoky island of its origin, then looked triumphantly at the dark heavens above.

Eph summoned all his strength and ran at the Master, sword first, aiming for its throat.

The Master backhanded him squarely across the face with enough force to send Eph airborne, cartwheeling, landing on the stone ground some yards away.

Ahsudagu-wah. Black ground.

Eph first thought that the Master had snapped a vertebra in his neck. The breath was knocked out of him when he hit the ground, and he feared a punctured lung. His other sword had fallen out of his pack, landing somewhere on the ground between them.

Onondaga language. The invading Europeans did not care to translate the name correctly, or at all. You see, Goodweather? Cultures die. Life is not circular but ruthlessly straight.

Eph fought to stand, his fractured ribs stabbing him. “Quinlan!” he called out, his voice mostly just breath.

You should have followed through with our deal, Goodweather. I would never have honored my end of the bargain, of course. But you could have at least spared yourself this humiliation. This pain. Surrender is always easier.

Eph was bursting with every emotion. He stood as tall as he could with the pain in his chest pulling at him. He saw, through the mist, just a few arm lengths away, the outline of the nuclear bomb.

Eph said, “Then let me offer you one last chance to surrender.”

He limped to the device, feeling for the detonator. He thought it a stroke of great luck that the Master had thrown him so close to the device . . . and it was this very thought that made him look back at the creature.

Eph saw another form emerge from the ground mist. Zack, approaching the Master’s side, no doubt summoned telepathically. Zack looked almost like a man to Eph, like the loved child you one day can no longer recognize. Zack stood with the Master, and suddenly Eph didn’t care anymore—and, at the same time, he cared more than ever.

It is over, Goodweather. Now the book will be closed forever.

The Master had been counting on this. The Master believed that Eph would not harm his son—that he could not blow up the Master if it meant sacrificing Zack too.

Sons are meant to rebel against their fathers. The Master lifted its hands toward the sky again. It has always been that way.

Eph stared at Zack, standing with this monster. With tears in his eyes, Eph smiled at his boy. “I forgive you, Zack, I do . . . ,” he said. “And I hope to hell that you forgive me.”

Eph turned the screw switch from time delay to manual. He worked as fast as he could, and yet still the Master burst ahead, covering the distance between them. Eph released the detonator just in time, or else the blow from the Master would have torn the wires from the device, rendering it inoperable.

Eph landed in a heap. He shook off the impact, trying to stand. He saw the Master coming for him, its eyes flaring red inside the crooked X.

Behind it, the Born came flying. Mr. Quinlan had Eph’s second sword. It impaled the beast before it could turn, the Master arching with pain.

The Born pulled back the blade, and the Master turned, facing him. Mr. Quinlan’s face was broken, his left cheek collapsed, his jaw unhinged, iridescent blood coating his neck. But still he swiped at the Master, slicing at the creature’s hands and arms.

The Master’s psychic fury sent the mist fleeing as, undeterred by the pain, it stalked its own wounded creation, backing the Born away from the bomb. Father and son entangled in the fiercest battle.

Eph saw Zack standing alone behind Mr. Quinlan, watching raptly, something like fire in his eyes. Then Zack turned, as though his attention had been called to something. The Master was directing him. Zack reached down and picked up something long.

Setrakian’s walking stick. The boy knew that a good twist of the handle shed the bottom wooden sheath, baring the silver blade.

Zack held the sword with both hands. He looked at Mr. Quinlan from behind.

Eph was already running toward him. He got in front of Zack, between him and the Born, one arm over his searing chest, the other holding a sword.

Zack stared at his father before him. He did not lower his blade.

Eph lowered his. He wanted Zack to take a chop at him. It would have made what he had to do that much easier.

The boy trembled. Maybe he was fighting himself inside, resisting what the Master was telling him to do.

Eph reached for his wrists and pulled Setrakian’s sword out of his hands. “Okay,” said Eph. “It’s okay.”

Mr. Quinlan overpowered the Master. Eph could not hear what their minds were saying to one another; he only knew that the roar in his own head was deafening. Mr. Quinlan grabbed the neck of the Master and sank his fingers into it, piercing its flesh, trying to shatter it.

Father.

And then the Master shot out its stinger—and like a piston, it embedded itself in the Born’s neck. Such was its force that it shattered the vertebrae. Blood worms invaded Mr. Quinlan’s immaculate body, coursing under his pale skin for the very first—and very last—time.

Eph saw the lights and heard the helicopter rotors approaching the island. They had found them. The spotlights searched the blighted land. It was now or never.

Eph ran as fast as his punctured lungs would allow, the barrel-shaped device shaking in his view. He was just a few yards out when a howl came up and a blow caught him on the back of the head.

Both swords slipped from his hands. Eph felt something gripping the side of his chest, the pain excruciating. He clawed at the soft dirt, seeing Setrakian’s sword blade glowing silver-white. He’d just grasped the wolf’s-head handle when the Master hoisted him into the air, spinning him.

The Master’s arms, face, and neck were cut and bleeding white. The creature could of course heal itself but had had no chance to yet. Eph slashed at the Master’s neck with the old man’s silver, but the creature caught Eph’s sword arm, stopping the blow. The pain in Eph’s chest was too great, and the Master’s strength was tremendous. It forced Eph’s hand back, pointing Setrakian’s sword at Eph’s own throat.

A helicopter spotlight hit them. In the haze, Eph looked down into the Master’s glowing, scratched-open face. He saw the blood worms rippling beneath its skin, invigorated by the nearness of human blood and the anticipation of the kill. The thrumming roared in Eph’s head, achieving a voice, its tenor rising to almost a nearly angelic level.

I have a new body ready and waiting. The next time anyone looks at your son’s face—they will be looking at me.

The worms bubbled beneath the flesh of its face, as though in ecstasy.

Good-bye, Goodweather.

But Eph eased his resistance against the Master’s grip just before the Master could finish him off. Eph pricked his own throat, opening a vein. He saw his own red blood spurt out, spraying right into the Master’s face—making the blood worms crazy.

They sprang from the Master’s open wounds. They crawled up from the slices in its arms and the hole in its chest, trying to get at the blood.

The Master groaned and shook, hurling Eph away as it brought its own hands to its face.

Eph landed hard. He twisted, needing all his strength to turn back.

Within the column of helicopter light, the Master stumbled backward, trying to stop its own parasitic worms from feasting on the human blood coating its face, obstructing its vision.

Eph watched all of this through a daze, everything slowed down. Then a thump in the ground at his side brought him back to speed.

The snipers. Another spotlight lit him up, red laser sights dancing on his chest and head . . . and the nuke, just a few feet away.

Eph dragged himself through the dirt, scratching toward the device as rounds pelted the ground around him. He reached it, pulling himself up on it in order to reach the detonator.

He got it in his hand and found the button, then risked one look back at Zack.

The boy stood near where the Born lay. A few of the blood parasites had reached him, and Eph saw Zack struggling to brush them off . . . then watched as they burrowed in under his forearm and neck.

Mr. Quinlan’s body arose, a new look in his eyes—a new will. That of the Master, who understood the dark side of human nature completely, but not love.

“This is love,” said Eph. “God, it hurts—but this is love . . .”

And he, who had been late to most everything in his life, was on time for this, the most important appointment he ever had. He pushed the switch.

And nothing happened. For one agonizing moment, the island was an oasis of stillness to Eph, though the helicopters were hovering overhead.

Eph saw Mr. Quinlan coming at him, one final lunge of the Master’s will.

Then two punches to his chest. Eph was down on the ground, looking at his wounds. Seeing the bloody holes there, just to the right of his heart. His blood seeping into the ground.

Eph looked past Mr. Quinlan at Zack, his face glowing in the helicopter light. His will still present, still not overcome. He saw Zack’s eyes—his son, even now, his son—he still had the most beautiful eyes . . .

Eph smiled.

And then the miracle happened.

It was the gentlest of things: no earthquake, no hurricane, no parting of the seas. The sky cleared for a moment and a brilliant column of pure, sterilizing light a million times more powerful than any helicopter spotlight poured down. The dark cloud cover opened and cleansing light emerged.

The Born, now infected by the Master’s blood, hissed and writhed in the brilliant light. Smoke and vapor surged from its body as the Born screamed like a lobster being boiled.

None of this shook Eph’s gaze from the eyes of his son. And as Zack saw his father smile at him there—in the powerful light of glorious day—he recognized him for all that he was, recognized him as—

“Dad—” Zack said softly.

And then the nuclear device detonated. Everything around the flashpoint evaporated—bodies, sand, vegetation, helicopters—all gone.

Purged.

From a beach well down the river, close to Lake Ontario, Nora watched this only for a moment. Then Fet pulled her around a rocky outcropping, both of them dropping into a ball on the sand.

The shock wave made the old abandoned fort near them shudder, shaking dust and stone fragments from the walls. Nora was certain the entire structure would collapse into the river. Her ears popped and the water around them heaved in a great gush—and even with her eyes tightly closed and her arms over her head, she still saw bright light.

Rain blew sideways, the ground emitted a howl of pain . . . and then the light faded, the stone fort settled without collapsing, and everything became quiet and still.

Later, she would realize that she and Fet had been rendered temporarily deaf by the blast, but for the moment the silence was profound and spiritual. Fet uncurled himself from shielding Nora, and together they ventured back out around the rock barrier as the water receded from the beach.

What she saw—the larger miracle in the sky—she did not fully understand until later.

Gabriel, the first archangel—an entity of light so bright that it made the sun and the atomic glow pale—came spiraling down around the shaft of light on glowing silver wings.

Michael, the murdered one, tucked his wings and bolted straight down, leveling out about a mile above the island, gliding down the rest of the way.

Then, rising as though out of the earth itself, came Ozryel, together again, resurrected from the collective ashes. Rock and dirt fell from its great wings as it ascended. A spirit again, flesh no more.

Nora witnessed all these portents in the absolute silence of momentary deafness. And that, perhaps, made it sink even deeper into her psyche. She could not hear the raging rumble that her feet felt, she could not hear the crackling of the blinding light that warmed her face and her soul. A true Old Testament moment witnessed by someone dressed not in linen robes but off-the-shelf Gap. This moment rattled her senses and her faith for the rest of her life. Without even noticing it, Nora cried freely.

Gabriel and Michael joined Ozryel and together they soared into the light. The hole in the clouds brightened brilliantly as the three archangels reached it—and then with one last flare of divine illumination, the opening swallowed them up and then closed.

Nora and Fet looked around. The river was still raging, and their skiff had been swept away. Fet checked Nora, making sure she was okay.

We’re alive, he mouthed—no words audible.

Did you see that? asked Nora.

Fet shook his head, not as in, No, but as in, I don’t believe it.

The couple looked at the sky, waiting for something else to happen.

Meanwhile, all around them, large sections of sandy beach had turned to opalescent glass.

The fort residents came out, a few dozen men and women in tatters, some carrying children. Nora and Fet had warned them to take cover, and now the islanders looked to them for an explanation.

Nora had to yell in order to be heard. “Ann and William?” she said. “They had a boy with them, a thirteen-year-old boy!”

The adults shook their heads.

Nora said, “They left before us!”

One man said, “Maybe on another island?”

Nora nodded—though she didn’t believe it. She and Fet had made it to their fort island in a sailboat. Ann and William should have landed long ago.

Fet rested his hand on Nora’s shoulder. “What about Eph?”

There was no way to confirm it, but she knew he was never coming back.

Epilogue

THE
ORIGIN
BLAST obliterated the Master’s strain. Every remaining vampire vaporized at the moment of immolation. Vanished.

They confirmed this over the next few days. First by venturing back to the mainland once the waters receded. Then by checking impassioned dispatches over the liberated Internet. Rather than celebrating, people stumbled around in a post-traumatic haze. The atmosphere was still contaminated and the hours of daylight were few. Superstition remained and darkness was, if anything, feared even more than before. Reports of vampires still in existence flared up again and again, every single one eventually attributed to hysteria.

Things did not “go back to normal.” Indeed, the islanders remained in their settlements for months, working to reclaim their mainland properties but reluctant to commit to the old ways just yet. Everything everybody had thought they knew about nature and history and biology had been proved wrong, or at least incomplete. And then for two years, they had come to accept a new reality and a new regime. Old faiths had been shattered; others had been reaffirmed. But everything was open to question. Uncertainty was the new plague.

Nora counted herself among those who needed time to make sure that this way of life was going to stick. That there weren’t any other nasty surprises waiting for them just around the corner.

Fet said one day, broaching the subject gently, “What are we going to do? We have to return to New York sometime.”

“Do we?” asked Nora. “I don’t know if it’s there for me anymore.” She took his hand. “Do you?”

Fet squeezed her hand and looked out over the river. He would let her take as much time as she needed.

As it turned out, Nora and Fet never went back. They took advantage of the Federal Property Reclamation Act proposed by the interim government and moved into a farmhouse in northern Vermont, safely outside the void zone caused by the detonation of the nuclear device in the Saint Lawrence River. They never married—neither of them felt the need—but they had two children of their own, a boy named Ephraim and a girl named Mariela, after Nora’s mother. Fet posted the annotated contents of the Occido Lumen on the reinvigorated Internet and attempted to retain his anonymity. But when its veracity was eventually questioned, he embarked upon “the Setrakian Project,” curating and posting the entirety of the old professor’s writings and source materials on the Internet, free for all. Fet’s lifelong project became the tracing of the Ancients’ influence over the course of human history. He wanted to know the mistakes we had collectively made and devoted himself to avoiding their being repeated ever again.

For a time there was unrest and talk of criminal trials to identify and punish those guilty of human rights abuses under the shade of the holocaust. Guards and sympathizers were occasionally spotted and lynched, and revenge murders were widely suspected, but, in the end, more tolerant voices rose to answer to the question of who did this to us. We all did. And—little by little—with all our rancor and ghosts bearing the weight of our past, people learned to coexist once again.

In due time, others claimed to have taken down the strigoi. A biologist claimed to have released a vaccine into the water system, a few gang members exhibited assorted trophies claiming to have killed the Master, and, in the strangest twist, a large group of skeptics began to deny that the plague itself ever occurred. They attributed it all to a huge new-world-order plot, calling the entire event a manufactured coup. Disappointed, but never bitter, Fet slowly restarted his exterminating business. The rats had returned, thriving once again, another challenge to be met. He was not one to believe in perfection or happy endings: this was the world they had saved, rats and all. But to a handful of believers, Vasiliy Fet became a cult hero, and though he was uncomfortable with fame of any kind, he settled for this, and counted his blessings.

Nora, every night she put her baby boy, Ephraim, down to sleep, rubbed his hair and thought of his namesake, and his namesake’s son, and wondered what the end had been like for them. For the first few years of his life, she often speculated about what her life—with Eph—might have resembled had the strain never occurred. Sometimes she cried, and on those occasions, Fet knew better than to ask. This was a part of Nora that he did not share—that he would never share—and he gave her the room to grieve alone. But as the boy grew older and came into his own, becoming so much like his father and nothing at all like his namesake, the reality of the days washed away the possibilities of the past, and time moved on. For Nora, death was no longer one of her fears, because she had vanquished its more malignant alternative.

She carried with her always the mark on her forehead: the scar from Barnes’s gunshot. She regarded this scar as a symbol of how close she had come to a fate worse than death, though, in her later years, it became instead for her a symbol of luck. For now, as Nora gazed into the face of her baby—unmarked and full of peace—a great serenity overcame her, and out of nowhere, she remembered her mother’s words:

Looking back on one’s life, you see that love was the answer to everything.

How right she was.

Acknowledgements

The authors wish to acknowledge Dr. Seth Richardson at the University of Chicago for his assistance with Mesopotamian and biblical lore.

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers
77–85 Fulham Palace Road,
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2011

Copyright © Guillermo Del Toro and Chuck Hogan 2011

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2012

Cover photograph © Renee Keith / Getty Images (vampire); Chen Chao / Getty Images (bus scene); Shutterstock (broken glass)

The authors assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Source ISBN: 9780007319527

Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2011 ISBN 9780007328628

Version 2013-09-19

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

About the Authors

Guillermo Del Toro was born and raised in Guadalajara, Mexico. He made his feature directorial debut in 1993 with the film Cronos and has since gone on to direct Mimic, The Devil’s Backbone, Blade II, Hellboy I, Hellboy II, and Pan’s Labyrinth, which garnered enormous critical praise worldwide and won three Academy Awards.

Chuck Hogan is the author of several acclaimed novels, including The Standoff, and Prince of Thieves, which won the 2005 Hammett Award and was hailed as one of the ten best novels of the year by Stephen King. Retitled The Town, the film version stars Ben Affleck, Rebecca Hall and Jon Hamm.

Also by the Authors

Also by Guillermo Del Toro and Chuck Hogan

The Strain

The Fall

The Night Eternal

Also by Chuck Hogan

Devils in Exile

The Killing Moon

Prince of Thieves

The Blood Artists

The Standoff

Copyright

This is entirely a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

Harper
An Imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
77–85 Fulham Palace Road,
Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2013

Copyright © Guillermo Del Toro and Chuck Hogan 2013

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2013

The authors assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2013 ISBN: 9780007535149

Version 2013-09-19

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

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