The Strain, the Fall, the Night Eternal (86 page)

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.”

S
etrakian 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.”

G
us’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.

S
etrakian
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.