The Strain, the Fall, the Night Eternal (68 page)

“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

T
HE 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.