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 turnstile
s 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.