“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.”