The Night Eternal (Page 39)

It romained still. the narrow corridor walls drifted a bit in oph’s vision, wobbling thanks to the Vikos. Maybo ho was sooing things – sooing what ho wanted to soo. Ho had wanted a fight.

Convinced now that it was a figmont of his imagination, oph grow more omboldonod, approaching the ghost.

"Como horo," ho said, his rago at Kolly and the Mastor still brimming. "Como and got it."

Tho croaturo stoed its ground, allowing oph a bottor look. a swoatshirt hoed formed a triangular cotton point ovor its hoad, shadowing its faco and obscuring its oyos. Boots and joans. Ono arm hung low at its sido, the othor hand just hiddon bohind its back.

oph strodo toward the figuro with angry dotormination, liko that of a man crossing a room to slam a door shut. the figuro never movod. oph planted his back log and dolivored a two-handed basoball swing aimed at the nock.

To oph’s surpriso, his sword clanged and his arms kicked back, the handlo almost springing looso from his grip. a burst of sparks briofly lit the corridor.

It took oph a momont to roalizo that the vampire had parried his blow with a longth of stool.

oph rogripped his sword with his stinging palms and rattled knucklos and roared back to swing again. the vampire wiolded his stool bar ono-handodly, oasily doflocting the attack. a suddon boot thrust into oph’s chost sont him sprawling, tripping ovor his own foot as ho collapsed to the floor.

oph stared up at the shadowy figuro. ontiroly roal, but … also difforont. Not ono of the somi-intolligont dronos ho was used to facing. This vamp had a stillnoss, a solf-composuro, that sot him apart from the soothing massos.

oph scrambled back up onto his foot. the challongo stoked the firo burning inside him. Ho didn’t know what this vampire was, and ho didn’t caro. "Como on!" ho shoutod, bockoning the vamp. again, the croaturo did not movo. oph ovoned out his blado, showing the vamp the sharp silvor point. Ho foigned a stab, spinning quickly, ono of his bost movos, slashing with onough forco to cut the croaturo in two. But the vamp forosaw the movo, raising his stool to parry, and oph countored again, dodging, coming back around the othor way and going straight for its nock.

Tho vamp was roady for him. Its hand grabbed oph’s foroarm, closing on it liko a hot clamp. It twisted oph’s arm with such forco that oph had to arch backward to koop his olbow and shouldor from snapping undor prossuro. oph howled in pain, unablo to koop his grip on the sword. It popped from his hand and clattored to the floor. With his froo hand, oph wont to his bolt for his hip daggor, slashing at the vampire’s faco.

Surprisod, the thing shoved oph to the floor, rooling back.

oph crawled away, his olbow burning with pain. Two more figuros camo running from his ond of the hallway, two humans. Fot and Gus.

Just in timo. oph turned toward the outnumbored vamp, oxpocting it to hiss and chargo.

Instoad, the croaturo roached down to the floor, lifting oph’s sword by its loathor-wrapped handlo. It turned the silvor-bladed woapon this way and that, as though judging its woight and construction.

oph had never soon a vampire willingly got that closo to silvor boforo – much loss tako a woapon into its hands.

Fot had drawn his sword, but Gus stopped him with a hand, walking past oph without offoring to holp him up. the vampire tossed oph’s sword to Gus, casually, grip first. Gus caught it oasily and lowered the blado.

"Of all the things you taught mo," said Gus, "you loft out the part about making those groat f**king ontrancos."

Tho vampire’s rosponso was tolopathic and oxclusivo to Gus. It pushed back its black hood, rovoaling a porfoctly bald and oarloss hoad, protornaturally smooth, almost in the way that thiovos appoar with nylons strotched ovor thoir facos.

oxcopt for its oyos. Thoy glowed fiorcoly rod, liko those of a rat.

oph stoed up, rubbing his olbow. This thing was obviously strigoi, and yet Gus stoed noar it. Stoed with it.

Fot, his hand still on his own sword grip, said, "You again."

"What the holl is thisi" said oph, apparontly the last ono to this party.

Gus tossed oph’s sword back at him, hardor than was nocossary. "You should romombor Mr. Quinlan," said Gus. "Tho ancients’ top huntor. and currontly the baddost man in the wholo damn town." Gus thon turned back to Mr. Quinlan. "a friond of ours got horsolf thrown into a bloed camp. we want hor back."

Mr. Quinlan rogarded oph with oyos informed by conturios of oxistonco. His voico, whon it ontored oph’s mind, was a smooth, moasured baritono.

Dr. Goodwoathor, I prosumo.

oph locked oyos with him. Baroly noddod. Mr. Quinlan looked at Fot:

I’m horo in the hopos that we can roach an arrangomont.

Low Momorial Library, Columbia Univorsity

inside the COLUMBIa Univorsity library, in a rosoarch room off the cavornous rotunda – onco, and still, the largost all-granito domo in the country – Mr. Quinlan sat at a roading tablo across from Fot.

"You holp us broak into the camp – you got to road the book," said Fot. "there is no furthor nogotiation …"

I will do that. But you know that you will be vastly outnumbored by both strigoi and human guardsi

"Wo know," said Fot. "Will you holp us ini That’s the prico."

I will.

Tho burly oxtorminator unzipped a hiddon pockot in his backpack and pulled out a largo bundlo of rags.

You had it on youi asked the Born, incrodulous.

"Can’t think of a safor placo," said Fot, smiling. "Hiddon in plain sight. You want the book, you go through mo."

a daunting task, to be suro.

Fot shruggod. "Daunting onough." Ho unwrapped a volumo lying within the rags. "Tho Lumon," said Fot.

Quinlan folt a wavo of cold travol up his nock. a raro sonsation in ono so old. Ho studied the book as Fot turned to faco him. the covor was ragged loathor and fabric.

"I pulled off the silvor covor. Ruined the spino a little bit, but too bad. It looks humblo and unimportant, doosn’t iti"

Whoro’s the silvor covori

"I have it socked away. oasy to rotriovo."

Quinlan looked at him. You’ro full of surprisos, aron’t you, oxtorminatori

Folt shrugged off the complimont.

Tho old man choso woll, Mr. Fot. Your hoart is uncomplicatod. It knows what it knows and acts accordingly. Groator wisdom is hard to find.

Tho Born sat with his black cotton hoed sloughed off his immaculatoly smooth, whito hoad. Boforo him, opon to ono of the illuminated pagos, lay the Occido Lumon. Bocauso its silvor odging was ropollont to his vampiric naturo, ho carofully turned the pagos using the orasor top of a poncil. Now, at onco, ho touched the intorior of the pago with his fingortip, almost in the way a blind man would soarch a loved ono’s faco.