Читаем The Night Eternal полностью

Below, in a thick ring around the base of the stone, stood a legion of vampires. Their stillness was unnerving, their statuelike presence resembling some bizarre and stupefyingly ambitious art installation. And then, as Barnes and his two guards approached the outer edge of the vampire ring, the creatures parted—unbreathing, expressionless—for them, allowing their approach. Barnes stopped about ten rows in, approximately halfway through, looking at this respectful ring of vampires. He trembled a little, the umbrella vibrating such that dirty rain shook off the tips of the ribs. Here he experienced most deeply a sense of the uncanny: being in the middle of all these human predators, who by all rights should have drunk him or torn him to shreds—but instead stood idly as he passed, if not with respect then with enforced indifference. It was as though he had entered the zoo and gone walking past the lions, tigers, and bears without any reaction or interest. This was completely against their nature. Such was the depth of their enslavement to the Master.

Barnes encountered the former Kelly Goodweather at the door to the castle. She stood outside the door, her eyes meeting his, unlike the rest of the drones. He slowed, almost tempted to say something, like “Hello,” a courtesy left over from the old world. Instead, he simply passed, and her eyes followed him inside.

The clan lord appeared in his dark cloak, blood worms rippling beneath the skin covering his face as he regarded Barnes.

Goodweather has accepted.

“Yes,” Barnes said, thinking, If you knew that, then why did I have to get in a helicopter to come to this drafty castle to see you?

Barnes tried to explain the double-cross but became tangled up in the details himself. The Master did not appear particularly interested.

“He’s double-crossing his partners,” said Barnes, summing up. “He seemed sincere. I don’t know that I would trust him, though.”

I trust his pitiable need for his son.

“Yes. I see your point. And he trusts your need for the book.”

Once I have Goodweather, I have his partners. Once I have the book, I have all the answers.

“What I don’t understand is how he was able to overwhelm security at my house. Why others of your clan weren’t notified.”

It is the Born. He is created by me but not of my blood.

“So he’s not on the same wavelength?”

I do not have control over him as I do my others.

“And he’s with Goodweather now? Like a double agent? A defector?” The Master did not answer. “Such a being could be very dangerous.”

For you? Very. For myself? Not dangerous. Only elusive. The Born has allied himself with the gang member whom the Ancients recruited for day hunting and the rest of the scum that runs with him. I know where to find some information about them…

“If Goodweather surrenders himself to you… then you would have all the information to find him. The Born.”

Yes. Two fathers reuniting with two sons. There’s always symmetry in God’s plans. If he gives himself to me…

A ruckus behind Barnes then made him turn, startled. A teenager, with ragged hair falling over his eyes, stumbling down the spiral staircase. A human, holding one hand to his throat. The boy shook back some of his hair, just enough so that Barnes recognized Ephraim Goodweather in the boy’s face. Those same eyes, that same very serious expression—though now showing fear.

Zachary Goodweather. He was in obvious respiratory distress, wheezing and turning grayish blue.

Barnes stood, starting toward him instinctively. Later it would occur to Barnes that it had been a great while since he had acted on medical instinct. He intercepted the boy, holding him by his shoulder. “I am a doctor,” said Barnes.

The boy pushed Barnes away, pinwheeling his arm, going straight to the Master. Barnes rocked back a few steps, more shocked than anything. The floppy-haired boy fell to his knees before the Master, who looked down at his suffering face. The Master let the boy struggle a few moments longer, then raised its arm, the loose sleeve of its cloak sliding back. His thumb and elongated middle finger snapped together in a blur, pricking the skin. The Master held its thumb over the boy’s face, a single droplet of blood poised on the tip. Slowly, the bead elongated, dripping free, landing in the back of Zack’s open mouth.