As dementia settled in, Nora’s mother started to complain. About everything and all the time. Her resentments and anger, accumulated through the years and quieted by civility, came forth in torrents of incoherent nagging. And Nora took it all. She would never abandon her mother.

Three hours before dawn, Nora’s mother opened her eyes. And for a fleeting moment she was lucid. It happened now and then but less often than before. In a way, Nora thought, her mother, like the strigoi, was supplanted by another will and it was quite eerie whenever she snapped out of the trancelike disease and looked at Nora. At Nora as she was, right here, right now.

“Nora? Where are we?” she said.

“Shh, Mama. We are okay. Go back to sleep.”

“Are we in a hospital? Am I sick?” she asked, agitated.

“No, Mama. It’s all right. Everything is fine.” Nora’s mother held her daughter’s hand firmly and lay back down in her cot. She caressed her shaved head.

“What happened? Who did this to you?” she asked, mortified.

Nora kissed her mother’s hand. “Nobody, Mom. It will grow back. You’ll see.”

Nora’s mother looked at her with great lucidity, and after a long pause she asked, “Are we going to die?”

And Nora didn’t know what to say. She began to sob, and her mother hushed her now and hugged her and kissed her softly on the head. “Don’t cry, my dear. Don’t cry.”

She then held her head and looked her daughter straight in the eye and said, “Looking back on one’s life, you see that love was the answer to everything. I love you, Nora. I always will. And that we will have forever.”

They fell asleep together and Nora lost track of the time. She woke up and saw that the sky was clearing.

What now? They were trapped. Away from Fet, away from Eph. With no way out. Except the butter knife.

She took a final look at the shank. She would go to Barnes and use it and then… then maybe she would turn it on herself.

Suddenly it didn’t look sharp enough. She worked on the edge and the tip until dawn.

Sewage Processing Plant

THE STANFORD SEWAGE Processing Plant lay beneath a hexagonal red brick building on La Salle Street between Amsterdam and Broadway. Built in 1906, the plant was meant to keep up with the area’s demands and growth for at least a century. During its first decade, the plant processed thirty million gallons of raw sewage a day. But the influx of people delivered by two consecutive world wars soon made that rate insufficient. The neighbors also complained about shortness of breath, eye infections, and a general sulfurous smell emanating from the building 24/7. The plant shut down partially in 1947 and completely five years after that.

The inside of it was immense, even majestic. There was a nobility to industrial turn-of-the-century architecture that has since been lost. Twin wrought-iron staircases led to the catwalks above, and the cast-iron structures that filtered and processed the raw sewage had barely been vandalized over the years. Faded graffiti and a three-feet-deep deposit of silt, dry leaves, dog poop, and dead pigeons were the only signs of abandonment. A year before, Gus Elizalde had stumbled onto it and had cleaned one of the reservoirs by hand, turning it into his own personal armory.

The only access was through a tunnel, and only by using a massive iron valve locked with a heavy stainless steel chain.

Gus wanted to show off his weapons cache, so they could load up for the raid on the blood camp. Eph had stayed behind—needing some alone time after finally seeing his son, via video, after two long years, standing alongside the Master and his vampire mother. Fet had renewed understanding for Eph’s unique plight, the toll the vampire strain had taken on his life, and Fet sympathized completely. But still, on their way to the improvised armory, Fet discreetly complained about Eph, about how his focus was slipping. He complained in only practical terms, without malice, without rancor. Maybe with just a touch of jealousy, since Goodweather’s presence still could get in the way of him and Nora.

“I don’t like him,” said Gus. “Never did. Guy bitches about what he doesn’t have, loses sight of what he does have, and is never happy. He’s what you call a—what’s that word?”

“Pessimist?” said Fet.

“Asshole,” said Gus.

“He’s gone through a lot,” said Fet.

“Oh, really. Oh, I’m so fucking sorry. I always wanted my mother to stand naked in a cell with a fucking helmet glued to her fucking cabeza.”

Fet almost smiled. Gus was ultimately right. No man should ever have to go through what Eph was going through. But still, Fet needed him functional and battle-ready. Their corps was shrinking, and getting everyone’s best effort was critical.