“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.