The Strain

presence of the Master was like being oil in the presence of a burning wick.

I will meet this Goodweather. And tend to him.

Palmer had already prepared a bulleted sheet containing background information on the CDC epidemiologist. He unfolded the sheet from his jacket pocket, laying it flat on the table. “Everything is there, Master. His family, known associates…”

There was a scrape along the tile top of the table, and the piece of paper was taken. Palmer glimpsed the hand only peripherally. The middle finger, crooked and sharp-nailed, was longer and thicker than the others.

Palmer said, “All we need now is a few more days.”

An argument, of sorts, had begun inside the rock star’s residence, the unfinished twin town houses that Palmer had the unfortunate pleasure of walking through in order to get to the patio rendezvous. He showed particular distaste for the only finished part of the household, the penthouse bedroom, garishly overdecorated and reeking of primate lust. Palmer himself had never been with a woman. When he was young, it was because of illness, and the preaching of the two aunts who had raised him. When he was older, it was by choice. He came to understand that the purity of his mortal self should never be tainted by desire.

The interior argument grew louder, into the unmistakable clatter of violence.

Your man is in trouble.

Palmer sat forward. Mr. Fitzwilliam was inside. Palmer had expressly forbidden him to enter the patio area. “You said his safety here was guaranteed.”

Palmer heard the pounding of running feet. He heard grunting. A human yell.

“Stop them,” said Palmer.

The Master’s voice was, as ever, languid and unperturbed.

He is not the one they want.

Palmer rose in a panic. Did the Master mean him? Was this some sort of trap? “We have an agreement!”

For as long as it suits me.

Palmer heard another yell, close at hand—followed by two quick gun reports. Then one of the interior arched doors was thrown open, inward, and the ornamental gate was pushed out. Mr. Fitzwilliam, 260 pounds of ex-marine in a Savile Row suit, came racing through, his sidearm gripped in his right hand, eyes bright with distress. “Sir—they are right behind me…”

It was then that his vision moved from Palmer’s face to the impossibly tall figure standing behind him. The gun slipped from Mr. Fitzwilliam’s grip, clunking to the tile. Mr. Fitzwilliam’s face drained of color and he swayed there for a moment like a man swaying from a wire, then dropped to his knees.

Behind him came the turned. Vampires in various modes of civilian dress, from business suits to Goth wear to paparazzi casual. All stinking and scuffed from nesting in the dirt. They rushed onto the patio like creatures beckoned by an unheard whistle.

Leading them was Bolivar himself, gaunt and nearly bald, wearing a black robe. As a first-generation vampire, he was more mature than the rest. His flesh had a bloodless, alabaster-like pallor that was almost glowing and his eyes were dead moons.

Behind him was a female fan who had been shot in the face by Mr. Fitzwilliam in the midst of his panic. Her cheekbone was split open back to her lopsided ear, leaving her with one half of a garish, teeth-baring smile.

The rest staggered out into the new night, excited into action by the presence of their Master. They stopped, staring at him in black-eyed awe.

Children.

Palmer—standing right before them, between them and the Master—was completely ignored. The force of the Master’s presence held them in abeyance. They gathered before him like primitives before a temple.

Mr. Fitzwilliam remained on his knees, as though struck down.

The Master spoke in a way that Palmer believed exclusive to his own ears.

You brought me all this way. Aren’t you going to look?

Palmer had beheld the Master once before, in a darkened cellar on another continent. Not clearly, and yet— clearly enough. The image had never left him.

No way to avoid him now. Palmer closed his eyes to steel himself, then opened them and forced himself to turn. Like risking blindness by staring into the sun.

His eyes traveled up from the Master’s chest to… …his face.

The horror. And the glory.

The impious. And the magnificent.

The savage. And the holy.

Unnatural terror stretched Palmer’s face into a mask of fear, eventually turning the corners of it into a triumphant, teeth-clenching smile.

The hideous transcendent.

Behold the Master.

Kelton Street, Woodside, Queens

KELLY WALKED FAST across the living room with clean clothes and batteries in her hands, past Matt and Zack, who were watching the television news.

“We’re going,” said Kelly, dumping the load into a canvas bag on a chair.

Matt turned to her with a smile but Kelly wanted none of it. “Come on, babe,” he said.

“Haven’t you been listening to me?”

“Yes. Patiently.” He stood up from his chair. “Look, Kel, your ex-husband is doing his thing again. Lobbing a grenade into our happy home life here. Can’t you see that? If this was something really serious, the government would tell us.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. Elected officials never lie.” She stomped off to the front closet, pulling out the rest of the luggage. Kelly kept a go bag also, as recommended by the New York City Office of Emergency Management, in the event of an emergency evacuation. It was a sturdy canvas bag packed with bottled water and granola bars, a Grundig hand-crank AM/FM/shortwave radio, a Faraday flashlight, a first-aid kit, $100 in cash, and copies of all their important documents in a waterproof container.

“This is a self-fulfilling prophesy with you,” continued Matt, following her. “Don’t you see? He knows you. He knows exactly which button to push. This is why you two were no good for each other.”

Kelly dug to the back of the closet, tossing out two old tennis rackets in her way, hitting Matt on the feet for talking like that in front of Zack. “It’s not like that. I believe him.”

“He’s a wanted man, Kel. He’s having some sort of breakdown, a collapse. All these so-called geniuses are basically fragile. Like those sunflowers you’re always trying to grow out along the back fence—heads too big, collapsing underneath their own weight.” Kelly sent a winter boot out, flying near his shins, but this one he dodged. “This is all about you, you know. He’s pathological. Can’t let go. This whole thing is about keeping you close.”

She stopped, turning on all fours, staring at him through the bottom of the coats. “Are you really that clueless?”

“Men don’t like to lose. They won’t give in.”

She backed out hauling her big American Tourister. “Is that why you won’t leave now?”

“I won’t leave because I have to go to work. If I thought I could use your daffy husband’s end-of-the-world excuse to get out of this floor-to-computer inventory, I would, believe me. But in the real world, when you don’t show up at your job, you lose it.”

She turned, burning at his obstinacy. “Eph said to go. He’s never acted that way before, never talked like that. This is real.”

“It’s eclipse hysteria, they were talking about it on TV. People freaking out. If I was going to flee New York because of all the crazies, I’d have been out of here years ago.” Matt reached for her shoulders. She shook him off at first, then let him hold her for a moment. “I’ll check in with the electronics department now and then, the TVs there, to see if anything’s happening. But the world keeps turning, all right? For those of us with real jobs. I mean