behind balcony glass high along the walls, like guests observing a surgery.
The steward turned to Eichhorst and said, “I am afraid, sir, that is just not possible.”
“I must insist.”
“Sir…”
Eichhorst turned to the auctioneer, pointing at him with his paddle. “You will hold your gavel until I am allowed to make contact with my benefactor.”
The auctioneer returned to his microphone. “The rules of auction are quite clear on this point, sir. I am afraid that without a viable line of credit—”
“I indeed do have a viable line of credit.”
“Sir, our information is that it has just been rescinded. I am very sorry. You will have to take up the matter with your bank—”
“My bank! On the contrary, we will complete the bidding here and now, and then I will straighten out this irregularity!”
“I am sorry, sir. The house rules are the same as they have been for decades, and cannot be altered, not for anyone.” The auctioneer looked out over the audience, resuming the bidding. “I have $32 million.”
Eichhorst raised his paddle. “$35 million!”
“Sir, I am sorry. The bid is $32 million. Do I hear $32.5?”
Setrakian sat with his paddle on his leg, ready.
“$32.5?”
Nothing.
“$32 million, going once.”
“$40 million!” said Eichhorst, standing in the aisle now.
“$32 million, going twice.”
“I object! This auction must be canceled. I must be allowed more time—”
“$32 million. Lot 1007 is sold to bidder #23. Congratulations.”
The gavel came down to ratify the sale; the room burst into applause. Hands reached toward Setrakian in congratulations, but the old man got to his feet as quickly as possible and walked to the front of the room, where he was met by another steward.
“I would like to take possession of the book immediately,” he informed her.
“But, sir, we have some paperwork—”
“You may clear the payment, including the house’s commission, but I am taking possession of the book, and I am doing so now.”
Gus’s battered Hummer wove and bashed its way back across the Queensboro Bridge. As they returned to Manhattan, Eph spotted dozens of military vehicles staged at 59th Street and Second Avenue, in front of the entrance to the Roosevelt Island Tramway. The larger, canopied trucks read FORT DRUM in black stencil, and two white buses, as well as some Jeeps, read USMA WEST POINT.
“Shutting down the bridge?” said Gus, his gloved hands tight upon the steering wheel.
“Maybe enforcing the quarantine,” said Eph.
“You think they are with us or against us?”
Eph saw personnel in combat fatigues pulling a tarp down off a large, truck-mounted machine gun—and he felt his heart lift a little. “I’m going to say with us.”
“I hope so,” said Gus, swinging hard toward uptown. “Because if not, this is gonna get even more fucking interesting.”
They arrived at 72nd and York just as the street battle was getting underway. Vamps came streaming out of the brick-tower nursing home across the street from Sotheby’s—the aged residents imbued with new motility and
Gus killed the engine and popped the trunk. Eph, Angel, and the two Sapphires jumped out and started grabbing silver.
“I guess he won it after all,” said Gus, ripping open a carton, handing Eph two vases of painted glass with narrow necks, gasoline sloshing inside.
“Won what?” said Eph.
Gus wicked a rag into each and then flicked open a silver-plated Zippo, igniting them. He took one vase from Eph and walked out into the street away from the Hummer. “Put your shoulder into it, homes,” said Gus. “On three. One. Two.
They catapulted the economy-sized Molotov cocktails over the heads of the marauding vampires. The vases shattered, igniting immediately, liquid flame opening up and spreading instantly like twin pools of hell. Two Carmelite sisters went up first, their brown-and-white habits taking to the flame like sheets of newspaper. Then went the multitude of vampires in bathrobes and housecoats, squealing. The Sapphires came on next, skewering the engulfed creatures, finishing them off—only to see more come charging down 71st Street, like maniac firefighters answering a psychic five-alarm call.
A couple of burning vampires charged on, flames trailing, and only stopped a foot or so away from Gus after being riddled with silver bullets.
“Where the hell are they already?” yelled Gus, looking to Sotheby’s entrance. The tall, thin sidewalk trees out front burned like hellish sentries outside the auction house.
Eph saw building guards rushing to lock the revolving doors inside the glass lobby. “Come on!” he yelled, and they fought their way past the burning trees. Gus wasted some silver bolts on the doors, puncturing and weakening the glass before Angel charged through.
Setrakian leaned heavily on his oversize walking stick in the elevator going down. The auction had drained him, and yet there was so much more to do. Fet stood at his side, his weapon pack on his back, the $32 million book in bubble wrap under his arm.
To Setrakian’s right, one of the auction house’s security guards waited with hands clasped over his belt buckle.
Chamber music played over the panel speaker. A string quartet, Dvorak.
“Congratulations, sir,” said the security guard, to break the silence.
“Yes,” said Setrakian. He noticed the white wire in the man’s brown ear. “Does your radio work in this elevator, by any chance?”
“No, sir, it does not.”
The elevator stopped abruptly, all three men grabbing for the wall to steady themselves. The car started down again at once, then again stopped. The number on the overhead display read 4.
The guard pressed the DOWN button, then the 4 button, thumbing each one numerous times.
While the guard was so engaged, Fet drew a sword from his pack and faced the elevator door. Setrakian twisted the grip of his walking stick, exposing the silver shaft of his hidden blade.
The first bang against the door shook the guard, making him jump back.
The second blow produced a serving bowl-size dent.
The guard reached out his hand to feel the convexity. He began to say, “What the—”
The door slid open, and pale hands reached inside, pulling him out.
Fet barreled out after him with the book clutched under his arm, lowering his shoulder and driving forward like a running back taking the pigskin through an entire defensive line. He plowed the vampires straight back against the wall, Setrakian exiting behind him, his silver sword flashing, killing a path toward the main floor.
Fet slashed and chopped, fighting at close quarters with the creatures, feeling their inhuman warmth, their acidic white blood spurting onto his coat. He reached for the security guard with the fingers of his sword hand, but found he could do nothing for him, the guard disappearing to the floor beneath a huddle of hungry vampires.
With wide, sweeping slices, Setrakian cleared the way to the front railing overlooking the interior four-story drop. Outside, he saw bodies burning in the street, trees on fire, a melee at the building entrance. Inside, looking straight down, he saw the gangbanger Gus alongside his older Mexican friend. It was the limping ex-wrestler who looked up, pointing out Setrakian.
“Here!” Setrakian called back to Fet. Fet extricated himself from the pile-up, checking his clothes for blood
