The Strain. Book I of The Strain Trilogy

would know what it was not to worry about tomorrow, or tomorrow’s tomorrow…

A breeze fluttered the patio trees and rustled through some of the plantings. Palmer, seated facing the taller residence, at an angle, next to a small smoking table, heard a rustling. A rippling, like the hem of a garment on the floor. A black garment.

I thought you wanted no contact until after the first week.

The voice — at once both familiar and monstrous — sent a dark thrill racing up Palmer’s crooked back. If Palmer hadn’t purposely been facing away from the main part of the patio — both out of respect as well as sheer human aversion — he would have seen that the Master’s mouth never moved. No voice went out into the night. The Master spoke directly into your mind.

Palmer felt the presence high above his shoulder, and kept his gaze trained on the arched doors to the residence. “Welcome to New York.”

This came out as more of a gasp than he would have liked. Nothing can unman you like an un-man.

When the Master said nothing, Palmer tried to reassert himself. “I have to say, I disapprove of this Bolivar. I don’t know why you should have selected him.”

Who he is matters not to me.

Palmer saw instantly that he was right. So what if Bolivar had been a makeup-wearing rock star? Palmer was thinking like a human, he supposed. “Why did you leave four conscious? It has created many problems.”

Do you question me?

Palmer swallowed. A kingmaker in this life, subordinate to no man. The feeling of abject servility was as foreign to him as it was overwhelming.

“Someone is on to you,” Palmer said quickly. “A medical scientist, a disease detective. Here in New York.”

What does one man matter to me?

“He — his name is Dr. Ephraim Goodweather — is an expert in epidemic control.”

You glorified little monkeys. Your kind is the epidemic — not mine.

“This Goodweather is being advised by someone. A man with detailed knowledge of your kind. He knows the lore and even a bit of the biology. The police are looking for him, but I think that more decisive action is warranted. I believe that this could mean the difference between a quick, decisive victory or a protracted struggle. We have many battles to come, on the human front as well as others—”

I will prevail.

As to that, Palmer harbored no doubts. “Yes, of course.” Palmer wanted the old man for himself. He wanted to confirm his identity before divulging any information to the Master. So he was actively trying not to think about the old man — knowing that, in the presence of the Master, one must protect one’s thoughts…

I have met this old man before. When he was not quite so old.

Palmer went cold with astonished defeat. “You will remember, it took me a long time to find you. My travels took me to the four corners of the world, and there were many dead ends and side roads — many people I had to go through. He was one of them.” He tried to make his change in topic fluid, but his mind felt clouded. Being in the 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 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