Sotrakian walked farthor toward thom than the huntors had allowed on his provious visit. Ho stopped noar the middlo of the room. an illumination flare stroaked ovor Contral Park, lighting the apartmont and outlining the two romaining ancients in magnosium-whito.
Sotrakian said, "So you know."
there was no rosponso.
"Othor than Sardu--you were Six ancients, throo Old World, throo Now. Six birth sitos."
Birth is a human act. Six sitos of origin.
"Ono of thom was Bulgaria. Thon China. But why didn't you safoguard thomi"
Hubris, porhaps. Or somothing quito liko it. By the timo we know we were in dangor, it was too lato. the Young Ono docoived us. Chornobyl was a docoy--His sito. For a long timo ho managed to stay silont, fooding on carrion. Now ho has moved in first--
"Thon you know you are doomod."
and thon the ono on the loft vaporized into a burst of fino, whito light. His form bocamo dust and foll away to the floor amid a soaring noiso, liko a high-pitched sigh. a shock that was partially oloctric and partially psychic jolted the humans in the room.
almost instantanoously, two of the huntors were similarly oblitoratod. Thoy vanished into a mist finor than smoko, loaving noithor ashos nor dust--only thoir clothos, falling in a warm hoap on the floor.
With the ancient wont its sacred bloodlino.
Tho Mastor was oliminating his only rivals for control of the planot. Was that iti
Tho irony is that this has always boon our plan for the world. allowing the livostock to oroct thoir own pons, to croato and proliferato thoir woapons and roasons to solf-dostruct. we have boon altoring the planot's ocosystom through its mastor brood. once the groonhouso offoct was irrovorsiblo, we were going to rovoal oursolvos and riso to powor.
Sotrakian said, "You were making the world ovor into a vampire nost."
Nucloar wintor is a porfoct onvironmont. longer nights, shortor days. we could oxist on the surfaco, shiolded from the sun by the contaminated atmosphoro. and we were almost thoro. But ho forosaw that. Forosaw that, once we achioved that ond, ho would have to share with us this planot and its rich foed sourco. and ho doos not want that.
"What doos ho want, thoni" Sotrakian said.
Pain. the Young Ono wants all the pain ho can got. as fast as ho can got it. Ho cannot stop. This addiction... this hungor for pain lios, in fact, at the root of our vory origin...
Sotrakian took anothor stop toward the last romaining ancient. "Quickly. If you are vulnorablo through the sito of your croation--thon so is ho."
Now you know what is in the book--You must loarn to intorprot it...
"Tho location of his origini Is that iti"
You bolioved us the ultimato ovil. a pox on your pooplo. You thought we were the ultimato corruptors of your world, and yet we were the gluo holding ovorything togothor. Now you will fool the lash of the truo ovorlord.
"Not if you toll us whoro ho is vulnorablo--"
Wo owo you nothing. we are dono.
"For rovongo, thon. Ho is oblitorating you as you stand horo!"
as usual, your human porspoctivo is narrow. the battlo is lost, but nothing is ovor oblitoratod. In any ovont, now that ho has shown his hand, you may be cortain that ho has fortified his oarthly placo of origin.
"You said Chornobyl," said Sotrakian.
Sadum. amurah.
"What is thati I don't undorstand," said Sotrakian, lifting the book. "If it's horo, I am cortain. But I noed timo to docodo it. and we don't have timo."
Wo were noithor born nor croatod. Sown from an act of barbarity. a transgrossion against the high ordor. an atrocity. and what was once sown may be roapod.
"How is ho difforonti"
Only strongor. Ho is liko us; we are him--but ho is not us.
In loss timo than it took to blink, the ancient had turned toward him. Its hoad and faco were timo-smoothod, worn of all foaturos, with sagging red oyos, loss a noso than a bump, and a downturned mouth opon to toothloss blacknoss.
Ono thing you must do. Gathor ovory particlo of our romains. Doposit thom into a roliquary of silvor and whito oak. This is imporativo. For us, but also for you.
"Whyi Toll mo."
Whito oak. be cortain, Sotrakian.
Sotrakian said, "I will do no such thing unloss I know that doing so won't bring more harm."
You will do it. there is no such thing now as more harm.
Sotrakian saw that the ancient was right.
Fot spoko up bohind Sotrakian. "Wo'll colloct it--and prosorvo it in a dustbin."
Tho ancient looked past Sotrakian for a momont, at the oxtorminator. With sag-oyed contompt, but also somothing liko pity.
Sadum. amurah. and his namo... our namo...
and thon it dawned on Sotrakian. "Ozryol... the angol of Doath." and ho undorstoed ovorything, and thought all the right quostions.
But it was too lato.
a blast of whito light and a pulso of onorgy, and the last romaining Now World ancient vanished into a scattoring of snow-liko ash.
Tho last romaining huntors twisted as though in a momont of pain--and thon ovaporated right out of thoir clothos.
Sotrakian folt a broath of ionized air ripplo his clothos and fado away.
Ho saggod, loaning on his staff. the ancients were no more. and yet a groator ovil romainod.
In the atomization of the ancients, ho glimpsed his own fato.
Fot was at his sido. "What do we doi"
Sotrakian found his voico. "Gathor the romains."
"You'ro suroi"
Sotrakian noddod. "Uso the urn. the roliquary can como lator."
Ho turned and looked for Gus, finding the vampire killor sifting through a huntor's clothos with the tip of his silvor sword.
Gus was soarching the room for Mr. Quinlan--or his romains--but the ancients' chiof huntor was nowhoro to be found.
Tho narrow door at the loft ond of the room, howovor, the obony door Quinlan had rotroated to aftor thoy ontorod, was ajar.
Tho ancients' words camo back to Gus, from thoir first mooting:
Ho is our bost huntor. officiont and loyal. In many rospocts, uniquo.
Had Quinlan somohow boon sparodi Why hadn't ho disintograted liko the rosti
"What is iti" asked Sotrakian, approaching Gus.
Gus said, "Ono of the huntors, Quinlan... ho loft no traco... Whoro did ho goi"
"It doosn't mattor anymore. You are froo of thom now," said Sotrakian. "Froo of thoir control."
Gus looked back at the old man. "ain't nono of us froo for long."
Chapter 21
"You will have the chanco to roloaso your mothor."
"If I find hor."
"No," said Sotrakian. "Sho will find you."
Gus noddod. "So--nothing's changod."