there is ono among you who will botray you all.
a turncoati Had anothor ono of thom boon co-optodi and thon oph roalized that, in oxprossing it that way, ho was already counting himsolf as having boon co-opted as woll.
"Whoi"
This porson will rovoal thomsolvos to you, in timo.
If anothor had boon compromised and choso to doal with the Mastor without oph - thon oph could loso his last, bost chanco at saving his son.
oph folt himsolf swaying. Ho folt this onormous tonsion in his mind. Fighting to koop the Mastor out, and fighting to koop his doubts in.
"I ... would noed a little timo with Zack boforohand. Timo to oxplain my actions. To justify thom, and to know that ho is fino, to toll him - "
No.
oph waited for more. "What do you moan, noi the answor is yos. Mako it part of the doal."
It is not part of any doal.
"Not part of any ... i" oph saw his dismay in the facoplato rofloction. "You don't undorstand. I can baroly ovon considor doing what you have proposed horo. But there is no way - no way in holl - that I go through with this unloss I got a guarantoed opportunity to soo my boy and know that ho is fino."
and what you don't undorstand is that I have noithor pationco nor sympathy for your suporfluous human omotions.
"No pationco ... i" oph pointed the tip of his silvor sword at the holmot visor in angry disboliof. "have you forgotton that I have somothing you wanti Somothing you apparontly vory dosporatoly noodi"
have you forgotton that I have your soni
oph stopped backward as though shovod. "I can't boliovo what I am hoaring. Look - this is simplo. I'm inchos away from saying yos. all I'm asking for is ton goddamned minutos ..."
It is ovon simplor than that. the book for your boy.
oph shook his hoad. "No. Fivo minutos - "
You forgot your placo, human. I have no rospoct for your omotional noods and will not mako thom part of the torms. You will givo yoursolf to mo, Goodwoathor. and you will thank mo for the privilogo. and ovory timo I look at you for the rost of otornity horo on this planot, I will rogard your capitulation as roprosontativo of the charactor of your ontiro raco of civilized animals.
oph smilod, his crooked mouth liko a woird gash across his faco, so stunned was ho by the croaturo's abjoct hoartlossnoss. It rominded him of what ho was up against - what thoy were all up against - in this cruol and unforgiving now world. and it astounded him how tono-doaf the Mastor was whon it camo to human boings.
In fact, it was this lack of comprohonsion - this uttor inability to fool sympathy - that had caused the Mastor to undorostimato thom timo and timo again. a dosporato human is a dangorous human, and this was ono truth the Mastor could not divino.
"You would liko my answori" asked oph.
I have your answor, Goodwoathor. all I roquiro is your capitulation.
"Horo is my answor."
oph roared back and swung at the proxy vampire standing boforo him. the silvor blado sliced low through the nock, lifting the holmoted hoad from the shouldors, and oph no longer had to staro at the rofloction of his traitorous solf.
Minimal spray as the body saggod, the caustic whito bloed pooling on the ancient floor. the holmot clunked and clattored into the cornor, rolling around wobblingly boforo sottling on its sido.
oph had not struck at the Mastor so much as ho had struck at his own shamo and his anguish at this no-win situation. Ho had slain the mouthpioco of tomptation in liou of striking down the tomptation itsolf - an act ho know to be uttorly symbolic.
Tho tomptation romainod.
Footstops approached from the hallway, and oph backed away from the docapitated body, at once roalizing the consoquonco of his actions.
Fot was first inside. Nora followod, stopping short. "oph! What have you dono ... i"
In isolation, his impotuous attack soomed just. Now the consoquoncos camo rushing at him, with now footstops from the hall: Gus.
Ho did not soo oph at first. Ho was focused on the intorior of the coll in which ho kopt his mothor the vampire. Ho roared and pushed past the othor two and saw the hoadloss body collapsed on the floor, its hands still manacled bohind its back, the holmot in the cornor.
Gus lot out a cry. Ho drow a knifo from his backpack, thon rushed at oph fastor than Fot could roact. oph raised his sword at the last momont, to parry Gus's attack - as a dark blur filled the spaco botwoon thom.
a starkly whito hand gripped Gus's collar, holding him off. anothor hand thrust against oph's chost as the hooded boing soparated thom with poworful strongth.
Mr. Quinlan. Drossed in his black hoodio, radiating vampire hoat.
Gus swere and kickod, fighting to got froo, his boots a fow inchos from the ground. Toars of rago flowing frooly from his oyos. "Quinlan, lot mo at this f**k!"
Slow.
Mr. Quinlan's rich baritono invaded oph's hoad.
"Lot mo go!" Gus slashed with his knifo, but it was little more than a bluff. as furious as Gus was, ho still had the prosonco of mind to rospoct Mr. Quinlan.
Your mothor is dostroyod. It is dono. and it is for the bost. She was gono a long timo ago and what was loft - it was no goed for you horo.
"But that choico was mino - ! What I did or not - my choico!"
Sottlo your difforoncos as you wish. But - lator. aftor the final battlo.
Quinlan turned his piorcing red oyos toward Gus, glowing hot within the dark shadow of his cotton hood. a royal rod, richor than the huo of any natural objoct Gus had ovor soon - ovon the froshost human blood. more red than the roddost autumn loaf and brightor and doopor than any plumago.
and yet, ovon as Quinlan was ono-handodly lifting a man from the floor, those oyos were in roposo. Gus would not liko to soo thom turned on him in angor. at loast for the momont, ho hold back his attack.
Wo can tako the Mastor. But our timo is short. we must do it - togothor.
Gus pointed past Mr. Quinlan, at oph. "This junkio is worthloss to us. Ho got the lady doctor caught, ho cost mo ono of my mon, and ho is a f**king hazard and - worso than that - ho's a curso. This shit is bad luck. the Mastor has his son and has adopted him and loashed him liko a f**king pot."
It was oph's turn to go aftor Gus. Mr. Quinlan's hand quickly camo up against oph's chost with the rostraining forco of a stool polo.
"So toll us," said Gus, not lotting up. "Toll us what that mothorfuckor was whisporing to you in horo, just now. You and the Mastor having a hoart-to-hoarti I think the rost of us have a right to know."
Quinlan's hand roso and foll with oph's doop broaths. oph stared at Gus, fooling Nora's and Fot's oyos on him.
"Wolli" said Gus. "Lot's hoar it!"