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They won the book.
This from Eichhorst, whose contempt for Palmer had always been certain, and returned in kind. But Palmer addressed the Master.
“What does it matter at this late moment? Turn me and I will be only too happy to finish off Professor Setrakian myself.”
You understand so little. But then, you have never viewed me as anything other than a means to an end. Your end.
“And shouldn’t I say the same of you! You, who has withheld your gift from me for so many years. I have given you everything and withheld nothing. Until this moment!”
This book is no mere trophy. It is a chalice of information. It is the last, lingering hope of the pig humans. The final gasp of your race. This, you cannot conceive. Your human perspective is so small.
“Then allow me to see.” Palmer stepped toward him, standing only halfway up the Master’s cloaked chest. “It is time. Deliver to me what is rightfully mine, and everything you need shall be yours.”
The Master said nothing into Palmer’s head. He did not move.
But Palmer was fearless. “We have a deal.”
Did you stop anything else? Have you disrupted any of the other plans we set in motion?
“None. Everything stands. Now—do we have a deal?”
We do.
The suddenness with which the Master leaned down to him shocked Palmer, made his fragile heart jump. Its face, up close, the blood worms coasting the veins and capillaries just beneath the florid beetroot that was its skin. Palmer’s brain released long-forgotten hormones, the moment of conversion upon him. Mentally, he had long ago packed his bags, and yet there was still a burst of trepidation at the first step of the ultimate one-way voyage. He had no quarrel with the improvements the turning would have upon his body; he wondered only what it would do to his long-held consolation and fiercest weapon, his mind.
The Master’s hand pressed onto Palmer’s bony shoulder like a vulture’s talons onto a twig. Its other hand gripped the crown of Palmer’s head, turning it to one side, fully extending the old man’s neck and throat.
Palmer looked at the ceiling, his eyes losing focus. He heard choir voices in his head. He had never been held by anyone—anything—in their arms like this in his life. He allowed himself to go limp.
He was ready. His breath came in short, excited bursts as the hardened nail of the Master’s long, thick middle finger pricked at the flesh sagging over his stretched neck.
The Master saw the sick man’s pulse beating through his neck, the man’s heart throbbing in anticipation, and the Master felt the call deep within its stinger. He wanted blood.
But it ignored its nature and, with one firm crack, it ripped Eldritch Palmer’s head from his torso. It released the head and gripped the spurting body and tore Palmer in half, the body splitting apart easily where the bones of the hips narrowed to the waist. It tossed the bloody pieces of meat to the far wall, where they struck the framed masterworks of human abstract art and fell to the floor.
The Master turned fast, sensing another blood source ticking on the premises. Palmer’s manservant, Mr. Fitzwilliam, stood in the doorway. A broad-shouldered human wearing a suit tailored to accommodate weapons of self-defense.
Palmer had wanted this man’s body for his turning. He coveted his bodyguard’s strength, his physical stature, desiring the man’s form for all eternity.
Mr. Fitzwilliam was one of a package with Palmer.
The Master looked into his mind, and showed him this, before flying at him in a blur. Mr. Fitzwilliam first saw the Master all the way across the room, red blood dripping from his enormous hands—and then the Master was bent over him, a stinging, draining sensation like a rod of fire in his throat.
The pain faded after a time. So did Mr. Fitzwilliam’s view of the ceiling.
The Master let the man fall where he had drunk him.
Animals.
Eichhorst remained across the wide room, patient as a lawyer.
The Master said:
Let us commence the Night Eternal.
The tugboat drifted down the East River without lights, toward the United Nations. Fet guided the boat along the besieged island, staying only a few hundred yards off the coast. He was no boat captain, but the throttle was easy enough to operate, and, as he had learned in docking the tug at 72nd Street, the thick tire fenders were quite forgiving.
Behind him, at the navigation table, Setrakian sat before the Occido Lumen. A single strong lamp made the silver-leaf illustrations glow off the page. Setrakian was absorbed in the work, studying it in a near-trance. He kept a small notebook next to him. A ruled composition school notebook almost half-full with the old man’s notes.
