“He’s double-crossing his partners,” said Barnes, summing up. “He seemed sincere. I don’t know that I would trust him, though.”
I trust his pitiable need for his son.
“Yes. I see your point. And he trusts your need for the book.”
Once I have Goodweather, I have his partners. Once I have the book, I have all the answers.
“What I don’t understand is how he was able to overwhelm security at my house. Why others of your clan weren’t notified.”
It is the Born. He is created by me but not of my blood.
“So he’s not on the same wavelength?”
I do not have control over him as I do my others.
“And he’s with Goodweather now? Like a double agent? A defector?” The Master did not answer. “Such a being could be very dangerous.”
For you? Very. For myself? Not dangerous. Only elusive. The Born has allied himself with the gang member whom the Ancients recruited for day hunting and the rest of the scum that runs with him. I know where to find some information about them …
“If Goodweather surrenders himself to you … then you would have all the information to find him. The Born.”
Yes. Two fathers reuniting with two sons. There’s always symmetry in God’s plans. If he gives himself to me …
A ruckus behind Barnes then made him turn, startled. A teenager, with ragged hair falling over his eyes, stumbling down the spiral staircase. A human, holding one hand to his throat. The boy shook back some of his hair, just enough so that Barnes recognized Ephraim Goodweather in the boy’s face. Those same eyes, that same very serious expression—though now showing fear.
Zachary Goodweather. He was in obvious respiratory distress, wheezing and turning grayish blue.
Barnes stood, starting toward him instinctively. Later it would occur to Barnes that it had been a great while since he had acted on medical instinct. He intercepted the boy, holding him by his shoulder. “I am a doctor,” said Barnes.
The boy pushed Barnes away, pinwheeling his arm, going straight to the Master. Barnes rocked back a few steps, more shocked than anything. The floppy-haired boy fell to his knees before the Master, who looked down at his suffering face. The Master let the boy struggle a few moments longer, then raised its arm, the loose sleeve of its cloak sliding back. His thumb and elongated middle finger snapped together in a blur, pricking the skin. The Master held its thumb over the boy’s face, a single droplet of blood poised on the tip. Slowly, the bead elongated, dripping free, landing in the back of Zack’s open mouth.
Barnes himself swallowed dryly, sickened. He had already thrown up once that morning.
The boy closed his mouth as though having just ingested an eyedropper’s worth of medicine. He grimaced—either at the taste or at the pain of the swallow—and within a few moments his hand came away from his throat. His head hung low as he regained normal respiration, his airway opening, his lungs clearing miraculously. Almost instantly, his pallor returned to normal—the new normal, that is, meaning sallow and sun-hungry.
The boy blinked and looked around, seeing the room for the first time since entering in respiratory distress. His mother—or what remained of her—had entered from the doorway, perhaps summoned by her Dear One’s distress. Yet her blank face showed neither concern nor relief. Barnes wondered how often this healing ritual was performed. Once every week? Once every day?
The boy looked at Barnes as though for the first time, the white-goateed man he had shoved away just moments before.
“Why is there another human here?” asked Zack Goodweathe
r.
The boy’s supercilious manner surprised Barnes, who remembered Goodweather’s son as a thoughtful, curious, well-mannered child. Barnes ran his fingers through his own hair, summoning some dignity.
“Zachary, do you remember me?”
The boy’s lips curled as though he resented being asked to study Barnes’s face. “Vaguely,” he said, his tone harsh, his manner haughty.
Barnes remained patient, upbeat. “I was your father’s boss. In the old world.”
Again, Barnes saw the father in the son—but less so now. Just as the Eph who visited him had changed, so had the boy. His young eyes were distant, distrusting. He had the attitude of a boy-prince.
Zachary Goodweather said, “My father is dead.”
Barnes started to speak, then wisely held back his words. He glanced at the Master, and there was no change of expression in the creature’s rippling face—but Barnes knew somehow not to contradict. For an instant, as he perceived the big picture and saw everyone’s play and position in this particular drama, he felt bad for Eph. His own son … But, Barnes being Barnes, the feeling didn’t last long and he began to think of a way to profit from this.
Low Library, Columbia University