“Though I am assured it is only partially responsible for the book’s outrageous price.”
“May I remind you, Monsieur, that you set the price. And do not judge a book by its cover. As with most clich$eAs, that is good advice often ignored.”
Setrakian carried the portmanteau to the table containing the papers of provenance. He pulled open the top under the faint lamp light, then withdrew. “As you will, sir.”
“Please,” said the vampire. “I should like you to remove it. I insist.”
“Very well.”
Setrakian returned to the bag and reached inside with his black-
gloved hands. He pulled out the book, which was bound in silver and fronted and backed with smooth silver plates.
He offered it to Dreverhaven. The vampire’s eyes narrowed, glowing.
Setrakian took a step toward him. “You would like to inspect it, of course?”
“Set it down on that table, Monsieur.”
“That table? But the light is so much more favorable over here.”
“You will please set it down on that table.”
Setrakian did not immediately comply. He remained still, the heavy silver book in his hands. “But you must want to examine it.”
Dreverhaven’s eyes rose from the silver cover of the tome to take in Setrakian’s face. “Your beard, Monsieur Pirk. It obscures your face. It gives you a Hebraic mien.”
“Is that right? I take it you don’t like Jews.”
“They don’t like me. Your scent, Pirk—it is familiar.”
“Why don’t you take a closer look at this book.”
“I do not need to. It is a fake.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps, indeed. But the silver—I can assure you that the silver is quite real.”
Setrakian advanced on Dreverhaven, the book held out in front of him. Dreverhaven backed off, then slowed. “Your hands,” he said. “You are crippled.” Dreverhaven’s eyes went back to Setrakian’s face. “The woodworker. So it is you.”
Setrakian swept open his coat, removing from the interior left fold a sword with a silver blade of modest size. “You have become indolent, Herr Doktor.”
Dreverhaven lashed out with his stinger. Not full-length, merely a feint, the bloated vampire leaping backward against the wall, and then quickly down again.
Setrakian anticipated the ploy. Indeed, the doctor was considerably less agile than many others Setrakian had encountered. Setrakian stood fast with his back to the windows, the vampire’s only escape.
“You are too slow, doctor,” Setrakian said. “Your hunting here has been too easy.”
Dreverhaven hissed. Concern showed in the beast’s eyes as the heat of exertion began to melt its facial cosmetics.
Dreverhaven glanced at the door, but Setrakian wasn’t buying. These creatures always built in an emergency exit. Even a bloated tick like Dreverhaven.
Setrakian feigned an attack, keeping the strigoi off-balance, forcing him to react. Dreverhaven snapped out his stinger, another aborted thrust. Setrakian responded with a quick sweep of his blade, which would have lopped it off at full length.
Dreverhaven made his break then, rushing laterally along the back bookcases, but Setrakian was just as fast. He still held the book in one hand, and hurled it at the fat vampire, the creature recoiling from its toxic silver. Then Setrakian was upon him.
He held the point of his silver blade at Dreverhaven’s upper throat. The vampire’s head tipped back, its crown resting against the spines of his precious books along the upper shelf, his eyes staring at Setrakian.
The silver weakened him, keeping his stinger in check. Setrakian went into his deepest coat pocket—it was lead-lined—and removed a band of thick silver baubles wrapped in a mesh of fine steel, strung along a length of cable.