“Well, I was a veterinarian,” he said.
Eph closed his mouth. The man flicked the light beam in and out of Eph’s eyes, intrigued by what he saw.
“You’ve been taking some medication?” asked the vet.
Eph didn’t like the vet’s tone. “Sort of,” he answered.
“You’re in pretty bad shape. Kinda tainted,” said the vet. Eph saw the vampire drawing the zipper back on the pack. The nylon shell was lined with lead from the X-ray aprons of a midtown dentist’s office. Once the strigoi felt the disruptive properties of the silver blades, he dropped the pack as though scalded.
Mr. Quinlan rushed for the pack. Eph pushed the veterinarian, knocking the man all the way across the tent. Mr. Quinlan shoved past the strigoi and pulled a sword quickly from the pack, turning, holding it out. The vampires were at first too stunned to move as the surprise presence of silver, in the form of a weapon, held them back. Mr. Quinlan advanced slowly in order to give Fet, Gus, and the others time to grab their weapons. Eph felt a hell of a lot better once he got a sword into his hands. The weapon Mr. Quinlan brandished was actually Eph’s blade, but there was no time to quibble.
The vampires did not react as humans would. None of them ran out the door to escape or warn others. The alarm went out psychically. Their attack, after the initial shock, came swiftly.
Mr. Quinlan cut one down with a blow to the neck. Gus rushed forward, meeting a charging vampire and running his blade straight through its throat. Decapitation was difficult in close quarters because the broad slashing required to sever the neck risked wounding others, and the blood spray was caustic, laden with infectious worm parasites. Close-quarters combat with strigoi was always a last resort, and so the five of them fought their way out of the quarantine intake room as quickly as possible.
Eph, the last to arm himself, was set upon not by vampires but by humans. The veterinarian and one other. He was so startled, he reacted to the attack as though they were strigoi and stabbed the vet through the base of his neck. Red arterial spray spritzed the wooden supporting pole in the center of the room as both Eph and the veterinarian stared at one another with wide eyes. “What the hell are you doing!” yelled Eph. The veterinarian sank to his knees, and the second man turned his attention to his wounded friend.
Eph backed away slowly from the dying man, pulled on his shoulder by one of the others. He was shaken; he had killed a man.
They stepped out of the tent, emerging into the open air inside the camp. The rain had slowed to a misty drizzle. A canvas-roofed path lay before them, but the night prevented Eph from taking in the camp as a whole. No strigoi yet, but they knew that the alarm had gone out. It took their eyes a few moments to adjust to the darkness—out of which the vampires came running.
The five of them fanned out in an arc, taking on all comers. Here there was room to swing the blade freely, to plant one’s rear foot and drive the sword with enough force to lift the head from the shoulders. Eph hacked hard, moving and slashing and checking constantly behind him.
In this way, they repelled the initial wave. They continued ahead, though without any intelligence as to the organization of the camp. They looked for some indication of where the general population was located. Another pair of vampires came at them from the left, and Mr. Quinlan, protecting his flank, cut them down, then led the others in that general direction.
Ahead, silhouetted against the darkness, was a tall, narrow structure: a lookout post in the center of a stone circle. More vampires came running at top speed and the five men tightened up, moving as a unit, five silver blades cutting together almost as one wide one.
They needed to kill fast. The strigoi had been known to sacrifice one or more of their number in an attempt at improving their chances of capturing and turning a human aggressor. Their strategy was such that one or three or even ten vampires were worth sacrificing for the elimination of one human slayer.
Eph curled back behind the others, taking the rear, walking backward as they formed a moving oval, a ring of silver to hold the swarming vampires at bay. His eyes becoming more acclimated to the dark, Eph perceived other strigoi sl
owing in the distance, congregating, holding back. Tracking without attacking. Planning some more coordinated assault.
“They’re massing,” he told the others. “I think we’re being pushed this way.”
He heard the wet cut of a sword, then Fet’s voice. “A building up ahead. Our only hope is to go zone by zone.”
We broke out into the camp too early, said Mr. Quinlan.
The sky as yet was showing no sign of brightening. Everything hinged upon that unreliable window of sunlight. The trick now was to last inside enemy territory until the uncertain dawn.
Gus swore and cut down another creature. “Stay tight,” said Fet.
Eph continued his slow walk backward. He could just make out the faces of the first line of vampires pursuing them, staring intently. Staring—it seemed—at him.
Was it just his imagination? Eph slowed, then stopped altogether, allowing the others to progress a few yards without him.
The pursuing vampires stopped as well.
“Ah, shit,” said Eph.
They had recognized him. The equivalent of an all-points bulletin on the vampire psychic network was a hit. The hive was alerted to his presence, which meant only one thing.
The Master knew that Eph was there. Watching this through its drones.
“Hey!” said Fet, doubling back to Eph. “What the hell are you doing stopping … ?” He saw the strigoi, maybe two dozen of them, staring. “Jesus. What are they, starstruck?”
Awaiting orders.