Guillermo del Toro - The Fall

“That much is true,” said Setrakian. “We need a way to destroy more efficiently. But, by that same token, I do not believe the Master to be satisfied with exponential exposure.”

Fet digested the big words, then nodded. “Because hot diseases burn out. That’s what the doc said. They run out of hosts.”

“Indeed,” Setrakian said, with a tired expression. “There is a greater plan at work. What it is-I hope we never have to find out.”

“Whatever it is,” said Fet, patting the rags beneath his arm, “count on me to be right at your side.”

Setrakian watched Fet climb into the van and drive off. He liked the Russian, even if he suspected that the exterminator enjoyed the killing only too much. There are men who bloom in chaos. You call them heroes or villains, depending on which side wins the war, but until the battle call they are but normal men who long for action, who lust for the opportunity to throw off the routine of their normal lives like a cocoon and come into their own. They sense a destiny larger than themselves, but only when structures collapse around them do these men become warriors.

Fet was one of them. Unlike Ephraim, Fet had no question about his calling or his deeds. Not that he was stupid or uncaring-quite the contrary. He had a sharp, instinctive intelligence and was a natural tactician. And once set on a course, he never faltered, never stopped.

A great ally to have at one’s side for the Master’s final call.

Setrakian returned inside, pulling open a small crate full of yellowing newspaper. From inside he delicately retrieved some chemistry glassware-more alchemist’s kitchen than science lab. Zack was nearby, chewing on the last of their granola bars. He found a silver sword and hefted it, handling the weapon with appropriate care, finding it surprisingly heavy. Then he touched the crumbling hem of a chest plate made of thick animal hide, horsehair, and sap.

“Fourteenth century,” Setrakian told him. “Dating from the beginning of the Ottoman Empire, and the era of the Black Plague. You see the neckpiece?” He pointed out the high front shield rising to the wearer’s chin. “From a hunter in the fourteenth century, his name lost to history. A museum piece, of no modern use to us. But I couldn’t leave it behind.”

“Seven centuries ago?” said Zack, his fingertips running along the brittle shell. “That old? If they’ve been around for so long, and if they have so much power, then why did they stay hidden?”

“Power revealed is power sacrificed,” said Setrakian. “The truly powerful exert their influence in ways unseen, unfelt. Some would say that a thing visible is a thing vulnerable.”

Zack examined the side of the chest plate, where a cross had been tanned into the hide. “Are they devils?”

Setrakian did not know how to answer that. “What do you think?”

“I guess it depends.”

“On what?”

“On if you believe in God.”

Setrakian nodded. “I think that is quite correct.”

“Well?” said Zack. “Do you? Believe in God?”

Setrakian winced, then hoped the boy had not seen it. “An old man’s beliefs matter little. I am the past. You, the future. What are your beliefs?”

Zack moved on to a handheld mirror backed in true silver. “My mom said God made us in His image. And He created everything.”

Setrakian nodded, understanding the question implicit in the boy’s response. “It is called a paradox. When two valid premises appear contradictory. Usually it means that one premise is faulty.”

“But why would He make us so that… that we could turn into them?”

“You should ask Him.”

The boy said quietly, “I have.”

Setrakian nodded, patting the boy on the shoulder. “He never answered me either. Sometimes it is up to us to discover the answers for ourselves. And sometimes we never do.”

An awkward situation, and yet Zack appealed to Setrakian. The boy had a bright curiosity and an earnestness that reflected well upon his generation.

“I am told boys your age like knives,” Setrakian said, locating one and presenting it to the boy. A four-inch, folding silver blade with a brown bone grip.

“Wow.” Zack worked the locking mechanism to close it, then opened it again. “I should probably check with my dad, make sure it’s okay.”

“I believe it fits perfectly in your pocket. Why don’t you see?” He watched Zack collapse the blade and slide the grip into his pants pocket. “Good. Every boy should have a knife. Give it a name and it is yours forever.”

“A name?” said Zack.

“One must always name a weapon. You cannot trust that which you cannot call by name.”

Zack patted his pocket, his gaze faraway. “That’s going to take some thinking.”

Eph came over, noticing Zack and Setrakian together and sensing that something personal had passed between them.

Zack’s hand went deep into his knife pocket, but he said nothing.

“There is a paper bag in the front seat of the van,” said Setrakian. “It contains a sandwich. You must keep strong.”

Zack said, “Not bologna again.”

“My apologies,” said Setrakian, “but it was on special the last time I went to market. This is the last of it. I put on some nice mustard. Also there are two good Drake’s Cakes in the bag. You might enjoy one and then bring the other back for me.”

Zack nodded, his father tousling his hair as he went to the rear exit. “Lock the van doors when you get in there, okay?”

“I know…”

Eph watched him go, seeing him climb inside the passenger door of the van parked right outside. To Setrakian, Eph said, “You okay?”

“I am well enough. Here. I have something for you.”

Eph received a lacquered wooden case. He opened the top, revealing a Glock in clean condition save for where the serial number had been filed off. Around it were five magazines of ammunition wedged into gray foam.

Eph said, “This would appear to be highly illegal.”

“And highly useful. Those are silver bullets, mind you. Specially made.”

Eph lifted the weapon out of the box, turning so that there was no chance of Zack seeing him. “I feel like the Lone Ranger.”

“He had the right idea, didn’t he? But what he didn’t have was expanding tips. These bullets will fragment inside the body, burst. One shot anywhere in the trunk of a strigoi should do the trick.”

The presentation had about it a hint of ceremony. Eph said, “Maybe Fet should have one.”

“Vasiliy likes the nail gun. He is more manually inclined.”

“And you like the sword.”

“It is best to stay with what one is accustomed to, in times of trouble such as these.” Nora came over, drawn by the strange sight of the gun. “I have another, medium-length silver dagger I think would suit you perfectly, Dr. Martinez.”

She nodded, both hands in her pockets. “It’s the only kind of jewelry I want just now.”

Eph returned his weapon to the case, closing the top. This question was easier with Nora here. “What do you think happened up on that rooftop?” he asked Setrakian. “With the Master surviving the sun? Does it mean it is different from the rest?”

“Without doubt, it is different. It is their progenitor.”

Nora said, “Right. Okay. And so we know-painfully well-how subsequent generations of vampires are created. Through stinger infection and such. But who created the first? And how?”

“Right,” said Eph. “How can the chicken come before the egg?”

“Indeed,” said Setrakian, pulling his wolf’s-head-handled walking stick from the wall, leaning on it for support. “I believe the secret to all of this lies in the Master’s making.”