Guillermo del Toro - The Fall. Book II of The Strain Trilogy

The bidding resumed, rising quickly. Setrakian fell back into a rhythm of raising and lowering his paddle.

The next genuine audience gasp came as they crossed the $30 million threshold.

The auctioneer pointed across the aisle from Setrakian for $30.5 million. Setrakian countered up at $31 million. It was the most expensive book purchase in history now — but what did such landmarks matter to Setrakian? To mankind?

The auctioneer called for $31.5 million, and got it.

Setrakian countered with $32 million before even being prompted.

The auctioneer looked back to Eichhorst, but then, before he had a chance to request the next bid, an attendant appeared, interrupting him. The auctioneer, showing just the right amount of pique, stepped away from the podium to confer with her.

He stiffened at the news, ducked his head, then nodded.

Setrakian wondered what was happening.

The steward then came around off the dais, and began walking up the aisle toward him. Setrakian watched her approach in confusion — then watched as she passed him, going three more rows back, stopping before Eichhorst.

She knelt in the aisle, whispering something to him.

“You may speak to me right here,” said Eichhorst — his lips moving in a pantomime of human speech.

The steward spoke further, attempting to preserve the bidder’s privacy as best she could.

“That is ridiculous. There is some mistake.”

The steward apologized, but remained firm.

“Impossible.” Eichhorst rose to his feet. “You will suspend the auction while I rectify this situation.”

The steward glanced quickly back at the auctioneer, and then up at the Sotheby’s officials watching from behind balcony glass high along the walls, like guests observing a surgery.

The steward turned to Eichhorst and said, “I am afraid, sir, that is just not possible.”

“I must insist.”

“Sir…”

Eichhorst turned to the auctioneer, pointing at him with his paddle. “You will hold your gavel until I am allowed to make contact with my benefactor.”

The auctioneer returned to his microphone. “The rules of auction are quite clear on this point, sir. I am afraid that without a viable line of credit—”

“I indeed do have a viable line of credit.”

“Sir, our information is that it has just been rescinded. I am very sorry. You will have to take up the matter with your bank—”

“My bank! On the contrary, we will complete the bidding here and now, and then I will straighten out this irregularity!”

“I am sorry, sir. The house rules are the same as they have been for decades, and cannot be altered, not for anyone.” The auctioneer looked out over the audience, resuming the bidding. “I have $32 million.”

Eichhorst raised his paddle. “$35 million!”

“Sir, I am sorry. The bid is $32 million. Do I hear $32.5?”

Setrakian sat with his paddle on his leg, ready.

“$32.5?”

Nothing.

“$32 million, going once.”

“$40 million!” said Eichhorst, standing in the aisle now.

“$32 million, going twice.”

“I object! This auction must be canceled. I must be allowed more time—”

“$32 million. Lot 1007 is sold to bidder #23. Congratulations.”

The gavel came down to ratify the sale; the room burst into applause. Hands reached toward Setrakian in congratulations, but the old man got to his feet as quickly as possible and walked to the front of the room, where he was met by another steward.

“I would like to take possession of the book immediately,” he informed her.

“But, sir, we have some paperwork—”

“You may clear the payment, including the house’s commission, but I am taking possession of the book, and I am doing so now.”

Gus’s battered Hummer wove and bashed its way back across the Queensboro Bridge. As they returned to Manhattan, Eph spotted dozens of military vehicles staged at 59th Street and Second Avenue, in front of the entrance to the Roosevelt Island Tramway. The larger, canopied trucks read FORT DRUM in black stencil, and two white buses, as well as some Jeeps, read USMA WEST POINT.

“Shutting down the bridge?” said Gus, his gloved hands tight upon the steering wheel.

“Maybe enforcing the quarantine,” said Eph.

“You think they are with us or against us?”

Eph saw personnel in combat fatigues pulling a tarp down off a large, truck-mounted machine gun — and he felt his heart lift a little. “I’m going to say with us.”

“I hope so,” said Gus, swinging hard toward uptown. “Because if not, this is gonna get even more fucking interesting.”

They arrived at 72nd and York just as the street battle was getting underway. Vamps came streaming out of the brick-tower nursing home across the street from Sotheby’s — the aged residents imbued with new motility and strigoi strength.

Gus killed the engine and popped the trunk. Eph, Angel, and the two Sapphires jumped out and started grabbing silver.

“I guess he won it after all,” said Gus, ripping open a carton, handing Eph two vases of painted glass with narrow necks, gasoline sloshing inside.

“Won what?” said Eph.

Gus wicked a rag into each and then flicked open a silver-plated Zippo, igniting them. He took one vase from Eph and walked out into the street away from the Hummer. “Put your shoulder into it, homes,” said Gus. “On three. One. Two. Yahh !”

They catapulted the economy-sized Molotov cocktails over the heads of the marauding vampires. The vases shattered, igniting immediately, liquid flame opening up and spreading instantly like twin pools of hell. Two Carmelite sisters went up first, their brown-and-white habits taking to the flame like sheets of newspaper. Then went the multitude of vampires in bathrobes and housecoats, squealing. The Sapphires came on next, skewering the engulfed creatures, finishing them off — only to see more come charging down 71st Street, like maniac firefighters answering a psychic five-alarm call.

A couple of burning vampires charged on, flames trailing, and only stopped a foot or so away from Gus after being riddled with silver bullets.

“Where the hell are they already?” yelled Gus, looking to Sotheby’s entrance. The tall, thin sidewalk trees out front burned like hellish sentries outside the auction house.

Eph saw building guards rushing to lock the revolving doors inside the glass lobby. “Come on!” he yelled, and they fought their way past the burning trees. Gus wasted some silver bolts on the doors, puncturing and weakening the glass before Angel charged through.

Setrakian leaned heavily on his oversize walking stick in the elevator going down. The auction had drained him, and yet there was so much more to do. Fet stood at his side, his weapon pack on his back, the $32 million book in bubble wrap under his arm.

To Setrakian’s right, one of the auction house’s security guards waited with hands clasped over his belt buckle.

Chamber music played over the panel speaker. A string quartet, Dvor$aAk.

“Congratulations, sir,” said the security guard, to break the silence.

“Yes,” said Setrakian. He noticed the white wire in the man’s brown ear. “Does your radio work in this elevator, by any chance?”

“No, sir, it does not.”

The elevator stopped abruptly, all three men grabbing for the wall to steady themselves. The car started down again at once, then again stopped. The number on the overhead display read 4.

The guard pressed the DOWN button, then the 4 button, thumbing each one numerous times.

While the guard was so engaged, Fet drew a sword from his pack and faced the elevator door. Setrakian twisted the grip of his walking stick, exposing the silver shaft of his hidden blade.