When he recovered, Quintus felt a loneliness that would never leave him again. He swore revenge upon the creature that created him—even though such an act would mean his own demise as well.
Many years later, upon the advent of the Christian faith, Quintus returned to the Ancients, acknowledging who and what he was. He offered them his wealth, his influence, and his strength, and they welcomed him as one of their own. Quintus warned them of the Master’s perfidy, and they acknowledged the threat but never lost confidence in their numerical advantage and the wisdom of their years.
Through the ensuing centuries Quintus continued his quest for vengeance.
But for the next seven centuries, Quintus—later Quinlan—never got closer to the Master than he did one night in Tortosa, in what is now known as Syria, when the Master called him “son.”
My son, wars this long can only be won by yielding. Lead me to the Ancients. Help me destroy them and you may take your rightful place at my side. Be the prince that you truly are …
The Master and Quintus were standing at the edge of a rocky cliff overlooking a vast Roman necropolis. Quinlan knew that the Master had no escape. The nascent rays of daylight were already causing him to smoke and burn. The Master’s words were unexpected and his voice, in Quinlan’s head, an intrusion. Quinlan felt an intimacy that scared him. And for a moment—which he would live to regret for the rest of his life—he felt true belonging. This thing—having taken refuge in the tall, pale body of an ironworker—was his father. His true father. Quinlan lowered his weapon for an instant, and the Master rapidly crawled down the rocky cliff face, disappearing into a system of crypts and tunnels below.
Centuries later, a ship sailed from Plymouth, England, to Cape Cod in the newly discovered territory of America. The ship was carrying 130 passengers according to the official manifest, but within the cargo compartments several boxes containing earth could be found. The items listed within were earth and tulip bulbs; presumably their owner wanted to take advantage of the coastal climate. The reality was far darker. Three of the Ancients and their loyal ally Quinlan established themselves rather rapidly in the New World, under the auspices of a rich merchant: Kiliaen Van Zanden. The settlements in the New World were in fact little more than a collective banana republic whose mercantile ways were grown into the preeminent economic and military power on the planet in fewer than two centuries’ time—all of which was essentially a front for the real business being conducted belowground and behind closed doors. All efforts were focused on the acquisition of the Occido Lumen, in hopes of answering what, at that time, was the only question remaining for Quinlan and the Ancients:
How could they destroy the Master?
Camp Liberty
DR. NORA MARTINEZ awoke to the shrill camp whistle. She lay in a canvas stretcher hanging from the ceiling, enveloping her like a sling. The only way out was to shimmy under her blanket, escaping through the end, feet first.
Standing, she sensed immediately that something wasn’t right. She turned her head this way and that. It felt too light. Her free hand went immediately to her scalp.
Bare. Completely bald. This shocked her. Nora didn’t have many vanities, but she’d been blessed with gorgeous hair, keeping it long even though—as an epidemiologist—it was an impractical choice for a professional. She gripped her scalp now as though fighting a searing migraine, feeling bare flesh where she never had before. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she suddenly felt smaller and—somehow, but truly—weakened. In shaving off her hair, they had also cut away a bit of her strength.
But her unsteadiness wasn’t just the result of her bare scalp. She felt groggy, swaying for balance. After the confusing admittance process, and her attendant anxiety, Nora was amazed she had been able to sleep at all. In fact, she now remembered that she had been determined to remain awake, in order to learn as much as she could about the quarantine area before proceeding into the general population of the absurdly named Camp Liberty.
But this taste in her mouth now—as though she had been gagged with a fresh cotton sock—told Nora that she had been drugged. That bottle of drinking water she had been issued—they had doped it.
Anger rose inside her, some of it aimed at Eph. Unproductive. Instead, she focused on Fet, yearning for him. She was almost certain never to see either of those two men again. Not unless she could find some way out of this place.
The vampires who ran the camp—or perhaps their human co-conspirators, contract members of the Stoneheart Group—wisely enforced a quarantine for new entries. This type of encampment was tinder for an infectious disease event, one that had the potential to wipe out the camp population, their precious blood providers.
A woman entered the room through the canvas flaps that hung over the doorway. She wore a slate-gray jumpsuit, the same color and bland style as Nora’s. Nora recognized her face, remembering her from yesterday. Terrifically thin, her skin a pale parchment wrinkled at the corners of her eyes and her mouth. Her dark hair was close-cropped, her scalp due for a shave. Yet the woman appeared upbeat, for some reason Nora could not fathom. Her function here was apparently that of a camp mother of sorts. Her name was Sally.
Nora asked her, as she had the day before, “Where is my mother?”
Sally’s smile was all customer service, tolerant and disarming. “How did you sleep, Ms. Rodriguez?”
Nora had given a false name upon admission, as her association with Eph had certainly landed her name on every watch list. “I slept just fine,” she said. “Thanks to the sedative mixed into my water. I asked you where my mother is.”
“My assumption is that she has been transferred to Sunset, which is a sort of active retirement community associated with the camp. That is normal procedure.”
“Where is it? I want to see her.”
“It’s a separate part of the camp. I suppose a visit is possible at some point, but not now.”
“Show me. Where it is.”
“I could show you the gate, but … I’ve never been inside myself.”
“You’re lying. Or else you really believe it. Which means you’re lying to yourself.”
Sally was just a functionary, a messenger. Nora understood that Sally was not intentionally trying to mislead her but simply repeating what she had been told. Perhaps she had no idea, nor capacity to suspect, that this “Sunset” might not exist exactly as advertised.
“Please listen to me,” said Nora, growing frantic. “My mother is not well. She is sick, she is confused. She has Alzheimer’s disease.”
“I am sure she’ll be well looked after—”
“She will be put down. Without a moment’s hesitation. She’s outlived her usefulness to these things. But she is sick, she is panicked, she needs to see a familiar face. Do you understand? I just want to see her. One last time.”