“For revenge, then. He is obliterating you as you stand here!”
As usual, your human perspective is narrow. The battle is lost, but nothing is ever obliterated. In any event, now that he has shown his hand, you may be certain that he has fortified his earthly place of origin.
“You said Chernobyl,” said Setrakian.
Sadum. Amurah.
“What is that? I don’t understand,” said Setrakian, lifting the book. “If it’s here, I am certain. But I need time to decode it. And we don’t have time.”
We were neither born nor created. Sown from an act of barbarity. A transgression against the high order. An atrocity. And what was once sown may be reaped.
“How is he different?”
Only stronger. He is like us; we are him—but he is not us.
In less time than it took to blink, the Ancient had turned toward him. Its head and face were time-smoothed, worn of all features, with sagging red eyes, less a nose than a bump, and a downturned mouth open to toothless blackness.
One thing you must do. Gather every particle of our remains. Deposit them into a reliquary of silver and white oak. This is imperative. For us, but also for you.
“Why? Tell me.”
White oak. Be certain, Setrakian.
Setrakian said, “I will do no such thing unless I know that doing so won’t bring more harm.”
You will do it. There is no such thing now as more harm.
Setrakian saw that the Ancient was right.
Fet spoke up behind Setrakian. “We’ll collect it—and preserve it in a dustbin.”
The Ancient looked past Setrakian for a moment, at the exterminator. With sag-eyed contempt, but also something like pity.
Sadum. Amurah. And his name… our name…
And then it dawned on Setrakian. “Ozryel… The Angel of Death.” And he understood everything, and thought all the right questions.
But it was too late.
A blast of white light and a pulse of energy, and the last remaining New World Ancient vanished into a scattering of snow-like ash.
The last remaining hunters twisted as though in a moment of pain—and then evaporated right out of their clothes.
Setrakian felt a breath of ionized air ripple his clothes and fade away.
He sagged, leaning on his staff. The Ancients were no more. And yet a greater evil remained.
In the atomization of the Ancients, he glimpsed his own fate.
Fet was at his side. “What do we do?”
Setrakian found his voice. “Gather the remains.”
“You’re sure?”
Setrakian nodded. “Use the urn. The reliquary can come later.”
He turned and looked for Gus, finding the vampire killer sifting through a hunter’s clothes with the tip of his silver sword.