Sunday, 25 July 1999, 9:00 PM Cape May, New Jersey
It would have been smarter just to go to ground. Nickolai let the feeling of self-reproach crash over him like a wave. To give up, to go down. He felt himself borne under, felt acutely the weight of water upon him. It was the sheer enormity of the past that held him under-the voracious flood that had already swallowed three-fourths of the earth's surface and still was not sated.
Nickolai knew from personal experience that this flood could never be sated. Not until it had encompassed the entire world. Its pull was unrelenting and, in the end, irresistible.
Already, the deep had claimed the unlives of his entire people. It had singled them out, marked them, stalked them, tapped them. It had gathered them in and now he was the last. By default, he had become the embodiment, the end product, of the Great
Experiment. He was the sole receptacle of the accumulated knowledge, ambitions, lore, strivings, rites, disappointments, schemes, hungers, ideals, tragedy, devotion and pathos of a proud people. Of all those that bore the name of House Goratrix, he was the last.
And he was little more than a drowning man. No, far better just to let the waters close above him and rest. Finally, to rest.
There was something seductive in the watery embrace of the past, in its oblivion. It would have been very easy to surrender himself to that floodtide. Even if it were to mean being brought face-to-face with all the indiscretions of a lifetime, or more precisely, of several lifetimes.
Nickolai was strong. He knew he could bear the accumulated indiscretions, even the inhumanity, that had been his constant companions these many nights.
He turned the new recrimination over on his tongue. Inhumanity. It had a more wicked edge to it than his original thought, indiscretion. The salt water stung his throat, but he swallowed it. Yes, he could endure even the renewed acquaintance with inhumanity.
But new images were rising toward him through the murky waters. They worried away at his rationalizations, eroding them, carrying them away upon the tide. The images spoke to him of a greater reckoning. They tugged at the gauzy concept he was sheltering behind, this "inhumanity, " and tore it away, exposing the red, raw skin beneath. They left him with a far less comforting reproach to cling to. Bloodshed.
The waters ran red about him. In blood, there is life. In blood, there is magic. In blood, there is power.
Nickolai knew himself to be a creature, a construct of the blood — a flashing dynamo distilling energy from vitae. It was blood that gave him his longevity. It was blood that gave him his power over the mortal world. It was blood that fueled the rites and rituals of his people.
If there were a single common element to the seemingly endless procession of nights, it was the insatiable need for blood. There was no advantage in contesting the fact. He resigned himself to this latest condemnation. He inhaled deeply and allowed his lungs to fill with the blood which surrounded him and sought to drown him.
His body was racked with sudden screaming pain. Where Nickolai had thought to swallow only his bloodshed, he found himself filled with a far harsher realization. It was not mere bloodshed on his lips, but killings. Murder.
An unending maelstrom of murder. The sheer monstrosity of his crimes-of not only what he had done, but what he had become-surged through him. It tore at him from the inside. He
bent double, vomited up blood. Years of blood. It streamed from his eyes, his nose, his ears. Nickolai could feel himself withering away at the extremities. His fingers dried, cracked, curled. His arms withered, wrists and elbows drawn in at improbable angles. He felt his cheeks draw taut and then part, exposing bone. A hint of laughing skull.
No!
I am the last.
Nickolai flung the credo into the face of the voracious past. A howl of pure self against its inevitable ravages.
I am the last. I will endure.
He could feel the wave break and begin to roll back before him, retreating. Leaving him gasping for the life-giving present.
I am the last. Though the entire world be drowned beneath this flood, I will remain.
Nickolai spat the last of the mingled blood and bile and salt water from his mouth. He was a mountain rising from the sea.
Perhaps I am the last of only a race of monsters, a people of depredations.
The mountain contorted, revealing twisted crags, cruel sea cliffs.
Perhaps I am a creature of blood and death, murder and cruelty, unholy rites and blasphemous hungers.
The mountaintop shook, crumbled, slid away into the waiting sea below. At the mountain's sum-mit all that remained was a blasted jumble of rock and desolation.
Perhaps my very existence is a continual curse upon the earth.
Stunted black trees sprang up, dotting the mountainside. Dark shapes slipped through the undergrowth.
But I will stand firm against the oblivion.
The sea gathered its might, surged against the palisade of sea cliffs, and was thrown back in disarray.
I will build myself a monument, a lasting remem-brance of my people.
A dark cloud passed over the summit like the hand of an angry god. In its shadow, something was gathering, rolling stormlike beneath it.
A thing of terror and of beauty. And all who look upon it will tremble and remember.
Far below him, the waves scratched tentatively at the foot of the cliffs. Yes, in time, they would have their way. Of that there could be little doubt.
Soon the waters of the past would cover the entire earth. In those final days, the only remaining line of retreat would be inward-to sink into the very heart of the earth.
To give up, to go down.
To go down. Soon, now. Patience.
Already Nickolai could hear the madness of the lapping waters against that Final Shore.
Sunday, 1 August 1999, 9:05 PM Regent's Sanctum, Chantry of the Five Boroughs New York City, New York
Eva noisily deposited another armload of books upon the floor. Already it was getting difficult to see Sturbridge, half-buried as she was amidst the tumble of the dead man's books and papers. She was oblivious to the clamor of falling books, barely glancing up from the text she was scrutinizing as Eva muttered her hasty apologies.
The formulae that the present tome described had something to do with an ink made from an extract of owl's blood. Eva's sticky note that marked the page read: