Mia woke up the next morning cold and shivering on the floor. She touched her face; she felt as though she was dreaming. Her emotions were far away again. She liked the feeling of being far away, as if she was a bodiless entity; a mere spectator looking in on a world that was not real. She got up onto her feet, disorientated for a moment, until she reached for the wall next to her and found the front door to her apartment, and then she remembered that was where she had slept. She went through the motions of the day – she turned on the radio with no intention of listening to it, and then went to her cupboard in the kitchen to scrape together some food. There was the last two slices of bread. She put it on a plate, along with some baked beans and ham. As always, she ate only half of it before putting the rest on the floor for Caesar. Can't you hunt the rats, she often found herself thinking. You're an animal; don't you naturally have the instinct to hunt? She heard him lap up all the food within just seconds, and sighed.
At the warehouse, it was a particularly quiet morning, as Ephraim had stayed at the facility, the dark-skinned girl was nowhere to be seen, and the two that were left were the ones that had the least to say to each other.
Vasiliy walked into the living room and found Quinlan standing in front of the bookshelf at the other end of the room, flipping through the pages of one of the many books he had collected. He wasn't reading the book; he was merely glancing over the pages. But he had read it before, many times. In fact, he had probably read every book on the shelf at least twice. Without turning around, Quinlan let Vasiliy know that he was aware of his presence.
"Hatred is blind; rage carries you away; and he who pours out vengeance runs the risk of tasting a bitter draught."
"What?" Vasiliy asked, confused.
"Alexandre Dumas," Quinlan said, closing the book in his hands and turning around to face Vasiliy. "The Count of Monte Cristo."
"Well excuse me, I'm not quite as versed in old literature," Vasiliy scoffed sarcastically.
Quinlan snickered softly. "Old…" he repeated the word, smiling as he looked down at the book in his hands. "I had wielded my sword in a hundred battles before Mr. Dumas ever picked up his first pen." He carefully placed the book back into the empty slot on the shelf.
"You must be getting real tired of life," Vasiliy sneered.
When Quinlan turned around this time, the look on his face was cold. He walked up to Vasiliy and stood face to face in front of him, locking Vasiliy's eyes with his penetrating stare. Although the two of them stood the same size – Vasiliy was a tall man of strong stature – he could not help but feel a slight intimidation whenever he was faced with this creature, and Vasiliy was rarely intimidated by anyone. It was not just Quinlan's physical strength and capabilities that Vasiliy found particularly unnerving, it was more the fact that he possessed the ability to read human emotions better than most people, but lacked the capacity to feel such emotions himself, or so Vasiliy believed. To understand a man's fears and desires but to possess none himself is what makes a true monster. But Vasiliy would never let Quinlan see his trepidation.
"You left in a hurry last night," Quinlan noted.
"Yeah, business called." Vasiliy broke Quinlan's stare and walked around him into the kitchen. A slight smile escaped from Quinlan's lips as he knew he had made Vasiliy feel uncomfortable.
"Anything I should be concerned about?"
"Got a job for you." Vasiliy grabbed an apple from the kitchen and then walked over to the table where the maps lay spread out. "The tunnel here," he pointed, crunching on a piece of apple as he talked, "between East Broadway and York Street… crawling with Strigoi."
Quinlan gave him a look almost as if to say, and what do you want me to do about it? Although the answer was obvious.
"I need you and your hunters to clear 'em out."
Whatever uneasiness existed between the two of them was never present when they talked matters of war. Although Quinlan knew this man did not accept him, perhaps even detested him, they shared a mutual respect, from one warrior to another. And Quinlan somewhat liked Mr. Fet's straightforwardness.
"How many of them?"
"Don't know. All I know is those things took out a lot of men down there."
"You mean your friends in the Resistance?" Quinlan smirked. "What do they call themselves…? Ah yes, Nemesis – Goddess of retribution."
"Just remember, we need them more than they need us," Fet reminded.
Quinlan leaned over the table, his eyes darting up and down the map as he analyzed the situation. He then turned to Vasiliy, standing tall and straight with an imposing confidence.
"It won't be a problem. I'll gather the hunters."