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calling a revolution an isolated protest. They had to know better, and yet someone—it
had
to be Palmer, a man with a vested interest in misleading the American public and the world at large—was influencing the media and controlling the CDC . Only his Stoneheart Group could finance and enforce such a massive campaign of public misinformation about the occultation. Eph had determined, privately, that if they could not readily destroy the Master, well, they could certainly destroy Palmer, who was not only elderly but notoriously infirm. Any other man would have passed on ten years ago, but Palmer’s vast fortune and unlimited resources kept him alive, like an antique vehicle requiring round-the-clock maintenance just to keep it running. Life, the doctor in Eph imagined, had become for Palmer something akin to a fetish: How long could he keep going?
    Eph’s fury at the Master—for turning Kelly, for upending everything Eph believed about science and medicine—was justified but impotent, like shaking his fists at death itself. But condemning Palmer, the Master’s human collaborator and enabler, gave Eph’s torment a direction and a purpose. Even better, it legitimized a desire for personal revenge.
    This old man had shattered Eph’s son’s life and broken the boy’s heart.
    They reached the long chamber that was their destination. Fet readied his nail gun and Eph brandished his sword before turning the corner.
    At the far end of the low chamber stood the mound of dirt and refuse. The filthy altar upon which the coffin—the intricately carved cabinet had traversed the Atlantic inside the cold underbelly of Regis Air Flight 753, inside which the Master lay buried in cold, soft loam—had lain.
    The coffin was gone. Disappeared again, as it had from the secure hangar at LaGuardia Airport. The flattened top of the dirt altar still bore its impression.
    Someone—or, more likely, some
thing
—had returned to claim it before Eph and Fet could destroy the Master’s resting place.
    “He’s been back here,” said Fet, looking all around.
    Eph was bitterly disappointed. He had longed to demolish the heavy cabinet—to turn his wrath on some physical form of destruction, and to disrupt the monster’s habitat in some certain way. To let it know that they had not given up, and would never back down.
    “Over here,” said Fet. “Look at this.”
    A splashed-out swirl of colors at the base of the side wall, given life by the rays of Fet’s lamp wand, indicated a fresh spray of vampire urine. Then Fet illuminated the entire wall with a normal flashlight.
    A graffiti mural of wild designs, random in arrangement, covered the stone expanse. Closer, Eph discerned that the vast majority of the figures were variations on a six-pointed motif, ranging from rudimentary to abstract to simply bewildering. Here was something starlike in appearance; there a more amoeba-like pattern. The graffiti spread out across the wide wall in the manner of a thing replicating itself, filling the stone face from bottom to top. Up close, the paint smelled fresh.
    “This,” said Fet, stepping back to take it all in, “is new.”
    Eph moved in to examine a glyph at the center of one of the more elaborate stars. It appeared to be a hook, or a claw, or…
    “A crescent moon.” Eph moved his black-light lamp across the complex motif. Invisible to the naked eye, two identical shapes were hidden in the vectors of the tracery. And an arrow, pointing to the tunnels beyond.
    “They may be migrating,” said Fet. “Pointing the way…”
    Eph nodded, and followed Fet’s gaze. The direction it indicated was southeast.
    “My father used to tell me about these markings,” said Fet. “Hobo speak—from when he first came to this country after the war. Chalk drawings indicating friendly and unfriendly houses—where you might get fed, find a bed, or even to warn others about a hostile homeowner. Throughout the years, I’ve seen similar signs in warehouses,